Spare Change Page 2

  He already looked tense enough as it was.

  “Oh,” the young man said, taking his first breath in almost a minute, some of the blood receding from his cheeks, “so the coach telling us to dress up...”

  “Just one more hoop for the rookies to jump through. Get used to it, whole year will be that way in one form or another.”

  No part of me was that enthused about the conversation, though it was still a far bit better than actually stepping inside the tent. At least out here, I had fresh air and the illusion of an escape route, my truck still just barely within sight on the back end of the lot.

  And it wasn’t like I didn’t wish somebody had told me all this a couple years earlier, most of it having been attained through a lot of trial-and-error on my part.

  “Kyle Clady,” I said, extending a hand.

  Matching the shake, the young man said, “Phil Yates.”

  “Baseball.”

  “Racquetball.”

  Feeling my eyebrows rise, I released the handshake. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Yates replied, motioning over my shoulder toward the parking lot. “Actually, here come a few of my teammates as well.”

  Chapter Three

  The Cartwright is a place that was chosen completely on a whim three years before. Across the street from the hottest new Italian joint in town, Mira and I had shown up without reservations hoping to get a table. By the time the snotty maître d’ had stopped laughing at our request, we had bolted to the friendlier confines of the neighborhood bar across the street, happy to swap out linen tablecloths and candlelight for peanut shells and the sound of shoes sticking to the floor with every step.

  A week later we returned, friends in tow.

  Now, the place is nothing short of a local favorite, the spot that everybody retreats to on a weekly basis. The cast of folks that are in town and able to attend often shifts, sometimes as few as a handful, other times swelling to take up several tables at once.

  It never matters who shows up. What does is that the place is ours, a spot in the city to call our own, far from the usual Navy hangouts.

  We see those people enough as it is. Not to mention we seem to keep getting older while most of them stay the same damn age.

  “So how was it?” Emily Stapleton asks, her back pressed into the corner of the booth. With red hair pulled straight back behind her and a couple of beers already down, her cheeks are working on a nice rosy hue.

  An ensign at Coronado, she’s an administrator for the unit, one of the few I actually trust to get things where they need to be. Three years younger than me in age, more than once we’ve discussed respective positions, debating and re-debating the merits and pitfalls of military math.

  Like me, she never had the slightest interest in being a lifer, taking up the post after college because it was stable and promised the ability to travel. Unfortunately for her, Coronado was about as far as she ever got.

  Though, to be fair, there are worse places a girl from South Dakota could end up.

  “How was what?” I ask, feeling my face fall flat. Already I know what she’s alluding to, but that doesn’t stop me from feigning ignorance.

  I’ve had one extremely painful interrogation already on the day. It’s not like I’m aching for a second.

  “No,” Chief Petty Officer Jeff Swinger says, stabbing a finger across the table. Seated next to Stapleton, he is at least twice her size at the shoulder, tapering down to a waist that is maybe an inch more than hers in circumference.

  One of those lucky bastards that won the genetic lottery and likes to spend as much time as possible in as little clothing as possible to show it off.

  A series of colorful tattoos adorn his exposed forearm, thick veins traversing through them. “Don’t do that. This is our best shot to hear about what’s coming.”

  Swinger and I enrolled in SEAL training together, have been pretty much side-by-side every step of the way since.

  Seated directly across from him, I lean back in my seat to gain a few extra inches of space. Glancing into the corner toward my safety net, I can see Mira looking down to her lap, a smile on her face. Trying hard not to look my way, she’s suddenly very interested in her cuticles, refusing to meet my eye.

  Clearly, a trap had been set while I stepped away to hit the head.

  Switching my attention to the end of the table, I look on the man sitting in the chair pulled up on the end, hoping in vain to find an ally. The closest I can find is fellow Petty Officer Wendell Ross already raising his hands to either side, his pale palms flashing against dark skin.

  Also having been with us since the beginning, he and Swinger represent the two closest things I have to siblings, an uglier, more unholy trinity the world has never seen.

  “Hey, don’t look at me,” Ross says. “You know the rules. First one out has to lay down cover fire.”

  A bit of warmth creeps up my neck as I look to my friend, my mouth opening and closing twice in order. “Cover fire?”

  Flicking my attention across the table, I can see more of the same from Stapleton and Swinger, all three intently peering at me, awaiting my response. “Do not go quoting the damn procedure to me. That stuff is for when we’re in the shit out there. Not when-“

  “We’re in the shit back here?” Swinger interjects, cutting me off. “Don’t give us that, man. Just be straight. How damn miserable is it? What do we have to look forward to?”

  Of everything that a sailor dreads at the end of their time, the forced psych evals are the worst. Nobody wants to do them, nobody ever seems to have a kind thing to say about them.

  At least when we’re out in the suck, we can fire back.

  “It wasn’t so bad,” I manage, lifting my glass and twirling the last inch of beer, refusing to meet their eye. “Mostly I just dodged and ran.”

  “Like a scared rabbit,” Ross says, judgment clear in his tone.

  “Not so bad,” Swinger presses. “Going to have to give us more than that. What did they ask? How long were you in there?”

