Copyright by DMallord, 2020, USA. All rights reserved.
8,750 MS Words, Revision 01 - 2022
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Special thanks to Kenjisato for his impeccable editing of this resubmission. Before we became acquainted, I posted this story, thinking I had done a good job of editing. My word! That certainly was wrong! The first version contained numerous grammatical errors, misuse of homophones, and numerous other writing faux pas. His cleanup now reads so much better!
It helps, also, I believe, that I had some time, since the first posting, to mull over the opening paragraphs and hopefully have created a much better introduction to the story by creating a better opening framework for this revision.
BACKGROUND NOTE
There is a prequel to this story; entitled 'The Dorm Went Dark - I Got Lucky!' In that story, former Staff Sergeant Jim Rawlings began a hesitant re-entry into the civilian world, transitioning from a psychologically traumatized and maimed Vietnam prisoner of war. That story has him living in a dorm and taking cover in a safe-harbor atmosphere as an MBA graduate student. The dorm story chronicled many of his unresolved issues and how he did his best to deal with those matters. A few female graduate students assisted with some of those, especially the red-headed resident assistant, Gennie, that he bumped into the night the dorm lights went out! They worked out her boyfriend's declaration that she was 'frigid.' It is rated, currently, at 4.6 stars by 550 Literotican voters. Reading that short story would provide a better reference for this continuing saga; but you could just dive into this story as a stand-alone and just be fine knowing this story is complete in and of itself.
In this story, Rawlings, now fully on his own and in a chaotic civilian-world economy, is without a support system having moved on from the safe cocoon of college life into the business world. He is in search of a job. His new world consists of his 'home'— a pickup truck with a cap, a few college textbooks, his typewriter, and down to a few rolls of quarters, originally saved for the public laundromat. He is two steps away from vagrancy and depending on homeless shelters for survival. On Christmas Eve, he quickly finds himself in the 'saving of souls' role again as fate places him in the path of a young runaway. Barely clinging to life in a rag-tag military field jacket, he finds an unconscious snow angel in a long-neglected and empty hotel parking lot. Jim Rawlings begins to understand that life is about struggles that cannot be dodged and that people's past life experiences become inexplicably embroiled in their current situations no matter how much they try and push them away.
Rescuing a Snow Angel
You don't hold your hand out at birth asking, "Lord, please give me travesties and lots of major setbacks to overcome in my life!" Those just show up on your doorstep, one after another and test every ounce of your will to survive and your resolve to overcome them. God knows, I have had my share of them. Starting out on the downside immediately as an orphan, yet I overcame some of that to succeed and even managed to attend college. Only to be hammered again by a war in a country I'd never heard of until the Gulf of Tonkin incident splashed across the television screen. It dragged on forever with mounting losses, growing criticism, and protests against it and finally caught up to me, via the military draft system.
I was on the fence as to how I felt. Men died there for it, thinking it was for their country; or just their bad karma to be sent there. Others protested, thinking we shouldn't have been there in the first place. Worst of all, the National Guardsmen opened fire on unarmed protestors at an Ohio university. It became known as the Kent State Massacre and the country erupted against the US involvement in Vietnam; in part because of that ill-trained group of guardsmen. Some of the draftees chose Canada to escape the draft and many, like me, let the system sweep us into it; not having a strong enough conviction to rebel against authority. Call it 'patriotic duty.'
Long story short, just over a year and a half ago, I left Fort Bragg and made my way across the Midwest settling into a small-town university joining an academic life as a graduate student on a GI Bill and watched my military savings dwindle for expenses it didn't cover. The transition was rough, but my exposure to a non-military environment was what my psychiatrist prescribed. "Don't lock yourself away from people — get out — into the mainstream of life and overcome your fears," he directed. "The alternative," the Major warned, "would be sleeping on a park bench, drinking bottles of MadDog 20/20 — that's just a headache in a bottle — to dull the memories, and in the end — quite probably an early grave in Arlington, noting your Purple Heart Award on your headstone."
The Major knew me well. I had spent nearly two years in post-POW surgeries, physical therapy, and his psychiatric counseling at the end, before I was discharged. He helped me enroll in grad school — a cocoon environment, he called it.
