Dangerous Lifestyles

(Sorry for the long post. A short story.)

Lawrence stoically waits out a frigid gust, staring east down Granville Avenue towards the lake. He shifts his weight and feels the foot-warmer packets in his boots squish between his toes and he's reminded of the way the mud in the delta of the Mekong felt between his toes as he stood watch that night.

His company, the 83rd Airborne Division, "The Hirsute Eagles," had made camp under the jungle canopy and it was up to him, First Sergeant Lawrence, to watch for Charlie as they slept. A crunching sound in the dark; there it is again. VC boot? Or just the sound of some other poor creature getting his in this god-forsaken wilderness? A squawk and the noise of futilely flapping wings answers Lawrence's question. Suddenly, to his right, headlights!

Headlights? Lawrence is close enough to the oncoming Xterra to read the lips of its irate driver ("Motherfucker get out the street!") before he jumps out of the way. Picking himself up, he does his best to ignore the blaring car horns, the disparaging gazes, the tsk-tsks and head-shakes. Like a soldier at attention, he stands on the white painted dash line between two lanes of heedless westward Chicago traffic, and holds his cardboard in front of him."Vietnam Vet PLEASE HELP God bless you" reads his signal flare made out in Sharpie.

He hopes and prays for an airlift. Any second now a helo will emerge from that murky horizon over Lake Michigan: the cascading shades of blue where water meets sky will part like a theater curtain and Lieutenant Gumble will appear, grinning that stupid Gumble grin of his and riding that bird for all she's worth to come rescue his comrade-in-arms. Lawrence can see the eagle painted on the side of it, the symbol of the 83rd Airborne, a diving hirsute eagle: its proud beak pointing towards the earth, manly Robert Redford-like auburn hair flowing in the wind.

Traffic changes and Lawrence pivots. His back to the lake, he surveys the perimeter. West-southwest is the CVS where he buys liquor and shoplifts foot-warmer packets. West-northwest, the picture framing shop Lawrence has never had occasion to enter. Someone is crossing the street over there, but they don't have the light.

Upon closer examination, Lawrence realizes they aren't actually crossing at all. A dark figure, bundled in work wear and a black beanie, stands in the intersection of Broadway and Granville during evening rush hour, in the middle of January. Who else occupies this no-man's land? Who would risk life and limb so recklessly, but another soul with nothing left to lose?

The light turns and with the same mechanical fluidity so does Lawrence. His soldier's training doesn't allow him to peek at the mysterious person though it's all he can think of. As soon as the ranks of headlights shining in his face begin to slow he spins around, and finds himself almost face to face with a beautiful young woman.

She pulls up the collar on her coat and walks faster through the crosswalk, allowing Lawrence to see the short, plump lady in hunter camo behind her, gathering her surveyor's equipment and walking in his direction. Pretty Woman, walk my way, thinks Lawrence, and he forgets to lower his sign as she approaches with a rosy-cheeked smile on her face and matronly crow's feet around her eyes.

"Helluva cold one, ain't it?" she asks flirtatiously.

Lawrence's chapped lips crack in several places as he returns her schoolgirl grin.

"No worse than it's been," says a voice scorched by cheap cigarettes and lonely nights. "Don't you have kind of a dangerous job?" he asks, nodding at her bag full of calibrating devices.

"Someone's got to do it," she laughs, and reaching into her pocket, procures 55 cents in nickels, dimes and pennies. As she hands it to Lawrence, their fingers linger, wool momentarily caressing wool.

"Hey, uh, listen," says Lawrence lamely. Pretty Woman bats her eyelashes innocently.

"It is getting cold out here. How about we get some coffee at the Dunkin' down the street?"

Pretty Woman glances away, looks at her toes.

Thinking quickly, "Or Beam is seven bucks a handle at that CVS."

"Now you're speaking my language, stranger," says Pretty Woman with a twang of Appalachia in her voice.

Now Lawrence watches dawn start to creep across the sky as the two lounge underneath a dewy sleeping bag in the alley behind CVS, basking in the lingering warmth of liquor and each others' passion. He can tell by her breathing that his companion is awake also, only keeping her eyes closed to shut out the harsh rays.

"There's something I'd like to tell you, just so's were on the same page here."

"Mrhrm?"

"I've never been to Vietnam. I never even served in the military."

Pretty Woman didn't open her eyes, just pushed her face into Lawrence's ribs to stifle her giggling.

"Are you making fun of me?"

Still giggling, she only points to the black duffel bag at her feet. Puzzled, Lawrence reaches for it and pulls open the zipper. Then he starts to giggle as well.

A tough job but someone's got to do it. The surveyor's equipment that he thought he had seen, but of course it was dark and he only assumed that was her job. Empty aluminum cans, a greasy brush with most of its tines missing, broken Fisher-Price toys and junk food wrappers spill out of her bag.

Lawrence lays back, content in his lover's arms, and closes his eyes. There they remain as the morning rush crescendos around them, two soldiers making camp in no-man's land.