Staying in, or going out? Didn’t
that question just keep creeping back into my life? Was I staying in the
closet, or coming out? Was I staying in the corps or were they discharging me?
Was I going to keep my feeling for Ty inside or was I going to finally fess up?
Well at least now I had an answer for two of those.
Tonight, however, that question didn’t
apply to anything life altering. Freshly showered and dressed in my favorite
Sox tee and faded jeans, I’m asking myself weather I felt like staying in to
watch the game alone, or if I felt like going down to McFadden’s and watching
it with everyone else? A few months ago that question never would have been an
issue, but lately I just feel off. I still joke around and laugh, still tell a
good story, I still get laid as much as I’m able, but I don’t know…it almost
feels like I’m acting. Like I’m playing the part of myself in some bazaaro
movie of my life or something. I’m detached, watching from a distance as I go
through the motions. God, I sound so fucking pathetic, I wanna beat my own self
with that violin.
It’s weird, because until fairly
recently I happily spent at least four nights a week at the corner bar if I
wasn’t on duty. Not because I’m an alcoholic, but because, to coin a phrase
from Cheers, it’s nice going to a place
where everybody knows my name. And although everyone knows everybody’s name really,
they treat me extra special. Not tooting my own balls or anything, just
stayin’, I’ve been sort of Mr. Popularity around town my entire life. I like
talking with people, making them feel comfortable, making them feel welcome, but
make no mistake I’m no pushover. I’ve never backed down from a fight no matter
how big or how many and I’ve definitely starting my fair share of brawls. Especially
with Yankee fans, but I digress. What I’m saying is I’ve always been more of a
leader type, and for some reason the knuckle heads around here always liked to
follow. I’ve never lead them too far astray, well maybe occasionally, but my
boys and me? We’ve had some wicked fun over the years.
Luckily, I’ve kinda always had a
way with the ladies as well. Maybe because my ma thought me to be respectful,
open doors, give lots of compliments, shit like that. Even as I’m ushering them
out of the door I do it in a gentlemanly fashion so I don’t hurt their feelings,
and I always spring for cab fare. I
don’t know, maybe they flock to me because I never had the commitment gene,
because hard to get is appealing. I wish I could say it was my dashing good looks,
but I’m not fucking delusional. Not saying I have a growth on the side of my
head, or that I’m necessarily a bad looking guy, I do own a mirror; just saying I’ve always had
more of a ‘cute, boy next door’ type of face then a ’turn heads as I enter a room’
thing going on. Of course this innocent appearance has gotten me away with some
shit in my lifetime, so I’m not complaining.
Though with all of the female
attention I’ve received, I’ve never had a relationship that lasted longer than
a weekend. Like I said, I just never had the desire. Jenna McClusky was the one
exception. We lost our virginity to each other when I was sixteen and she was
fifteen and consequently dated off and on pretty much all through high school.
We were one of those dramatic couples that were either loving on each other or hating
on each other. We fought about every God damn thing, and admittedly I wasn’t
the most faithful of boyfriends, so that was an issue. We broke up every other
week until I turned eighteen and I enlisted, then we broke up for good. I never
hid the fact that I wanted to be a
marine, it’d been my dream since I was a kid, but I guess she thought I’d
change my mind, stay home and become a cop like our dads and eventually get
married. Oh fate, she’s such a funny bitch isn’t she?
Not to sound like a prick, but honesty
I was glad she dumped me. I didn’t want to go into the marines with any
baggage. It was bad enough Ma made me promise to write at least once a week, I
didn’t want to worry about keeping Jenna happy too. Besides, I wasn’t really
feeling the same way about her anymore. Hell, maybe I never actually loved her
like I should. At that point I was old enough to realize that the way I felt
about other guys wasn’t how “normal” guys felt about each other. Taking my time
in the showers while I appreciated the view and enjoying that pat on the ass
after a good play weren’t necessarily my first clues either. Regrettably I also
realized that no matter how much I prayed, those feeling weren’t going to
disappear. Though I was still naive
enough to believe that joining the corps might help beat it out of me. Why’d I
think being surrounded by a bunch of guys 24/7, working out together, sleeping
together, more fucking showering together, would help my cause? I have no
fucking clue.
The most ironic part? As I sat on
the bus waiting to go to Parris Island, Tyler Grady choose to sit next to me.
He was the hottest guy I’d ever laid eyes on. It wasn’t just his physical
beauty; his dark hair, hazel eyes and full lips, it was the way he carried
himself. He had a cocky smile and a wicked swagger that was pure sex. After he
plopped down and we did the usual introductions, he said, “You’re not gonna go
all Private Pyle on me are ya? Because I’m hung over and I don’t feel like having
to find a new buddy.” Between the Full
Metal Jacket reference and that glint in his eye that said he wasn’t just
looking for trouble he was willing to make some, I knew I’d found a kindred
spirits. I had the sudden premonition that he was going to be the best friend
I’d ever have. I also fell head over heels in love for the first and only time
in my life. So much for the Marine’s curing my gay side; Ty Grady pretty much
solidified it before I even made it to basic training.
