After he threw up, Poole spent the next eight hours sending a barrage of text messages and phone calls to Hatchet's phone, all unanswered. The electronic gatekeeper to Hatchet's voicemail informed him the box was full and disconnected him with a callous and disheartening farewell. He called the sat phone Hatchet had used to contact him from the desert with no response. In vain, he sent several emails to Hatchet's accounts. He messaged him on Facebook and Twitter though he knew his friend had been inactive on those sites for several months. Nothing. Poole couldn't sleep and he hadn't eaten since he vomited but he wasn't hungry.
Around 10am, he resolved to get coffee and leave his house now submerged in the foamy depths of his failure. The shop was almost empty. He sat on the patio in the crisp breeze, regretting the coffee on his empty stomach. The white days of winter had always depressed him but today he could feel the cold pressure of betrayal in the air and the irony of the chill in the brightness of the sun. The sullen radiation tore at his bones. He imagined Ricky telling Hatchet at gunpoint that Dexter Poole had set him loose to kill him and considering the debacle in Fort Worth, Hatchet would believe him. RICKY BUCKNEY IS COMING TO KILL YOU! GET BACK TO ME! the words he had sent in every text message, every email and they kept repeating in his head intermingled with Ricky’s voice saying, You can't stop me. He wondered if Hatchet had actually received the messages and was either on the move or preparing for impact. Please just respond, he said aloud, not realizing it.
Excuse me? asked a weak voice from behind him. He turned and found the young girl named Malorie wrapped in a bright green scarf and pinkish wool coat staring at him with her sea colored eyes, a Kindle cupped in her mittens. Poole immediately understood Hatchet's attraction to her, an attraction that had evaded Poole. She seemed an angel on loan to the griseous street and the battered bleakness of the atmosphere in this part of the city. The fluffy beret tilted ever so considerately to side of her head and the natural dampness of her lips touched Poole with a warmth he hadn't felt in what he was sure must have been weeks.
Hello? she giggled at him.
I'm sorry? Poole's sleep deprived voice growled at her. You said something. Oh, I'm sorry; I was thinking out loud; I didn't mean to disturb you. You didn't. Okay, he said and smiled and turned again to squint through the reflections off the windows of the cars parked along the street. You look tired. Poole turned to her again, this time shifting his entire body in the chair. I am, he told her, I've been up for a while; no sleep. Workaholic? I am, yes, or at least I can be, have been. I know how you feel. Poole scrutinized her appearance and expression once more and concluded that she did not know and would never know how he felt.
How's Mr. Hatchet? From her reaction to his following expression, he could only imagine how concussed he must have appeared. You are friends with him, right? Yeah, we're very good friends. I haven't seen him in a long time; last I heard he was headed to Alaska; did he ever make it back? Alaska, Poole said in complete dislocation. Did he stay there or something? I'm not sure. Not sure? Poole gathered himself and took a sip of coffee. He's been moving around a lot, doing a lot of traveling. Must be nice.
Poole needed to change the subject. What are you reading, he asked her. Oh, funny you should ask; it's a travel guide. She laughed at the coincidence and fanned the machine in her hand. Washington, DC; I'm going to school up there this summer. School? American University; I figure go to where the politics are. Ah, looking to change the world? Isn't everybody? Forgive me for being nosey, but how is your boyfriend? Boyfriend? The marine? Oh, she seemed to want to brush something off her shoulder, he's not my boyfriend, not anymore; jealousy is something I’ve decided I don’t want in my life. Oh, one of those. Yeah, and the war has made it worse; I’m not strong enough to put up with that environment right now. He still in Afghanistan? Yeah, polishing his sniper rifle. Very gung-ho of him. Everyone wants to change the world, right? Her naiveté embarrassed him. Some of us are too busy trying to figure out how it works to change anything. I guess that makes sense. Poole cursed himself for the pause he let creep into their conversation after she told him, He asked me to go with him, you know? He asked you to go with him? Mr. Hatchet asked me to go to Alaska with him, the night before he left, actually. Poole wanted to laugh. What? Nothing.
Around 10am, he resolved to get coffee and leave his house now submerged in the foamy depths of his failure. The shop was almost empty. He sat on the patio in the crisp breeze, regretting the coffee on his empty stomach. The white days of winter had always depressed him but today he could feel the cold pressure of betrayal in the air and the irony of the chill in the brightness of the sun. The sullen radiation tore at his bones. He imagined Ricky telling Hatchet at gunpoint that Dexter Poole had set him loose to kill him and considering the debacle in Fort Worth, Hatchet would believe him. RICKY BUCKNEY IS COMING TO KILL YOU! GET BACK TO ME! the words he had sent in every text message, every email and they kept repeating in his head intermingled with Ricky’s voice saying, You can't stop me. He wondered if Hatchet had actually received the messages and was either on the move or preparing for impact. Please just respond, he said aloud, not realizing it.
Excuse me? asked a weak voice from behind him. He turned and found the young girl named Malorie wrapped in a bright green scarf and pinkish wool coat staring at him with her sea colored eyes, a Kindle cupped in her mittens. Poole immediately understood Hatchet's attraction to her, an attraction that had evaded Poole. She seemed an angel on loan to the griseous street and the battered bleakness of the atmosphere in this part of the city. The fluffy beret tilted ever so considerately to side of her head and the natural dampness of her lips touched Poole with a warmth he hadn't felt in what he was sure must have been weeks.
Hello? she giggled at him.
I'm sorry? Poole's sleep deprived voice growled at her. You said something. Oh, I'm sorry; I was thinking out loud; I didn't mean to disturb you. You didn't. Okay, he said and smiled and turned again to squint through the reflections off the windows of the cars parked along the street. You look tired. Poole turned to her again, this time shifting his entire body in the chair. I am, he told her, I've been up for a while; no sleep. Workaholic? I am, yes, or at least I can be, have been. I know how you feel. Poole scrutinized her appearance and expression once more and concluded that she did not know and would never know how he felt.
How's Mr. Hatchet? From her reaction to his following expression, he could only imagine how concussed he must have appeared. You are friends with him, right? Yeah, we're very good friends. I haven't seen him in a long time; last I heard he was headed to Alaska; did he ever make it back? Alaska, Poole said in complete dislocation. Did he stay there or something? I'm not sure. Not sure? Poole gathered himself and took a sip of coffee. He's been moving around a lot, doing a lot of traveling. Must be nice.
Poole needed to change the subject. What are you reading, he asked her. Oh, funny you should ask; it's a travel guide. She laughed at the coincidence and fanned the machine in her hand. Washington, DC; I'm going to school up there this summer. School? American University; I figure go to where the politics are. Ah, looking to change the world? Isn't everybody? Forgive me for being nosey, but how is your boyfriend? Boyfriend? The marine? Oh, she seemed to want to brush something off her shoulder, he's not my boyfriend, not anymore; jealousy is something I’ve decided I don’t want in my life. Oh, one of those. Yeah, and the war has made it worse; I’m not strong enough to put up with that environment right now. He still in Afghanistan? Yeah, polishing his sniper rifle. Very gung-ho of him. Everyone wants to change the world, right? Her naiveté embarrassed him. Some of us are too busy trying to figure out how it works to change anything. I guess that makes sense. Poole cursed himself for the pause he let creep into their conversation after she told him, He asked me to go with him, you know? He asked you to go with him? Mr. Hatchet asked me to go to Alaska with him, the night before he left, actually. Poole wanted to laugh. What? Nothing.
Edit 12.7.2018