Rescuing A Snow Angel

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.

"Sir," I inquired, "could you recommend an inexpensive place to stay — while I continue my job searches?"

"Where are you staying now, Mr. Rawlings?" he asked.

I sheepishly replied, "Sir, I have a truck with a pickup cap, but since this is my first day in the city, I haven't found a campground to park it yet."

He didn't respond immediately, but I detected a slight smile drawing up in the corner of his lips as he replied, "I have a client working on a major hotel renovation just down the street from here. How about I put you in touch with Eric and you see if the two of you can work out a deal on temporary living quarters?"

"That would be great, sir," I replied, "Thank you, sir!" Then I stopped abruptly and nodded my head instead. It dawned on me that there were probably way too many 'sirs' in my responses. Much too military-like I mentally noted, 'Got to remember to cut that 'sir' shit out on the next interview. He extended his hand, a sign that our business was concluded. I shook it as best as I could.

"Just stop by the HR Department," Colonel Worthington replied as I reached the doorway, "on the first floor and ask Sally for Eric's number and address. She can connect you together with him."

I thanked him again; dropping the last 'sir.' And made my way down the four flights of stairs to the front lobby. There was an elevator, but I wasn't ready for that ride, given my wartime accommodations, confining spaces just left me...anxious. The HR office was tucked away behind a glass wall with a great view of the expansive snow-white park across the street. The office was quiet, just the sound of soft music playing as I stepped inside. Not a creature was stirring; not even a mouse, ... until a bright smiling face came around the corner and greeted me with, "Mr. Rawlings, Jim Rawlings?"

"Yes, guilty as charged!" I proffered.

My face mimicked her smile. I know my eyes widened as I watched her approach. I felt that unfamiliar set of muscles stretching upward as a result. I don't think she noted that change in my face. But she was certainly easy on the eyes, glowing with a radiant look one identifies with innocence. She stepped forward to the counter, moving, or perhaps gliding like a swan, across the hardwood floors with barely a tap of her hard-sole shoes as she moved. Gorgeous. I gambled that she was also the owner's daughter; she had some of his genes in those azure eyes.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Rawlings. I'm Sally, Daddy's only daughter. I'm also the temporary receptionist, temporary secretary, temporary bookkeeper, and all other duties as assigned!" she giggled.

"That's a lot of temporary hats to be wearing, ... Miss Sally Worthington," I added, noting the absence of a wedding ring.

"That's what happens when my Daddy lets everyone take off early for the Christmas holidays!" she answered. "We're closing this afternoon also; right after I take care of you! Daddy says you need Eric Mortenson's contact info, so I have that for you. You can see the place he is working on, there," she gestured through the panoramic windows, "just across the other boulevard, catty-corner to us. And these are your keys and papers." She handed me a small bundle of papers, a contract form, and a keyring with two keys.

My smile turned to puzzlement. "I came to get the contact info Miss Worthington, but I'm afraid you are mistaken about the keys and a

contract.

I'm not an employee, I haven't been hired; your dad said he still had to check my references."

Sally's face lit up like a Christmas tree as she replied, "Well Mr. Rawlings, you're going to find that my Daddy does a lot of pre-checking before he asks for my 'final decision.' When he says check your references, that just means 'my personal stamp of approval.' So, if you hurry up and sign the papers, you will be an employee and then you can take the keys and come back anytime to check out the building! By the way, now that I have met you, I think you will fit in with all of us, just fine. Your office is across the hall, first door on the right, facing the park. It looks just like this room; but just two people in it. Daddy, says that space just suits you down to a Tee. But you have to make it quick, because Chris will be closing up shop soon, as well."

My face matched the look on Sally's, as I scrawled my name as carefully as I could on the contract. From the familiarity with Mortenson's first name and her knowledge of his closing soon, I figured she must know him fairly well. My handwriting never was all that good before I went overseas and definitely not that recognizable now with three missing digits. Sally didn't seem to react to the disfigurement, as I finished scrawling my moniker across the contract form.

