Two buddies and I pooled resources, put our special training to work, and set up a wilderness school in the swamps. We’re gonna take a break from drinking, too.
That same year, my wife and I set sail on an Alaskan cruiseship for our honeymoon. Like the Swallows of Capistrano, spring-breakers and General MacArthur, we return.
First Anniversary
We relax on a deck under Spanish moss covered Cypress overlooking a swamp. A five-foot alligator slithers into murky brine. My wife slaps at giant mosquitos while inhaling a rotten egg stench that passes through moss-green water.
“Jack, you wanna raise children here?”
“It’s not always like this.” I stand, stagger and fling a whiskey bottle at the gator. After one year of sobriety, my buddies and I start drinking again. Two boys from the army laugh when I miss the gator by twenty-feet.
My wife, former high school sweetheart, frowns. “The swamp, booze, and your buddies. Is that all there is?”
“No.”
We first started drinking the day after two members of our squad died overseas. Ever since, I blame myself when things go wrong.
She peers up into my eyes. “Jack, you’re no longer all state wrestling. I’m your soul-mate.” Encircling her belly counterclockwise, “and we’re your family. ”
My wife’s dreams take precedence. Buds stay in the swamp to run the school. I push the stop button again.
Fifth Anniversary
Rich people hire me to escort them on wilderness trips. I stand, dripping in a Hilton Fairbanks towel, phone in hand, “Hello dear. Miss ya, babe. Have ya made plans?”
“Leaving soon to start our second honeymoon. Our son has a cold and is staying with my Mother. He won’t be coming.”
“There’s a new flight at midnight. Miss ya so much. Can you change your ticket?”
“Don’t like flying at night. I’ll think about it, dear.”
“Up to you. Five years since I stopped drinking tomorrow. Love y’all. Tell little Jack we’ll go fishing when we get home.”
Water continues to drip as I step onto the balcony and run my fingers through thinning blond hair. Clients on their way home. The Love of My Life will be here soon. Life is good.
A Different Journey: Seasons of Darkness
Another call. A plane crash. Where’s my wife? My God, I told her to take an earlier flight. I lead a rescue mission and return home with one coffin. My son blames me. Buddies in the swamp become victims of a new strain of malaria and die.
I’m lost somewhere north of Fairbanks, where few stars shine through dark clouds and the wind whistles through treetops. In the blackness, I sit injured on a petrified tree stump, seeking to conquer a fear that’s building.
My previous attempts at suicide failed, survival instincts got in the way. I document the journey, store notebooks in plastic bags, and leave them attached to tree stumps.
Limping through the darkness, I shift the weight of a backpack and soldier on through snow and bitter freezing air.
I jump off a mountain in the dark. No, it’s a twenty-foot cliff. Pain, like the time I was stabbed with a fighting-knife. Floating ribs on the port-side cry out and my upper-body tilts thirty-degrees to starboard. I stand, fish out a shiny object from my army coat that’s served as a companion since the tragedy. Shaking the flask and listening to the swish of Irish whiskey, I twist the cap, swallow and raise both hands to the sky. Ahoy, cruel world!
Will death come this time? Tugging off ebony Gore-Tex gloves and coat, reveals a fancy floral aloha shirt. I sit on another stump and write while waiting to die. Waiting lets my imagination create a private hell.
Survival skills provide the wisdom to overcome years of hopelessness, loneliness, and despair. Can overcoming self-blame be cathartic for me, and instructive for others?
With bare hands, I wipe snow from a frosty beard . . . blasts of air seep into stiff bones. Pushing off a stump with the help of a hiking-stick, I pull a black watch-cap over my ears, kick my jacket aside and keep on trucking.
I stumble through the trees, numb to the cold. I hear the howls of wolves. In the blackness of winter, I fall a third time onto bare forearms. With renewed strength and energy, I rise like the great Polar Bear. Two wooded paths diverge. One leads to the high ground. I’m drawn to the low ground.
Through wind-blown leafless branches, I see flickering lights and wander out of the dark. Spending ages in darkness, purgatory, and a drunken stupor, anticipating the end. The howls fade away. . .
Fort Lauderdale — One Year Later
I’m at the library signing books. I shake in front of an audience of true life adventure readers. Touching my vest, I feel the weight of an Alcoholic Anonymous token pushing my shirt against my sweaty chest. I needed help, but was too stubborn.
“Jack, I’m with ‘The Sun.’ You coulda shared your memoir with us earlier? Why not!”
I swipe my sweaty bald head and loosen my Miami Dolphins football team necktie. “That’s a good question. ‘The Rest of the Story’ was so damn draining I had to ‘take a break.’
“That’s all I have, for now.” Clutching, almost crushing the fake mahogany podium, I say “Thank y’all for coming.”My son is in the rear. He went to the Alaskan wilderness to retrieve my notes.
I’ll read a brief excerpt from my book before leaving. I choke up . . . turn the page — “Fresh out of the army, Carla and I set sail on an Alaskan cruise ship for our honeymoon. Like spring-breakers, the swallows, and General MacArthur, we return. . .” I close the cover. Little Jack and I are going fishing.
Don Robishaw’s collection of five FF tales found in, ‘Bad Road Ahead’ was the Grand Winner in Defenestrationism, 2020 Flash Fiction Suite Contest.
Don’s short story entitled,’Bad Paper Odyssey’ was a semi-finalist in Digging Through the Fat 2018 Chapbook Contest.