  “Just an hour,” I say. “And it actually wasn’t. Today she just kept trying to buddy up to me. Kept telling me it was all procedure, nothing to worry about.”

  In my periphery, I can see Ross raise a hand to his brow, knobby fingers working at the loose skin. “Aw hell. Full on Jedi mind trick stuff.”

  “Bend over, you will,” Swinger adds, his voice twisted up into the worst Yoda impression I’ve ever heard.

  Beside me, Mira fails to stifle the laugh we’re both feeling, her shoulders shuddering as a small sound escapes her lips.

  “She,” Stapleton says, cutting the other two off before they can get any further. “You got Botkins?”

  Raising my beer, I buy no more than a second or two by finishing the last of it, the liquid warm and foamy, but all I can do to stem the rapid-fire comments coming my way. “I did. Why?”

  Waving a hand to the other two, she flips her fingers at them, as dismissive a gesture as I’ve ever seen. “Don’t bother, guys. He got the softie. He’s just going in for puppy dogs and rainbows.”

  After the first ten minutes, not one damn thing about the afternoon conversation had anything to do with dogs or the weather, but there’s no way I’m telling these hyenas that.

  “See,” I say, raising my voice slightly, “nothing to be learned here, boys. Game over, drive home safely.”

  “Mhmm,” Ross says beside me, his jaw and his tone both resembling his mother. The only thing missing is for him to tell me I need Jesus.

  “Bullshit, this is,” Swinger adds, bringing the table to laughter, the sound rolling out across the space, loud enough that a few patrons at the bar turn and glance our way.

  Not that we give a damn, nor does Old Man Cartwright, the owner standing behind the bar, a white towel on his shoulder, the bottom hem of it just inches above his protruding stomach. Glancing away from Thursday Night Football for no more than a second, he raises a hand to us, silently acknowledging that everyth
ing is good.

  In unison, we all do the same.

  Like I said. Our place.

  Chapter Four

  The air is still warm, though at a temperature I would call the southern edge of it. In a few weeks, the air outside will begin to move in direct correlation with the sun, rising when it does and falling in kind. For the time being, there is still enough residual heat to keep the world at a comfortable temperature as we step outside, the din of The Cartwright falling away behind us.

  First through the door, I step to the side and slide an arm around Mira’s shoulders, waiting as our friends file out in order behind us. One at a time they take up a post on the sidewalk, everybody in that happy state that exists with a full belly and a couple of beers, the senses dulled just slightly but nowhere near impaired.

  Stuffing hands into pockets, they form up into a circle, Mira and I next to the outer wall of the bar, the others closer to the street.

  “So what’s it going to be?” Swinger asks. Always the first to do so, I know he has plans for Round Two in mind. Probably one of the standard bars closer to base if he can swing it. Even settling for one of the more bougie places across the street if he can’t. “The night is still young.”

  “That it is,” Ross replies, raising a bare wrist and pretending to check the time. “Which means if I hurry, I can still get home in time to kiss my babies goodnight.”

  To my right, Mira smiles. Six months earlier, Ross and his wife had become the proud parents to twins. A boy and a girl, they had asked his sister-in-law and her husband to be the godparents for their son.

  As for their daughter, that privilege had been extended to us. A noble gesture, even if only symbolic, there being no way we could ever separate the two if something happened.

  “Babies,” Swinger mutters. Waving a hand to Ross, he then extends it my way, “Retirement. What the hell happened to us?”

  “We got old,” Mira replied, jumping in before any further conversation can be had. Shifting to Ross, she says, “Which means you need to be going, and hug that beautiful girl goodnight for us.”

  Raising a hand to his brow in mock salute, Ross takes a step back, losing six inches of height as he moves off the curb.

  “Yeah, and do the same for our goddaughter,” I add, earning a second salute from my friend, this one using only his middle finger.

  “Cute,” Ross replies. “And since I won’t be seeing you on base anymore, same time next week?”

  “Yes,” Stapleton answers. “And this is the big one, everybody’s coming out. Bring Marissa, and don’t you dare be late.”

  Dipping his head in silent affirmation, Ross eases out into the street, toward his car parked on the opposite side. “Yes, ma’am. Night, all.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Swinger mutters, raising a hand in farewell before turning back to the group. One target has been eliminated, but it’s clear he has no interest in giving in so easily. “Emily? Nightcap?”

  Pretending she doesn’t even hear the question, she instead slides forward and wraps her arms around Mira. Squeezing twice, she releases and moves to the side, doing the same for me, her arms tightening around my rib cage for just a moment before setting me free and stepping back.

  “I’m going to pretend he didn’t just ask that,” she says, her mouth spread into a smile. “And that he doesn’t already know that it is Thursday and I have a standing date starting in twenty minutes.”

  The standing date she is referring to is Grey’s Anatomy, one of the few true vices I know of the woman to have in this world.

  And one I definitely know better than to comment on.

  “Good call.”

  “We still on for lunch Monday?” she asks.

  “Sounds good,” I reply. “I meet with Botkins at eleven, so I’ll head your way thereafter?”

  Across the street, the engine on Ross’s car comes to life. A single blast on the horn is heard as he puts it into gear, all four of us turning and raising a hand in farewell as he eases into the street.