Regardless, gay, straight or
somewhere in between, I loved being a Marine. Loved Force Reconnaissance even
more. Ty and I passed through all of our
training with flying colors, even if we were a nuisance a time or two. We ended
up on recon Team Sidewinder with Elias Sanchez, Kelly Abbott, Owen Johns and
Duruand “Digger” Garrigou. I loved those guys like they were my blood. We were
flawless, six men working as one, and man the fucking missions we accomplished.
We prevented terrorist attacks, prohibited assassinations, and I’d like to
think we helped avoid wars. We did things to help our country that its citizens
will never know about. I knew if I’d died, my family would never be aware of
the real reason why or how, and that was ok with me. I had genuine purpose in
life and I’d never felt so alive.
Even after what happened to Ty
and me when that helo went down, I wasn’t planning on that being my very last
deployment. I was going to retire a Marine or die a Marine, either way I was MC
for life. Unfortunately the corps didn’t agree with that sentiment. When they
unfairly discharged us, I was outraged and disillusioned. To say I was
devastated would be putting it mildly. I went home to South Boston to regroup
instead of following Ty and Sanchez into the FBI like they’d wanted me to. I
had to move back in with my parents, which felt like a travesty of justice in
itself, and watch my pop look at me with disappointment in his eyes. Not like
him eyeballing me in that way was anything new, I just felt like for once I
couldn’t handle the scrutiny.
I bought a fixer upper ASAP with
my savings and was determined to spruce it up all alone. I figures I could flip it if nothing else and I threw myself into
that house, working night and day, avoiding my family and old friends from the
hood. When money got short, I got a job working midnights at the C Mart
stocking shelves so I could work on the house all day and affectively ignore
everything and everyone else in the process. I felt hollow. I missed being a
marine. I missed active duty. I missed the team and the comradely and most of
all, I missed Ty. It was like an open wound in my chest that just didn’t want
to heal.
This went on for awhile, me
feeling depressed yet emotionless, detached from what I wanted and what was
reality, until finally my family staged an intervention. Basically they told me
to snap the fuck out of it and cut the shit. Stop feeling sorry for my God damned
self because I was alive for Christ sake and I needed to start fucking acting
like it. Worst of all, they said I needed to quit being an Aunt Cicely. That
last one was what really did me in.
Aunt Cicely was my great aunt, my
Meemaw’s sister, and as Ty would say, she was nuttier than squirrel shit. She
evidently didn’t start out that way, apparently at one time she was a budding
film starlet. She had even lived in Hollywood for a short time, supposedly
rubbing elbows with the elite movie stars of her day. I’d seen pictures; she
really was quite beautiful with her reddish blond hair and big green eyes. After
a few years she came back home for whatever reason, some say she had an affair
with a married director that went wrong, others say she just didn’t have what
it took to cut it in the industry. Whatever the fuck, she moved in with her
mother and stayed there, taking over the house when my great-great grandma died,
and pretty much never left. Literally. She became a recluse. Meemaw would take
us over there for a visit now and then when we were kids, and honesty? She kind
of freaked me out. Aunt Cicely was no longer the beauty of her younger years,
though I guess she tried to keep up appearance. Her red lipstick never quite
stayed in the borders of her lips, and that, combined with her blue eye shadow
and pink dots on her cheeks that I suppose were meant to represent a girlish
blush, I figure that’s where my irrational fear of clowns came from. She’d come
at me with knurled fingers to pinch my cheeks or pull me onto her lap,
enveloping me with her delicious aroma of moth balls and Lysol. Like I said,
freaky man.
Anyway point being, all she ever
talked about were her Hollywood days, pulling out old black and whites and
rehashing stories, she was living in the past as if nothing that had happened
since had mattered. Or more accurately nothing actually had happened since because she’d basically stopped living. I
pictured myself forty years later, sitting in my house alone in my fatigues,
metals proudly displayed and a rifle on my lap babbling about the good ole’
days to my grand nieces and nephews because I didn’t have a life of my own. I
didn’t want that. I didn’t want to become Aunt Cicely’s version of Baby Jane
does Boston, so I got my shit in gear.
Being an O’Flaherty I had one of
two options, go into public service and become a cop or a firefighter, or work
construction for my Uncle Teebow’s business. I choose Police Officer. Seemed
like I’d see more action that way, and more importantly, I’d get to carry a
firearm again. It may not be my beloved M16, but a Berretta would surely
fucking do.
I aced my physical and written
exams to get into the academy and made it my goal to graduate top of the class.
When I did just that, I concentrated on being a kick ass cop. I took the rookie
hazing in stride, and that combined with how seriously I took the job, I was
able to earn the respect of my senior officers fairly quickly. Probably helped
that half of my family was either on the force or had been at one time, but
I’ll choose to believe it was on my own damn merit and irresistible personality.
