Boot Camp Blues III

Little man, a slave to routine, had done the routine thing and double-bolted and chained the door.  He had done the routine thing and close the drapes before he opened his beer blinding his condo from the outside.  This gave them enough time to bolt through the bedroom and duck into the panic room he had installed inside and behind his closet.  It wasn't a panic room like in the movies, but it was secure, secret, and allowed them a chance to catch their breaths. It was also relatively soundproof and fairly dark.

Standing there in the semi-dark, straining to hear what was happening in the outer room, Big Man took a close look at his twin.  He could see a quizzical look on the little guy's face, and though no question was asked he mouthed to him, "you never know, right?  Fox or rabbit?"  He didn't bother adding that a guy had to have some secrets he kept to himself.

With that unsaid, he reached over little man's shoulder and silently released the latch leading to a narrow stairway and the closet of the small studio apartment below.  As they sat in the dark of the empty room, listening intently for any noise from above, he quietly smacked himself as he realized he had left the note from the C.C.  Somehow he knew that might have been an unforgivably grave error.  He searched his pockets anyway.  When he looked up, little man was holding the note and shaking his head back and forth.  He was putting a lighter to the letter and they both looked in wonder as it lit brightly, quickly, and silently settled to ashes.  It seemed a fitting ritual to a man who may have just saved their lives.

That night they slept uncharacteristically soundly for two men expecting death, or who knew what else, and at any moment.  He wanted to believe he slept soundly because he was well trained to deal with stress, but he knew it was because he had just slept with someone who made him feel safe, more comfortable and sloppily relaxed.  He also knew he had to keep that to himself.  He couldn't risk rejection and couldn't begin to tolerate it.

The next day when he awoke, he knew he could no longer refer to him as Little Man.  He had a name that was both short on letters and short on syllables.  It could have been comical if he had felt Bob, his best friend, was deserving of a good ribbing.

Last night, or early this morning, they had decided not to venture out into the darkness.  It just didn't seem like a particularly smooth move.  In the light of day, their options didn't appear much brighter, but at least it was daylight.  They couldn't stay in the studio forever, even though it was fully stocked with food and clothing.  But a few days, well, a few days wouldn't matter.  It was a four-day weekend and they'd be less noticeably absent,    so they stayed put, talking, playing cards, laughing, and avoiding tears. 

They figured that the first day missed at work would surely signal their concern for their futures, and likely signal that they knew something.  They needed to decide what to do when their four days were up.  They couldn't begin to figure out what they supposedly knew.

The first decision they made was not to make any other decisions on the first day, or the second.  By day three, Greg, now that they were calling one another by their names, was going stir-crazy.  He wasn't suicidal enough to want to go outside, but the ever-increasing proximity of Bob was making him loopy.  He was afraid he would say something, or worse yet, do something that would change their relationship forever, and he was more afraid of that than homicidal goons looking for him for unclear and undocumented reasons. 

When he brought up the unclear nature of their danger, Bob agreed that the letter didn't prove anything.  Maybe the C.C. was just paranoid, he said.  Even as he said it, neither of them believed it.  The C.C. was the only person either of them knew with his feet firmly planted on mother earth.  Now, of course, his feet were beneath mother earth, but his letter only forced them to acknowledge the stench they both smelled since the first day they started working for the fat boy.  The stench had only been mollified by the enormous salary he paid them, their deluxe offices, expensive company cars, two wives, two divorces, and his now apparently duplicitous butt-licking performances.  They both felt like a couple of schmucks.  If either of them had been alone while working for fat-boy, neither of them would have tolerated his obsequious behavior for as long as they did.  But together, they were hopeless.  Bob had said it, and Greg knew he had to agree.  Their friendship was likely inseparable from their singular demise.

Almost simultaneously, as the room appeared warm and shrinking, they both decided to venture upstairs to see what they could see.  It was a dangerous act, but so was staying cooped up where they were.  Going outside still seemed a bit too risky, so back into the closet they headed.

Bob told Greg to keep quiet as they entered the closet.  Greg was grateful, not that he wanted to say anything, but merely by Bob mentioning it, Greg knew he didn't have to tell Bob to shut-up.  Of the pair, Bob was the "Chatty-Cathy on crack" as far as he was concerned.

They stood in the closet for a full ten minutes before Greg sat down.  He couldn't catch his breath.  He figured by sitting, his knees wouldn't knock and betray his abject terror.  Unfortunately, when he sat down, his face was level with Bob's crotch, and he could smell him, and he reluctantly liked what he smelled.  He panicked, jumped up and plastered his back against the wall.  He couldn't see him, but he could feel Bob staring intently at him, not saying a word. 

Luckily, he hadn't made a sound, and since he couldn't speak, he didn't have to come up with an explanation right now.  He was a good liar, but only with practice and preparation.  Off the cuff, he was awful.  He thought the word "sucked" was a better moniker, but immediately put the word out of his mind.  God, he felt he was cracking up.  Maybe this was what battle-vets went through.  He only prayed that the stress of battle would explain it.

An hour into their closet adventure, Bob reached over his shoulder and lifted the latch, opening the door into Greg's closet.  As he slowly opened it, he realized the outer closet door was wide open.  Obviously, whoever had entered the apartment had searched into the closet.  Greg hadn't noticed it before, but Bob had a gun in his hand, with a silencer.  Who was this guy?  As they slowly inched out of the closet, listening intently for any hint of others, Greg realized he hadn't touched a gun since boot camp, and he didn't like the cold steel then.  He assumed Bob didn't like them either and he'd never seen him with one since.  He would never have imagined he owned one.  The thought now gave him a rush.  He really felt pathetic.

Looking about the room at the utter destruction, it was clear the intruders had been looking for something.  Everything was open, ransacked, or shredded.  Interestingly, the intruders had done their worst so quietly; they hadn't heard a sound from downstairs.  Greg knew he could hear his neighbor's dogs barking, and if it was late at night, he could hear his neighbors having sex.  Not being a nosey parker, he always turned on the stereo to drown them out, admittedly more for himself than for them.

When they got out into the living room, it was equally ransacked, but again, nothing was broken.  All the kitchen drawers were open, but the utensils were all in their places; some things weren't even moved, maybe because of the noise.

Taking in the destruction, Greg had a need to sit down again.  The couch and chairs were shredded, but the barstools were okay.  He wasn't willing to risk sitting on the floor, even if Bob was across the room.  He needed to be sharp, not woozy.    Bob made him woozy.  He could admit at least that to himself.

Bob kept searching and then suddenly put his gun away.  He was the one to notice the desktop computer missing, as well as all the CD's from the stereo rack.  Luckily, Greg's true treasures, his LPs, were still in place, a bit disheveled, but still present. 

Greg did all of his real work on his laptop, and he always managed to secret it away in his closet, so they hadn't gotten it.  Some training did come in handy, even if he couldn't remember what he'd been trained. 

None of Greg's watches was missing and some of them were expensive.  They were one of the few indulgences he allowed himself.  As Bob nodded at him, he agreed it wasn't a robbery.  These goons knew what they wanted.  What neither of them could figure out was whether they got it or not, or hopefully, just thought they had.

Without speaking, both he and Bob headed back for the closet.  Somehow they both knew sticking around for a protracted period of time was not wise, even if the door was again double-bolted, the chain was not on.  They felt like they were intruding upon the intruders.  Not a good feeling.