Bad Boy: The Beginning

Chapter 6 | Mack 2012

Cooper and his crew are up front with me as we put our boots to the ground and head down to the last stop of the day. The little village of Gumbad is only about fifteen minutes up the road. Fifteen minutes can feel like five hours when you've been out in the sand since dawn, but I know my platoon will suck it up and finish strong. Just like they always do.

"You know, Captain Forrester, I keep hearing about what your guys plan to do in three weeks. But I don't know what you're going to do when you get back to the United States." Behind Cooper, his camera man is recording us. There are no offline chats when you've got a news anchor shadowing you. Every thought, every movement, every facial expression is bound to be recorded, edited, and used in their show.

The dust puffs around our boots and billows up to my knees. On dry days like this, I'm always reminded of pigpen from Charlie Brown. That kid must've done some time on the ground over here. 'Cause I'm pretty sure that when you get back from a deployment the dirt just hovers around you for life. Your own cloud of misery and filth, following you from the desert to your grave.

"When I get back? Well, after I soak all this dirt out of my pores, I'm planning on doing a cross-country tour on my bike." My heartbeat slows and my skin almost feels cool as I imagine the wind in my hair as I speed down the open freeway.

"Bike?" Cooper drags me back from my mental excursion to reality. "What kind of bike?" He watches me closely, too closely. His blue eyes analyze my face almost as much as the unblinking eye of the camera.

"A Harley Davidson Fat Boy Lo," I answer simply. I blink, and for a split second, I imagine the rucksack digging into my back is the protective metal plates in my leather jacket. That the gritty path beneath my combat boots is the crunch of asphalt under my tires. I scan the barren road we're walking down and the glittering beige sandbox stretched out before me brings me back to the present.

"Harley? You want to end a fifteen-month tour by crossing the United States on your motorcycle?" Cooper tilts his head and his lips curl up into a half-cocked smile. I'm not sure if he's impressed or if he's laughing at me. Either way, I don't care.

"Yes, sir. I've been riding for over ten years now. I've taken a lot of small trips here and there, but I've never done a coast-to-coast ride. That's gonna change when I get back."

"Don't you want to spend some R & R on a beach or something? Maybe spend a few weeks at an all-inclusive resort? And, you know, relax a little?" He keeps pace with me without ever removing his piercing stare from my face. It's not like I've been going easy on him either. This whole week Cooper has been keeping up with us like a pro. The guy lugging the camera on his shoulder, capturing our "intimate chat," impresses me even more.

"No offense, sir. But what kind of an idiot would I have to be to want to spend time on a sandy beach after spending over a year here? If I never see a beach again, I'll die happy, I think."

Cooper laughs. A little pink creeps up into his cheeks as he shakes his head from side to side. "Yeah, I guess that wasn't the best example." He looks over his shoulder at his cameraman sheepishly. He's only thrown off for a second, though, before he's back to his poker face, staring into my soul.

"Fair enough, I can understand why you wouldn't want to spend time on a beach then," he continues, "but what I mean is, don't you just want some time to relax? Don't you need a little time to decompress after all this?" Cooper is back on his game.

The wind suddenly picks up and whips some sand at my face. I squint and keep my head down, watching my boots navigate through the filthy fog of dust as I wait for it to pass. I remember when we first got over here and these dustups would feel like razors against my cheeks, but now my skin is like a leatherback turtle. And my shell is just as hard to crack.