Monster

By Christopher Farris

At the halfway point, Specialist Hawkins looked at his watch and knew that he’d failed his physical fitness test again. He was at nine minutes and still had a mile to run. He picked up his pace and stretched for more ground with each stride. His breath started to rattle in his chest, a stitch dug into his side. He passed his squad mate, Private Renfro, going the other direction. The fat kid’s shorts had pinched up between his meaty thighs; his PT shirt was drenched with sweat. He hadn’t reached the half-way point, wasn’t even running.
Renfro waved cheerily.
Hawkins scowled and tried to run faster, anything to distance himself from that kind of failure. He couldn’t keep it up for long. He dropped back to his original pace, then slower. He looked at his watch again. Fifteen minutes. Shit.
By the time he spotted Sergeant First Class Borrman waiting at the finish line, he knew he’d failed. His watch had just clicked over seventeen minutes with a block-and-a-half to go. He was certain Borrman had a look of contempt on his face.
Staff Sergeant Bobby broke from the waiting crowd and loped toward him. Hawkins’s boss’s bald head shone in the morning sun; his long legs ate up the pavement. Hawkins kept putting one foot in front of the other; it hurt.
The big man looped around behind him and said: “Go faster.” His cheap sneakers hit the pavement steadily. His breath came smooth and steady. Hawkins’s chest felt like it was caving in. The sergeant accelerated and ran beside him. “I told you to go faster.”
Hawkins groaned but reached within himself, dug deeper. He straightened a little and stepped out a little farther. Bobby loped alongside. “Go faster.”
Hawkins looked at his boss. The man’s face was wooden. He had already failed. What the hell, he thought, is the point of this? He opened his mouth to protest.
“I told you to go faster, asshole!”
Hawkins shut up and ran faster, drug the breath into his lungs. Chunks of the stuff rattled in his throat; his belly quivered with resentment. “Go faster!” Bobby shrieked. His great teeth snapped at Hawkins’s face, his huge hand struck him between the shoulder blades, knocking him forward in his pitching run. Hawkins reached for everything he had.
They crossed the finish line at a dead run.
Hawkins’s legs crumpled and his stomach went rubbery. He staggered to the side of the road and vomited in the ditch, lost his balance and fell to the grass beside the noisome mess. He lay there drawing in breath, as much breath as he could, over and over, hoping that his heart wouldn’t explode, that his head wouldn’t go off like a firework.
“Get your arms over your head,” Bobby ordered.
Hawkins raised them as high as he could.
“You gonna make it?”
Hawkins nodded, still unable to speak.
Bobby slapped him on the shoulder. “Good finish.”
“I—I—fuh—failed.” Hawkins couldn’t draw a complete breath.
The big man shrugged. “Sure.” He looked off, “You fuckin’ gave it away. You quit too soon. You’re too soft.” He spit on the concrete. “But you pushed yourself at the end. You really gave it up that last little way. That was pretty good. I gotta be honest; I didn’t know you had that in ya.” He looked to the horizon, poked his little finger in his ear and rotated it. Took it out and inspected it, then wiped it on his PT shorts. “Now you know you can, you just gotta get faster. Just remember, I know what you can do now. Next time I see you slow down like that, I’ll kick your ass.” He grinned for a moment, then his face went blank. “I ain’t shittin’ you about that.”
Hawkins nodded.
“Next time,” Bobby said. “You don’t quit, you don’t slow down till your legs fall off on you. You got that?” His eyes were eggy and red-rimmed.
Hawkins nodded again.
“Good,” He took him by the hand and pulled him to his feet. “You’ll get it.” Bobby nodded to Renfro as he walked up.
The kid’s PT shorts made swip-swip-swip sounds as his thighs rubbed together. He gave Hawkins a placid smile. “You getting any faster, Hawkins?” He placed his hands on his hips backwards, throwing his belly out in front of him. “Gotta pass the PT, to be an LT.” He giggled, high-pitched and nasal.
“Jesus, Renfro,” Hawkins snapped. “At least try to look like a damn soldier. You sure as hell don’t run like one.”