I didn't even read it or look at the terms and conditions of the contract. Wages were not discussed at the meeting with her daddy; just general duties and company background information. Somehow it just seemed to be the right thing to do — a leap of faith — karma seizing the moment for me. It took all of my willpower not to scoop up the diminutive doll handing me a copy of the employment contract, and kiss her! On the other hand, she was not as reserved and gave me a light, quick hug to welcome me to the company. It must have been the holiday spirit that prompted that hug. It exuded friendliness. Yet, I tempered my response to hold her tight and soak in the warmth of a woman's bosom pressed against me this holiday season. Hugs were few and far between in my world. Orphans don't hug in the foster care system and they damn sure don't hug in the military ranks.

I crossed the parking lot, watching the accumulation of new snow growing deeper, and drove over into the nearly deserted courtyard of the hotel looking for someone to point me in the direction of the project manager, Chris Mortenson. Nearly everyone there was in the process of packing up vehicles. It looked for all intents and purposes as if a convoy was about to embark for places unknown. Standing to the side, I watched him handing out envelopes; Christmas bonuses it seemed as everyone smiled and shook his hand, wishing him a Merry Christmas. When all was said and done; I proffered my hand. "Jim Rawlings," I announced as I stood before him.

I took note of his darting eyes studying my hands as he hurriedly offered his own. His eyes quickly came to lock onto my own. He had the same grip as Mr. Worthington and he seemed to be chiseled from the same stone. He didn't ask. I didn't make an effort to provide any unsolicited answers either. I'm guessing his short conversation with the colonel gave him all he needed to know.

"Bob Worthington says you need a place to stay for a while. Well, I got one possibility for you. But I'm afraid it's not the best of places at the moment. I have the management office suite that is still powered on. It has heat and water. But it could use a good cleaning up. The furniture is still there, so is the bedroom stuff. Come take a look at it and tell me what you think."

We trudged through the falling snow over to the management unit. It faced the street as well as the courtyard and had a tactical vantage point for the comings and goings of the hotel through the main entryway. One way in and one way out. Mortenson's assessment of the place seemed right; the place had been a meeting room for contractors and never given a good cleaning, but I had slept in worse places. Before I could ask about the rent, he surprised me.

"I can give you three hundred cash, today. If you can wait for the rest in two weeks, Friday -- week after next when we get back, I'll have the balance. All I ask you to do is make the rounds every once in a while, and make sure there are no vagrants trying to get in until the work crews return. The front gate is coded and wired to an alarm in the office you'll be using so you'll know if it gets opened at night. You can keep your truck right out front. That way, people will see we have a guard on duty. Sound fair enough, Mr. Rawlings?"

"Fair enough, Mr. Mortenson. I'll keep watch over your property until you come back in two weeks," I replied, with a nod of my head and a grin on my face. It was almost as happy a look as the one brought on by Sally's smile, not thirty minutes before she locked the doors; as I walked her out to the parking lot.

Two jobs in one day!

I was expecting to pay for a place to camp out in my truck, but karma took care of me with a warm bed, hot water, and a place to cook. Surely, angels were watching over me as the Christmas holiday had everyone rushing to exit their worksites. For me, holidays held little meaning; they were just quiet moments in the chaotic passage of time as our country continued to be filled with turmoil and uncertainty. I needed to find something to do, to fill the void as the Major said. Standing guard wasn't exactly what the Major would have had in mind, but it filled the need for purpose in my life at this point. I was down to using the rolls of quarters I had squirreled away for laundry funds and then hitting the homeless shelter as a last result. Now, with three hundred dollars in my pocket, I hit the grocery store first, and then looked for a used bookstore to help fill the night hours. I had enough money, reading materials, and guard-duty activities to keep my mind occupied until I started my new job, after the Christmas holidays, with Worthington and Worthington Accounting.