Nobody

Taxes and TV

The courthouse wasn't that big of a building. It wasn't steel and glass like so many of the buildings in downtown Austin I was used to dealing with, but for some reason all I could do was stare at it. Cars were going by, birds were chirping, I heard someone laugh off in the distance, but all I could do was stare at the brick courthouse.

It was intimidating.

I mean, it was just a brick and mortar building, not even that big. Hell, probably not even that old. There were buildings on the ranch that had been there since before the Mexican/American War.

But staring at the court house, I was intimidated. It made the manila folder in my hand containing my corrected DD-214 (discharge papers) feel like it was heavy enough to pull my shoulder out of the socket.

"What's wrong, Sam?" Miss Lily-Rylee asked me.

"Um, nothing," I told her. I shuddered and stepped toward the courthouse.

"What kind of boots are those, Sam?" Lily-Rylee asked me, looping her arm in mine.

"Um, desert combat boots," I told her, walking up the steps.

"How come you were those instead of normal boots? They look pretty new," She said.

I just shrugged. "I'm used to them," I lied.

Pru didn't like me wearing combat boots

yeah? well she's dead and left me all alone

"Oh," was all she said.

We went in and went to the county record's office. We waited in line behind a couple of people who were turning in permit paperwork and the like. When we got to the front the heavyset woman looked me up and down, squinting slightly.

"How can I help you?" She asked, her voice a mixture of boredom and resignation.

"I need to file my DD-214 with the county," I told her. Old barracks rumor stated that it was because we were considered lethal weapons and could kill with our bare hands, but later I'd learned it was just to make sure that we could get our proper benefits.

She nodded as I pulled the form out. She stared at it for a long moment, her eyes widening slightly behind her old Buddy Holly style glasses. She looked up at me, then at the form, then back at me.

"Just a moment," she said, moving back into the cubicles.

"What's all that?" Miss Lily-Rylee asked, pointing at the awards sections.

I shrugged. "Just awards and badges I earned in the Army," I tapped my finger under one. "This is certifies I went to the Italian Airborne School and am allowed to wear the badge for it," I moved my finger, "This one certifies I went to British Paratrooper School and can wear the badge for it."

She nodded. "That's a lot of stuff."

I shrugged. "It was a different time and I was kind of a badge whore."

She slapped my arm, shushing me. "Don't use that language in here."

"At the time, part of your worth was the training you received," I tapped under another part. "I trained on Germany Army weapons, Norwegian weapon systems, I did all kinds of schools during the winter mostly."

She smiled. "Were you like a Green Beret or Special Forces or something?"

I didn't bother to correct her that she'd basically asked twice if I was the same kind of snake eater. I shook my head. "No. I worked with ammunition."

She touched where my primary and secondary military occupational specialties were listed. "This one says ammunition specialist, fifty-five bee," her finger moved up to my primary. "This one says... NBC field warfare specialist, fifty-five zee." She looked at me. "What's NBC?"