Hurt walked across Renfro’s acned face. He ran his hand under his nose, looked at what was left on his palm and walked away.
“Why the hell you gettin’ on Renfro?” Bobby asked. “He ain’t done nothin’ to you.”
“He’s a fucking disgrace. Jesus, he spends more time in front of a computer screen than he does living his life. Would it hurt him to run some, instead? It’s embarrassing.”
Bobby frowned and crossed his arms.
Hawkins flushed. “Sorry, Sergeant. I don’t know why… Nevermind, I’m just…” He threw his arms out in frustration.
“You’re just what?”
“I’m supposed to be in Iraq.” Hawkins pointed Borrman’s way. “Borrman pulled me from the rotation so I could go to OCS. He already thinks I’m a loser because I’m prior Air Force. Now I can’t even pass my PT test. Again. Some other dude is over there on my account. Jesus, I’m a failure.” He looked at the tips of his running shoes.
“You always this whiny?”
Hawkins didn’t know how to respond.
“Get your ass showered and down to the Motor Pool. We got trucks to work on. Got a big party tonight, too. We always have a party after the PT test.” Bobby smiled and ran his hand over his belly. For a moment, he looked innocent. “Gonna be a damn good time.”
He walked away.

“Hawkins!”
Specialist Hawkins stopped in his tracks and turned back to the Motor Pool office. Sergeant First Class Borrman stood in the open door. The portly man had stripped down to his t-shirt. The sun had reddened his arms and face. He looked like he was chewing on something bitter.
Here it comes, Hawkins thought. Failed the PT. They’re going to pull me from OCS. He took a deep breath and headed over to see the man. His combat boots thunked up the little building’s wood steps. He stopped short of the top. Borrman crossed his arms and glared down at him. “Where the hell is Bobby?”
Hawkins eyebrows rose. “Sergeant, I--I don’t know.”
“You see him this morning?”
“Sergeant, am I—am I supposed to keep track of—“
“Of course not.” The man’s face got redder as he bit out the words. “He’s your boss. Answer the question. You see him this morning?”
“Not since the party last night.”
“You mean the block party around the barracks or the one a couple blocks over?” His mustache twitched and he narrowed his eyes.
Hawkins ran through his mind, wondering what he might have done. “The, uh, block party, Sergeant, by the barracks.”
“You get shit faced with him? You with him last night?”
“No. No, Sergeant. I hurt myself after the PT test yesterday. Electrocuted myself on a HEMTT.” Hawkins slapped his cargo pocket. A bottle of pills rattled reassuringly. “The medics gave me some stuff for the pain. I slept all afternoon and last night.”
Borrman scratched his belly and ran a hand through the red stubble on his scalp. The frown on his face looked permanent.
“I saw him,” Hawkins offered, “for about…five minutes, maybe?”
“When was that?”
“I--I don’t know.”
Borrman sighed and Hawkins saw his shoulders droop. The sergeant pushed the door to the CQ all the way open. “Come inside.” Hawkins followed him into the dusty room and shut the door behind him. Borrman stumped across the scarred floor and sat behind the desk. He leaned back and laced his fingers across his egg-shaped belly. “Pull up a chair.”
Hawkins did as he was told.
Borrman inspected him. His lips twitched and he opened and closed his eyes rapidly. “Sergeant First Class Flores came to see me this morning. She says Bobby was down at the females’ barracks last night. She said he was drunk off his ass and belligerent. According to her, he tried to force his way into their building. That there was a scuffle. Told me that there were other guys with him and that it almost got real ugly. You know anything about that?”
“No! No. Absolutely not.” Hawkins sat up straight. “I know nothing about that. I told you. I was asleep. You can ask the medics if you need confirmation. They gave me some painkillers and sent me to bed.”
Borrman frowned. “How did he look when you saw him?”
Hawkins considered whether to protect Bobby or not. “Drunk, Sergeant.”
“How drunk? What was he drinking?”
“Beer. Beer and Heaven Hill.”
“Vodka?”
Hawkins nodded.
“Shit. On top of his psych meds? He knows he’s not supposed to do that.”
