Cemetery Street

The morning of August 17th began like any other. I crawled out of bed, took a quick glance at the Ortolan house, and stumbled into the shower. I had a busy day at work. We had two funerals. Two graves needed to be opened and sealed. Working for Bear wasn't bad, the pay sucked but grave digging wasn't a career - just a way to earn a few bucks before starting community college. Since the Iraqi business started, Bear was testy. I can't blame him, we all were. In Fernwood, it was impossible not to feel tension lurking behind every tombstone. Considering the juxtaposition of his and his only child's professions, I'm sure Bear couldn't escape the obvious conclusion - I couldn't.

Such thoughts filled my head as I made breakfast. The phone rang, breaking my trance. "Jesus Christ Morrison, you always so pleasant in the morning?" Count asked.

"Hey dude! What's up?"

"You a moron?" he laughed. "Haven't been watching the news?"

"What a pisser, I…."

"We missed Panama, we not missing this one."

"Cool," I answered stupidly.

"Morrison, I can't talk long, listen up. We're shippin' out for Saudi in a few hours. I want you to look after Flossy, you hear? She's going to be a nervous wreck. Tell her I'm fine. Tell her not to listen to all the negative bullshit on the news. We're pro's doing a pro's job." Count paused as heavy equipment rumbled by. "Take care of Ortolan," he resumed. "She's too smart for her own good. But she's fragile. When I get back, I'm going to sit you two down and have a talk with you about the ways of the world."

"Yeah," I smiled.

"Good. We don't have to worry about Mrs. O. And my old man can handle himself. Don't let me down, I don't want to hear about any problems at home when I'm in the desert, or I'll come back and straighten you out. You hear me?"

"Sir. Yes, sir," I mocked.

"Good. Don't panic when you don't hear from me, far as I know there ain't no phones in the desert. I promised Shannie I write her every chance I get. Don't take it personal if you don't hear from me. I promised too much agreeing to write Ortolan. I'm sure she'll show you my letters."

"Will do," I answered.

"If your grandfather could see me now - patch and all."

"He'd be proud of you," I said. "If he was alive, he'd buy you a beer."