T. Parker - Full Measure

Lung swell, ear roar, lift of skull. Eee-haww. He put Cruzela on the player and did an in-place dance. Then he stopped and crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes and rotated counterclockwise faster and faster, unscrewing from this shackling world and shooting toward a higher, better one, a human bullet.

Suddenly a great idea came to him. It came as so many others had come, barreling right into his brain from who knew where. He sat down at the picnic bench and created a new document on the computer and wrote a letter to Lucinda. He talked about his strong emotions for her and how sorry he was for what she had done and that she’d have to go to prison, probably for a long time. He said he couldn’t imagine anything more horrible than that, having to live in such close proximity to people you don’t know or like. He also confessed to sins of his own, things he’d never been caught at, things he rarely allowed himself to think about, let alone tell anyone before. He printed and signed it and put it in a letter envelope and wrote “Lucinda Smith, c/o” on it, but he wasn’t sure which jail or prison to send it to so left off the address and slipped it under his mattress. His body was buzzing in an unusual way, something to do with writing something honest to a woman he loved.

Then another great idea came to him. He went to the computer and did a San Diego escorts search. He’d done this before but never with a sense of purpose. Never like now.

Amazing.

Her name was Jasmine, though Ted suspected this was just her stage name. She met him in Caffe Primo that evening and Ted accompanied her back outside where she counted the money and make a quick call to her boss. She was tall and green-eyed and had silky straight blond bangs and hair to her shoulders. She had a good tan and her knit dress was not short but snug and almost the same color as her skin. Into the fabric small coffee-colored beads were woven, which made it look like she was wearing nothing but beads. She had a shawl over her shoulders and carried a small beaded purse. She had beautiful arms. Her necklace and earrings were freshwater pearls. Ted did not gape.

She turned away from him to make the call. Ted studied her partially revealed back, athletic-looking, lightly brushed by tiny jewels of perspiration, or perhaps a body spray. He disbelieved his good fortune. Earlier on the phone with Edie of Edie’s Escorts, Ted had been flustered and unwilling to specify his choice of race, body type, age, or “look,” but Edie said she had a very special escort that Ted would certainly appreciate. And here she was. He was wearing his suit, a navy wool summer-weight fabric of average quality, a white shirt and clip-on tie. Of course his orthotic dress shoes.

Edie had told him the charge was $175 per hour with a two-hour minimum, plus an “expected” 20 percent tip and a $75 travel charge to North County. She told Ted that Jasmine was used to being treated and tipped very well. Also, said Edie, Jasmine was a companion, not a prostitute. Should Ted mention prostitution or sex for money during this phone call Edie would hang up and his calls would not be returned. Was Ted with any law enforcement agency? Had he ever been? Had he ever been convicted of a felony? Edie took Ted’s credit card number against any problem with the cash. If Ted wanted more than two hours of Jasmine’s company, then the rate was $150 per hour. If he wanted anything particular during their time together, he should take it up with her.

They walked up Main, her hand lightly on Ted’s arm. The daylight was fading and Ted felt the warm density of the hurricane far to the south. They passed the Irish pub and the Anders Wealth Management building and a women’s boutique.

“I’ve never been to Fallbrook,” she said.

“I was born five hundred yards from this exact spot.”

“Should I have dressed more conservatively?”

“No. This is a liberal town for being so conservative.”

“I was a Navy brat. I’ve lived all over the world.”

“Then you’ll like the restaurant I’ve chosen. It’s called the Café des Artistes because it’s French. It’s one of the most important restaurants in Fallbrook. If you go there you’re somebody.”

“How wonderful. What do you do for a living, Ted?”

He looked at her, then away distantly. “I’m just back from Afghanistan.”

“Navy?”

“Dark Horse Battalion. Third Battalion, Fifth Regiment, First Marines out of Pendleton.”

“You’d get along with my dad, for sure.”

“I bet I would.”

“I never did. But that doesn’t mean you and I won’t.”

They strolled down Main to Alvarado, rounded the corner and came to the entrance of the cafe. Ted held open the door. He had reserved a mid-room table and as the hostess led them to it, he noted that every single person on the dining room looked at Jasmine, and then at him. He saw familiar faces. Fire Chief William Bruck had a four-top. Mary Gulliver and her sister were there. He ignored them. When they were seated Ted stole a look at Jasmine over the top of the wine menu. His heart was beating strong but the first shadows of doubt were falling on his mind. He excused himself and went into the men’s room, had a blast in the stall, straightened his clip-on in the mirror, and headed back into the restaurant.

The owner came over and welcomed them. He wore jeans and an open-necked sport shirt and a smile that looked genuine. He had no trouble looking at Jasmine, which was okay with Ted. Ted asked Jasmine what type of wine she liked, and ordered one of the good bottles of Bordeaux. He was now up to $495, not counting his tip for Jasmine, dinner, dessert, after-dinner drinks, coffee and tip for the waitress. And probably more wine. Only an hour and forty minutes left on his clock! But no regrets. When the wine came he drank the first glass quickly, and it went so well with the nerve-jangling meth that he drank another, then they ordered.

It was easy for Ted to picture himself in early twentieth-century Paris, with the big colorful oil paintings on the walls and the curvy wood furniture and the cabaret piano music playing through the PA. The walls were boldly painted and each table had cut flowers and a candle. They touched glasses and Ted looked into Jasmine’s beautiful green eyes in which the candle flame flickered.

Then, in a low and gentle voice, he was able to open up about his time in Sangin with the Dark Horses of the Three-Five. He admitted his tour was the defining event in his life. He described combat as occasional heart-stopping seconds of terror separated by eternities of boredom. Highest casualties of any Marine unit in the war, he said. Longest war in U.S. history. He spoke of seeing friends die, and taking enemy lives. He talked of loyalty to the unit, the sacredness of the mission, the way he felt not just significant but indispensable for the first time in his life. And of his dog, Rossie, who saved him from death not once but twice, and who had finally perished in a blast that also took Private First Class Hutchins with it. He told Jasmine about a village boy named Hamid who was brave enough to help them, and the asylum in the United States that the Marine Command was able to arrange for him and his family. He told her about red and pink poppies dancing on the breeze and about spiders the size of those salad plates. He tried to describe the jagged, orange-drenched beauty of Sangin at sunset, the heat, and the odd arrangement of stars that looked close enough to pinch between his thumb and finger. Then he was silent for a long moment, again watching the candlelight play off Jasmine’s eyes.

“I can’t say any of it right,” he said. “I don’t have the words.”

She smiled and tapped his hand. “Excuse me. I’ve got to take this call but I want to hear more.”