Hawkins shrugged and looked away.
“God dammit…” Borrman stared into space, then sighed and looked down at his steel desk. For a moment, Hawkins saw a beaten man.  “Look, Gabe. You mind if I call you Gabe?” Borrman’s face was doughy and pale under the sunburn. His voice had changed. For the first time, Hawkins felt that a human was addressing him rather than the politician that he’d grown used to.
Hawkins nodded and leaned forward in his chair.
“You want to be an officer, right?”
Hawkins nodded again.
“Commander wants me to take you off the OCS list because of your PT failure yesterday. I told him no. He listens to me, sometimes.”
Hawkins felt a lump of ice form in his stomach and his pulse pounding behind his eyes. “Thank you, Sergeant.” He cleared his throat.
“I’ve got a feeling you’re going to be a good lieutenant. I just need a favor.”
“Name it, Sergeant.”
The older man ran his hands down his face, sat back in his chair and placed his fists on the desk. “Keep an eye on Bobby for the next couple of weeks?” He gave Hawkins a searching look. “I know it’s not your job. I know you’re not his boss. I know you don’t know up from down yet, but…” He sighed. “Bobby seems to like you--which is damn strange because he doesn’t seem to like anybody.” He gently pounded a fist on his desk. “Look, I know he hates my fucking guts. I’m sure he’s told you that, but I’m being straight with you. I’m trying to keep that asshole out of trouble. He’s a great soldier when he wants to be. He hasn’t been the same since Bosnia, since Iraq, just…he hasn’t been the same. He just needs… I don’t know what he needs. A friend, maybe. A babysitter? Hell, I don’t know.” He hesitated. “He needs somebody that can help him when he’s starting to go off the rails, somebody that can keep him from doing…” His mouth worked as he searched for the right words. “Stupid shit like this. Just keep an eye on him for me? Just for a while. Just till I can figure out what to do?”
He was sincere; Hawkins would have bet his car on it. His estimation of the man went up. “Did he do it, Sergeant? Did he try to break into the women’s barracks?”
Borrman looked at him for a long time, long enough for Hawkins to regret asking. “I don’t know. Flores hates him. She’s hated him since the day she met him. She was probably drunk, too. Bobby told the MPs that he was just trying to use the latrine. She says otherwise. I just don’t know. But, Bobby’s on a thin string. The commander’s tired of putting up with all his shit. Did he do it? Did Bobby do it?” He threw his hands up in the air. “Hell, he probably did. He’s capable of it. You’ve seen him drink. You’ve seen him when he’s mixing it with the meds. What do you think? Do you think he did it?”
Hawkins looked away. “PTSD, Sergeant?”
Borrman’s face blazed. “There’s no such thing!”
Hawkins’s eyebrows rose.
“Cause if he’s got PTSD, Hawkins, then that opens the flood gates, you understand? If Bobby--if that tough son-of-a-bitch has got PTSD, then every private and specialist that’s been in-country is going to be pounding on my desk complaining about the same thing. You get me?”
“But, Sergeant, maybe there’s something medical—“
Borrman leaned across the desk, the hardness returned to his face. “No PTSD. I don’t want to hear any more about it.” He pounded his fist. The desktop clunked like a tongueless bell. “I know you’re just a specialist. I know Bobby’s your boss, but I need someone to watch him. You want to be a leader? Well, this is your chance to prove that you’re not just another Renfro. I’ll keep the commander off both you and Bobby. You do me this one little favor. You keep an eye on him. You keep him out of trouble, I’ll see that you get your chance at OCS. That’s the deal.” The sergeant sat back again. His eyes were on Hawkins like gun sights. “Will you do it?”
Hawkins nodded and took a deep breath while his mind spun through a thousand possibilities, all bad. He wondered if he’d be held responsible if Bobby hurt somebody while he was supposed to be watching him.
“Just do the best you can.” Borrman said.
“Roger that, Sergeant.”
“Alright, well…” He blew air through his whiskers. “That’ll help. Thank you. Takes a load off my mind. Sincerely.”
Hawkins turned to go.