So I winded up really liking my
job and actually felt settled there. Next, I started catching up with old
buddies and meeting up at McFadden’s regular. If I was popular before, now I
was a fucking rock star. Whereas most of the guys were either engaged or
married to the same girls they were with when I had left, or still single but
not by any choice of their own, I had slept with more chicks of diverse
nationalities and appearances then any one guy should in a life time (I left
out the few men of course). None of them
had ever left town except to go on the occasional vacay, and I had traveled the
fucking world and learned new languages. I’d experienced danger and funny
situations and just some crazy shit all around. They’d gone soft sitting on bar
stools, working average jobs and raising families while I was in pique physical
condition. They all wanted to be around me, hell some of them probably wanted
to be me, and the girls…the girls just wanted to fuck or marry me. Usually
both. As customary I took full benefit of the buffet, sampling all that was
offered, filling my plate and going back for seconds if I found it tasty. I
fucked strangers, I fucked girls I’d fucked when I was younger, I fucked girls
I wanted to fuck when I was younger
and I started fucking Jenna regularly again. I haven’t made any promises to her
since I’ve been back. I’ve made it clear from the start I’m not looking for
commitment or to get married, and she swears she’s ok with the friends with
benefits thing we’re rocking. Only one of us is telling the truth though.
Anyway, that’s pretty much how
shit’s been for the last nine years, just keeping busy. Work, go to the gym, visit
the family, hang with the boys, watch sports and play them occasionally, drink,
fuck as much as possible, and I was ok with that for the most part. I really
was. The wound in my chest was still there, but it had healed over into a scar,
ever present but not really bothersome.
I guess if I had to pinpoint it,
things started to slip about two years ago when Sanchez was murdered. That shit
fucked with my head, fucked with all of Sidewinder’s heads. Ty was badly
injured shortly after, than nearly murdered himself almost a year later. Add to
that, he was hurt so badly last
October he was literally knocking on heaven’s door. I started playing the what
if game, which is never productive. What if I’d joined the Feds when they had
wanted me to? Maybe I could have done something to prevent Sanchez’s death and
also have prevented Ty from getting hurt. What if I’d told Ty how I felt about
him years ago? Maybe he would have reciprocated and I would have been on that
vacation with him and my presence would have somehow prevented the chain of
events that led to his injuries up in those mountains. Probably not I know. Especially
on that last one with me being such city boy and all, and considering what
happened the one time Ty tried to lead me up into those God forsaken trails; but
what if? I was starting to drive
myself crazy, that scar had started to itch and break apart.
Worse of all, the nightmares started
to come back. Not that they ever really went away completely, but they had
become duller, less frequent, and I was able to manage. But now? They’re back
with a vengeance, happening at least two to three times a week. They’re as vivid
as if I’m still in that fucking dessert, strapped to that table, locked in that
cell. Worse still? In these new dreams Ty never gets out. He never comes home
with me. No matter how much I try to fight or find him, he’s just gone. I
usually wake screaming his name.
Still, I was holding on. Pushing
those thoughts and feeling to the back of my mind, living my life, and only
dwelling when I was alone. Until a few months ago anyway, when the Team went to
Maryland for a paintball weekend that never happened. It wasn’t just the fact
that Ty came out about his sexuality and admitted he’d fallen in love, yeah
that last part stung like a bitch, but it was more than that. Owen acting like a
complete dick and walking away from the team, (because if you betray one of us,
it’s a betrayal to us all. Semper Fi.) Digger telling us he’d started that Creole
restaurant he’d always dreamed about, and several weeks later Kelly calling to
say he’d met the woman he was going to marry. It was as if they’d all moved on
with their lives, they were growing up and letting go of the past. I may not
have turned into Aunt Cecily, but I was still sure as shit holding out for the
way things had been. I realized I wanted us all to remain the single wild guys
that kicked ass and didn’t bother taking names. Getting together every few
months on our paintball excursions and raising hell. Even if I’d always have to
admire Ty from afar, I could live with that. Had been for eighteen years, so
what was the rest of my life? As long as he was fucking barmaids and not giving
two shits about them I could handle it. But him actually falling in love?
Particularly with a guy? That was a jagged pill to swallow on top of everything
else.
So yeah, basically what I took
the scenic route to say is, hanging at McFadden’s and being the local hero has
recently lost its luster. Sitting at the family dinner table and listening to
the neighborhood gossip isn’t quite as funny anymore. Fucking just for the sake
of getting off doesn’t feel as fulfilling. My scar is raw and torn open. The
problem? I don’t really know what to do about it. I don’t know how to get that
fucker to seal up again. I’ll figure it out eventually. Things will fall into
perspective again. At least I hope so. I actually asked Deuce to look into some
things for me. That’s Ty’s little brother the shrink. Damn, it made me feel
weak to ask, even though I know he’d never judge me. I’m a fucking marine, a
tough guy; I should be able to handle this shit on my own. Fuck I’d rather jump
out of a plane into enemy territory then deal with this emotional shit though.
D had someone call me, someone local I could go talk to, but I’ve been
postponing making the appointment. I just…I don’t know. I’m not ready to face
my demons yet. To face whatever fucked up shit is going on in this head and
heart of mine.
I make my decision for the night and
stand up to grab my canvas jacket from the hook. I slip it on and run my
fingers through my freshly washed hair. I take in a deep breath and let it out
slowly as I open the front door to head over to McFadden’s.
The show must go on and all that happy
horse shit.
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