"Living in a dorm, with older students, will take care of your physical needs," he told me, "and class time will occupy your thoughts during daylight hours." I would just have to find a way to deal with the hours of darkness and the fears of being trapped in spaces without exits. The question remained, would time heal all those old wounds and setbacks in life?
The shrink considered me more fortunate than most. I had a bachelor's degree, completed before I was drafted, then finally enlisted. His reasoning was based upon a frequently-failing Veterans' healthcare system. Many vets found themselves isolated, alone, and succumbing to alcohol and drugs at alarming rates. Suicide claimed many that didn't stop at alcohol or drugs. Previous war vets found self-support groups via groups like the VFW. However, returning Vietnam warriors didn't come home to a hero's welcome. They slipped through the cracks like water through a sieve.
My profile fit every descriptor on those charts the Major kept. Each one, in my case, spelled trouble. His advice: take advantage of the GI Bill, leverage my ability of prior knowledge, and get the master's degree. Get stabilized by getting immersed—fight my inner demons by keeping my mind overloaded with mind-challenging course work.
I did that. For a year, I fought those demons. Still, they came for me, often in the late-night hours as I awoke screaming and feeling the pain of fingers being cut one by one, night after night. Pills helped; the course work helped more. The fatigue wore the demons down until the nightmares were fewer. However, they never ever vanished; just hung back, in the shadows, and waited for the right moments to resurface; moments of doubt, or an unexpected encounter.
I can still remember the encounter with the other graduate level students at the first dorm meeting, as though it were yesterday. Today, now, I know better than to begin an introduction with, "I'm Jim Rawling. It's been ten years since I left college. I got drafted two days before I graduated. Then four years, three months and three days later, I ETS'd out of the 82nd Airborne, that's in North Carolina. Not that I was counting ..." What followed were silent, frightened faces, scurrying away as fast as they could — away from the crazy ex-GI. They fled, as quickly as they could, from the guy having one hand with severed fingers and the other hand just mangled and bent; waving them for their awareness. What they briefly saw on their television sets, had just walked out the dorm stairwell and smack into their reality with all the realism one could not get from a fifteen-second TV clip on the nightly newscast. Bug-eyed, they ran.
Like I said, that first day of grad school was a rough start. However, by the time I graduated, the Major's words came true. I immersed myself in academia, made some friends, got fucked by Gennie when the dorm lights went out, and overcame a shit-load of fears. I thought I was ready to take the next step, striking out alone into the business world.
Looking for a job in these troubling times was a crapshoot, at best. My exit from Fort Bragg back into civilian life could not have come at a worse time. The economy was crumbling. Jobs were scarcer than hens' teeth. Hell, you couldn't buy gas. It was rationed on an even-odd license plate day and in Florida, the National Guard escorted gasoline tankers down expressways to designated gas stations. The first year away from Ft. Bragg gave me a fighting chance to acclimate, and with a new set of credentials and a resume that screamed 'newbie accountant,' I found a small accounting company in the Midwest that expressed an interest in my resume and granted me a job interview.
"Good morning Mr. Worthington. My name is Jim Rawlings. I'm a recent MBA graduate looking for work. I'm a green recruit, but willing to work long hours, and I'm eager to contribute to your company's growth." I said, as I began my first job interview.
My interview seemed to go well enough. Mr. Worthington, it turns out, was also ex-military, a former Green Beret colonel. Small world, I thought. He didn't make a direct offer for a job, but said he would let me know either way before the end of the week.
"Thank you, for making the trip to our fair city, Mr. Rawlings. I'll ... consider your resume offerings and of course, have to check your references. We have other candidates to interview, so you do understand that I won't be making a decision until we've had the opportunity to interview the others?"
"Of course, sir!" I nodded, "I appreciate your granting me an interview. I know there may be others with more experience, but I believe you won't find any that can dedicate all the time and energy required to support your company than myself, sir."
There didn't seem to be any more that needed to be said between us. He sat, studying me for a few moments, as though sizing me up by some standard—a standard not based upon academia. I'd seen that look before, just never understood what went on behind the Major's mask as he studied me in my psych counseling sessions. Rising up from the comfortable leather armchair to leave his office, I found myself somewhat hesitant, wondering if I dared ask another more sensitive question. However, as a former soldier, I suspected he had been in similar circumstances when searching for quarters.