“One more thing,” Borrman said. “The last Friday is coming up. That’s always a huge party. You better have a plan.”

Bobby hunched over the delicate cafe table. The fork in his hand looked tiny.  He gripped it in a full fist, like a child and, when he moved, his knees hit the underside of the tabletop, rattling the wine glasses and rocking the flowered centerpiece. Private Renfro, his eyes on his Nintendo video game, sat across from the sergeant. He picked the occasional French fry from his plate and shoved it into his greasy mouth. His attention was on the game, not the food. Bring the kid to an Italian café, Hawkins thought, offer to pay the tab and he orders a hamburger and French fries. He sighed and started on his third gin and tonic. Bobby and Renfro had agreed to join him for dinner rather than attend the final barracks party. To sweeten the pot, he’d offered to pay.
“I know,” Hawkins said, “we’re missing the party and all, but I think this place is pretty good.”
Renfro glanced at him and shrugged. Bobby forked up a meatball and shoved it into his mouth. He looked at the next table and waved his fork at the toddler in the high chair. The little girl grinned back at him and waved her pudgy hands in the air. “Yeah.” The big man spoke with his mouth full. “It doesn’t suck.” He made faces at the girl, stuck his fingers in his ears and waggled them around. She giggled. “Hey, Baby,” he said in a high, loud falsetto and blew a raspberry with his lips. She giggled again. He contorted his face, roared and swung his hands in the air pretending to be a monster. Heads turned. She melted with laughter and slapped her fingers into her spaghetti. Bobby tossed a piece of bread at her and laughed, oblivious to the noise he was making or the attention he was drawing.
The girl’s parents stopped speaking and stared at him. The father sized him up, taking in Bobby’s camouflaged flip-flops and his too tight t-shirt that read “Perpetual War…Hell Yeah!” His eyes found and stuck on the purple bullet scar that crawled across Bobby’s forehead. He flinched when Bobby tossed another piece of bread at his daughter. The baby chuckled and slapped her hands in her meal again, sending spaghetti and sauce flying.
The baby’s mother looked nervous and turned her attention to her daughter, turned her entire body as if to avoid seeing the sergeant. She pulled her from her high chair and wiped her face down with a wet wipe. She made shushing sounds in the girl’s ear and whispered to her husband. He pushed his horn-rims up on his nose and blinked at her, gesturing helplessness with his hands. There was a frantic quality to the exchange. He kept glancing at Bobby; he couldn’t seem to help himself. The baby struggled in her mother’s arms, trying to watch her new playmate.
“We use those, too,” Bobby offered, leaning closer to their table and pointing to the bag of wet wipes.
The woman stopped whispering. Her husband’s face froze, mouth agape. Hawkins closed his eyes, willing Bobby to stop talking. He finished off his gin and tonic in three rapid gulps. Renfro’s game blooped.
A thin line of anxiety popped up between the woman’s brows. She nodded to Bobby and smiled timidly. “I’m sorry, sir.” She flashed her husband a look. “We have to be going.”
The father gestured for the waiter.
“Yeah.” Bobby went on, turning toward the family in his chair. “We use wet wipes out in the field all the time. We ain’t got no showers out there so, unless you wanna sit around dirty, you gotta use wet wipes. Funny ain’t it? Soldiers ain’t that different from babies, I guess. Both gotta wipe their asses with wet wipes.” He guffawed and made growling sounds at the baby again, held his hands out in front of him like he was a zombie. The father’s eyes went round.
The woman smiled nervously, grasped the gold locket hanging around her neck and whispered something more to her husband. She gathered the baby in one arm and her diaper bag in the other and rose to stand on the far side of their table. She jostled the baby up and down on her hip and kept her eyes on her husband. The little girl fussed and pushed to be let down.
“Aw,” Bobby said, “she ain’t ready to go, Momma. How old is she?”
The woman glanced at him then back to her husband, as if hoping that he would intercede. He didn’t look her in the eye, fished in his pockets. Hawkins leaned over and tugged on Bobby’s sleeve. The big man ignored him. The silence went on too long and the woman jerked her head back to Bobby. She wore a tight smile. “Well,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s time.” She took quick glances at him, then away. Her high heels jittered on the tile floor. The man found what he was looking for and handed her a ring of car keys.