  Already starting to drift in the opposite direction, Stapleton says, “Noon is good. I’ll even treat you to the finest mess hall chow you’ve ever had.”

  A running joke that we’ve shared for as long as we’ve known each other, I can’t help but smile. Like there’s anything about mess hall food that could be considered fine. Or even good.

  “Excellent. Have a good night!”

  Fluttering her fingers our way, she disappears with a flash of bright hair and the tail of an equally gaudy jacket, red and green floating down the sidewalk, moving in and out of the shadows.

  Standing and watching her go for just a moment, Swinger takes a step forward, closing the gap between himself and Mira and I. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I’m getting you two out for more this evening?”

  I’m not officially out yet, but for all intents and purposes, it is my first night in a decade without the looming dread of the next morning, or next week, or my next tour, hanging over my head. Nothing but a few more conversations with Botkins, and I am completely free.

  Which means there is no way I’m spending tonight squirreled away in a bar watching Swinger pound shots and try to find his next bride for the night. No matter how much fun it can occasionally be.

  “Sorry,” Mira says, jumping in, saving me from having to be the deliverer of bad news, “but tonight he’s with me.”

  The faint hint of a smile passes over Swinger’s face as he looks on, knowing exactly what is meant. A groomsman in our wedding, he’s known Mira for almost as long as he’s known me, learning to translate in a way that a first glance at the man wouldn’t quite intimate.

  Personal growth and such, I suppose.

  “You two kids enjoy yourself,” he says. “Balboa’s supposed to be really nice at night, all lit up.”

  Chapter Five

  As far as I know, Chief Jeff Swinger has been to Balboa Park exactly one other time in his life. It was the day he had to don his dress uniform and stand alongside Ross, and myself, and a friend from college, up in front of a small group of onlookers as Mira and I said our vows. Since then, there was not a chance in hell the man would step foot in the place, the term park being somewhat of a misnomer for the sprawling expanse that serves as the geographic and cultural centerpiece for the city.

  Much larger than Central Park in New York, the space is an intermittent jumble of museums and open space, restaurants and fountains, rec centers and gathering areas. On any given day, several thousand people can be jammed into the sprawl, alternating between playing ping-pong or checking out the pandas in the famed zoo.

  As local as they come, the only time in her life Mira has lived anywhere besides San Diego was the four years she called Corvallis, Oregon home. Born in National City to immigrant parents, the first eight years of her life were spent within throwing distance of the international border.

  “When we were kids, our parents used to bring us here every Sunday,” Mira says as we climb from the SUV. Sliding her fingers through mine, she leans her body against my triceps, her opposite hand going to my forearm.

  In the steadily cooling night air, I can feel her warmth passing through the jacket hanging free on either side of her torso. The contours of her body press against me, two people melding into one, our walk becoming a bit of a stagger as we make our way from the car.

  “Really?” I ask, acting as if I haven’t heard the story a thousand times, it being the same one she tells every time we come here.

  “Yeah,” she replies, not picking up on my response, perhaps having not even heard it. “Mama would pack a big basket of food, loaded to the brim with whatever was fresh and in season. Fruits, veggies, tamales, never the same thing twice. It was amazing, like Christmas morning once a week.”

  Looking over at her, seeing the moonlight on her hair, the glow of the city stretched before us on her face, I know the feeling.

  “And Papi,” she continues, her eyes glazed as she stares off, lost in a time long ago, “
it was the only day of the week he wouldn’t work. He’d pile us all into the truck and drive us here. We’d bring games and pillows and blankets, and just make a day of it, all of us here together. It was so special.”

  The first time I ever came to visit her family, Balboa Park was where she brought me. It was the place where I had later proposed to her, the only spot we ever even discussed exchanging our vows.

  It was her special place, which later became our special place. The only spot in the world we would be on a night like this, looking to clear our heads, staring out at a future that for so long we’d only guessed at.

  Tomorrow morning, I was going to wake up and not have anywhere to be. Whatever clothes I put on would be my own choice, bought with my own money, not issued to me. The food I ate would be whatever I wanted, eaten at the time I chose.

  Basic things for most people, performed without much thought at all, but blessings years in the making for those like us.

  Leaning back into my wife, we settle into a nice pace, our path cutting down the middle of the sidewalk. Shifting our gazes toward the downtown in the distance, we can see the faint glow of the city lights rising up, a harsh contrast from the peaceful tranquility of the park around us.

  “Hey man, can you spare some change?”

  So lost in the moment, the weight of Mira on my shoulder, the smell of her hair in my nose, I hadn’t noticed the man. Not until he appears from seemingly nowhere, coming in from the darkened expanse of grass stretched out to our left did I even know he was there.

  Jerking my attention to the side, years of training instantly respond, my nerves heightening. My bicep tightens under Mira’s grip as my pace slows, my body shifting slightly to put myself between them.

  In his mid-to-late thirties, the guy has several days of heavy growth on his face, his hair lank across his forehead. Dingy jeans and a t-shirt adorn him, most of it covered by a fleece blanket draped around his shoulders. The smells of body odor, alcohol, and feces seem to roll off him in waves.