High Speed

Sure I heard of him. Ramirez. Put on master sergeant in eight years, fastest I heard of. Made flight chief at his first duty station, he did. And remember that desert exercise last year? No, not Red Flag, that hush-hush joint op with the Brits, remember? Got a letter of commendation from SECDEF himself after he spotted those Marines leaking hydraulic fluid.

I mean does he sleep? And what does he eat? With four kids and two divorces on top of it? Can you imagine?

Haircut every other Thursday for thirty-four years, someone said. Only two times he missed one was 9/11 and then when Katrina hit. Someone counted: five hundred-some skin fades, #4 on top, #2 on the sides.

You seen him at the field house? Runs laps around the new guys, and three times their age, damn near. I'm serious, I do wonder what he eats. I bet Burke knows, ask him for me at PT? I'm not kidding, dipshit, ask him!

Said he kept his uniforms tailored and pressed, which, believe it or not, is actually out of regs. Supposed to be wash-and-wear. Can't tell a guy like him to slow down, though. High speed, low drag, period dot. Knew all his troops' wives' kids' birthdays. Still sends them cards, someone said. Ha ha, very funny, the kids, not the wives, asshole. What's he doing now? If I had to guess?

Well today's a Wednesday, so he'll be out in his yard with the hand shears edging those Japanese maples of his. Nope, won't use a weed eater, not on them. Brought them little trees back himself on his last deployment.

Anyway, Thursdays he has his board meeting at the museum, except tomorrow it's Jones' ring ceremony at the Mason lodge, which someone said he's officiating or whatever.

Friday mornings he'll be stocking shelves at Together on Leavenworth. Come Saturdays he's out fishing on Manawa with the Eagle Scouts, or else with the Kiwanis ladies cleaning up some park.

Then Sundays come. The new wife will be out with the girls. The maples will be edged, the board directed, the hungry fed, the fish all caught, the trash picked up.

Ramirez'll be out back with a neat whiskey on his freshly treated deck. The bird feeders will be full, the tiki torches lit, the water features burbling. Against a red sky he will manage maybe two minutes of stillness before finding something out of place. Two hours later and he’ll still be down on hands and knees, whipping mulch and hostas into ever neater rank and file.

Two more and his merino quarter-zip will be sweated through, the sky now bruised a deep green purple.

A car door will shut and shake the air. Her heels will pock-pock-pock up the drive and through the house.

Into the full dark she will say hon-ey? Hon? Come in for a drink? Please? Five minutes, dear, Ramirez will say. Just five more minutes.