“I got some at home just about her size,” Bobby said and climbed to his feet. His chair fell over backwards with a clatter and the restaurant went quiet as everyone turned to look at the huge man. Hawkins felt a slimy coil of fear circling in his belly. “You want,” Bobby asked, “I should hold her? I bet I can get her quiet for you. Ain’t no reason for y’all to hurry your meal. I been missin’ my little girl.”
“No, thank you,” the woman squeaked and headed for the door. The baby’s cries went with her. Bobby took two steps to follow, his face crestfallen. The father started to rise, to interpose himself. He looked uncertain and afraid.
The waiter hurried over to the man at the table. “Is everything okay?”
Bobby watched the woman walk out of the restaurant, sighed and popped his lips. He resumed eating but slower. He looked like he was thinking of other things, other places. The father and the waiter exchanged a few quiet words and watched Bobby as he sucked down another meatball, chased it with a beer. Bobby seemed oblivious. The man in the hornrims paid his bill and walked out.
Hawkins grabbed the waiter. He was flustered and kept glancing at Bobby. Hawkins ordered another gin and tonic and a shot of tequila. His nerves were shot. “Anybody else want anything?”
“Beer,” Bobby replied.
Renfro looked up from his game. “You planning on driving back on post?”
Hawkins rolled his eyes, pulled his keys from his pocket and handed them over. Bobby watched the exchange with private eyes. The rest of the meal was spent in silence. Hawkins filled the quiet with more drinks.
Hawkins tried to hide his surprise when the bill came. He handed the waiter his card and offered a silent prayer to the god of MasterCard. The young man returned shortly and laid the card back on the table. “I’m sorry, sir. This card has been, um, declined.” Hawkins could feel Bobby’s and Renfro’s eyes on him. His face felt like it was on fire. The volume in the restaurant seemed to drop. “Oh, oh, okay.” He fished his wallet out and flipped through the leather panels. He found another card, a black one, which he thought might work.
Please, please God, he prayed, let it work.
He held the card out without looking up. A silver-haired man approached the table. He wore a faded blue suit with a US flag pin on the lapel. His face became a map of wrinkles when he smiled at the men around the table. The waiter stepped back without taking Hawkins’s card. Hawkins chugged the last of the gin and tonic and dropped the tequila shot glass inside the gin glass. He didn’t make eye contact.
“Waiter.” The man held out a credit card. “I’d like to pay these young men’s bill if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, sir.” The waiter took the card and left.
“Guys,” The old man waved at his table across the restaurant. “My wife and I seen that you fellows was soldiers. You are soldiers, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Bobby replied. “U.S. Army.” Renfro looked up and nodded. Hawkins grimaced and nodded as well.
“Well.” The old man shook Bobby’s hand, then Hawkins’s, Renfro’s last. “We just wanted to say that we’re proud of y’all. Y’all are real heroes. Thank you for serving.”
Bobby’s face creased into a smile and he stood up. He slapped the old man on the back. “Thank you, sir. You don’t know how much that means to us.”
“I was in Korea, you know,” the old man continued. “It was mighty cold there. Not like the desert you fellows go to, but still war. It’s always war, cold or hot.”
“Well, then,” Bobby replied. “Thank you for your service.” He waved at the man’s wife across the room. “Thank you, ma’am!” He shouted. She waved back, her teeth white against her red lipstick.
“Y’all have a good night,” the old man said.
“We will, sir,” Bobby said. “We will. Thank you again.”
Hawkins slid the black card back into his wallet. He didn’t watch the old man walk away.

On the street, the humidity and the exhaust fumes made Hawkins’s head swim. He walked as straight as he could to the parking lot. The buildings to the right and the left of the main street seemed to tilt in on him and the light of the passing cars smeared across his vision. Renfro broke the silence. “That was really nice of that man to pay for our meal.”
“Yeah,” Hawkins replied. “Yeah. We’re some fucking heroes, alright.”
“Calm down, Hawkins.” Bobby said.
“I am calm. I’m just sayin’; Renfro’s the worst soldier I ever met. I can’t pass a damn PT test and you attack women and scare families. That dude had no idea who he was buying a meal for. He shoulda kept his money.”
Bobby stopped abruptly and Hawkins bounced off him, staggered and braced himself against the building. “I don’t attack women.”
Renfro stood between the two men, chewing his lip and looking at the pavement.
“Borrman said—“
“I don’t give a shit what Borrman said. I don’t attack women. You got that?”
Hawkins looked up at the big man muzzily. Bobby seemed to be approaching and then receding. “Fine, you don’t attack women, but you sure as hell scared that family. What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you notice you were freaking them out?”
Bobby took Hawkins by the arm and gently pulled him away from the wall, got him turned in the right direction and tugged him toward the parking lot. Hawkins staggered but allowed himself to be pulled along.
When they got to the van, Bobby pushed Hawkins into the back seat and got him buckled in. “You going to puke?” he asked. Hawkins shook his head, no.
Renfro started the van and they pulled out of the parking lot. Hawkins lay sideways in the back seat and watched the street lights carve their way across the van’s windows.
“I know I scared them,” Bobby said. “I knew I was scarin’ them, then. I know what I look like. Thing is…” The tires whispered on the pavement and rain began to fall. Renfro turned on the windshield wipers. Bobby put a finger to the scar on his brow. “I can’t help what I look like.” He looked out the window. “Thing is, that little girl wasn’t scared of me. She knew I didn’t mean no harm. The way I figure, her parents deserved a scare. They’re alright with sending me to do their dirty work. They’re okay with me leaving my kids behind and gettin’ shot in the damn head. As long as they don’t have to deal with me, they’re alright. That lady looked at me like I was a monster. It pissed me off. I wanted to make her say it, if she was gonna think it.” He sighed. “I guess I just missed my little girl, too. I shouldn’t have pushed it, I know. I just got all tangled up inside between liking that little kid and bein’ pissed at her parents.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to explain.”
They rode in silence. Hawkins found his eyes drifting closed. It felt like the van was tumbling end-over-end when he allowed them to shut. He became nauseated and forced them open again.
“And that old man,” Bobby said. “It don’t matter whether you’re a real hero or not, Hawkins. Hell, doesn’t matter if any of us are. That old man bought us dinner because he wanted to remember doing a brave thing, because he knows how shitty it is to be a soldier sometimes and because he’s proud that he did something big himself, once. That and ‘cause he needed to believe that there are still some heroes in the world. There are lots of people who want to believe the best of us, even when we ain’t the best there is. So, take my advice, next time you get an offer like that, you smile at them and you take it graciously. They ain’t doin’ it for you.”
Hawkins eyes drifted closed again. The rain picked up and lightning flashed.
“You think you’re better than us,” Bobby said.
Hawkins opened his eyes again, looked at the big man in the front seat. Bobby looked out of the front window and continued. “You might be better. I don’t know; you might not. But, with an attitude like that, you’ll never be a good officer. You’ll never be shit. So, give us a break; give yourself one, too. We’re all just doing the best we can.”
Hawkins turned away from the men in the front of the van, turned his face into the back of the seat, draped an arm over his eyes and pretended to sleep. Bobby’s words ate away at his conscience. The vehicle moved on through the dark and the storm. Silent, his owlish eyes watching everything coming at him, Renfro got them home safe.

****

Christopher Farris is a veteran of both the United States Air Force and the United States Army National Guard, a former IT executive, and a family man. After many years and a few life-changing experiences, he has returned to his first love—literature. He and his wife live in a small house built in 1921 (1,000 square feet) nestled in an equally small town buried deep in a valley of the Boston Mountains of Northwest Arkansas. Together, they try to coax life out of their reluctant roses and manage their three crazy dogs. He has short stories published by Fairlight Books, Proud to be: Writing by America’s Warriors, Military Experience and the Arts and Coffin Bell Journal. He also has an upcoming novel, The Fountain, with the Wild Rose Press.