Exfil

Brandy's - 8:00am, June 1999

I wish I could help him. He seems so alone. I see him sipping his coffee day in, day out. Every morning there he is. Sat in the booth tucked into the corner against the exterior door.

My mom says it's not polite to stare, but when my dad and I see him, he explains that taking account of one's surroundings is part of what it means to be a man. To protect those around us, we must first know what is there and if any threat exists. He says mom just doesn't get that fully, which is why he is there to protect her just like I'll do some day with my own family.

My dad does that still. He tells me men call it, "watchin their six." When I asked why the man would do that, he instructed me to watch him one morning and so we did. He peppered me with questions, asking all manner of things I didn't even consider questioning about the man.

I observed the man's face first, then his feet. Dad always says a man's face and feet will tell you everything you need to know about someone's intentions. Oh, hands too, I always forget the hands. So I studied him. The man, not my father.

Drab matted hair, soot or maybe a thick layer of dirt covered his face and most of his exposed skin, and the matted chunks that made up his hair. He had on a heavily worn military jacket from the Nam era. He was a bit older than my dad, but even still he seemed older than he should somehow. It was his eyes that gave me concern. He seemed to be observing everything just as I and my father were, yet with absolute stillness. He seemed to be attempting to disappear all together.

The waitress, a pretty girl not much older than me, but old enough that if I asked she'd never go out with me, not even if it were my dying wish. Which was probably fair, even though I hated it. I just wanted to touch how soft the skin over her exposed tattoo on her right bicep would feel. My eyes wandered over to her very full bra and the tattoo peaking out across her v-neck shirt showing off the exposed cleavage with its ink there.

My dad's tattoos were rough. A few were raised, a bit bumpy, but hers appeared professionally done and expensive. Dad's only sorta were professional, I mean, they were free in a way. The guy who did his first few when they were overseas serving together was now a highly sought out artist, but my dad got his ink before the guy was out. He always said the guys in his unit were his buddy's test dummies for the real world. Dummies because what idiot says, "Yeah sure why not," when you're in the middle of a warzone? I guess the guys get bored.

The man's shoulders were vast. Like a mountain scape. I would put money down right now that he was built like a jagged mountain ridge with dips and bulk I could only ever imagine building on my own body.

His jeans seemed illfitted for the expanse of his thighs. Not fat, certainly not with the way his upper body seemed to be built from stone. His expression, however, never seemed to match his body. I observed the man for months, every so often dad would laugh and tell me, good job champ, but don't forget all the other potentials of the unsubs surrounding you. I knew he was right, I hadn't ever bothered observing the other patrons.

To be fair to me, I spent a considerable amount of time observing the workers. The women wore skirts and v-neck T-shirts with a few different apron styles covering their clothes. It seemed to be a dealer's choice sorta "uniform," but they had good food, and my dad, who never could help himself, chatted up everyone and anyone each week.

After knowing my dad... well my entire life, but gaining whole memories of him these last ten years I know two things. He is a man who will strike up a conversation with anyone who piques his interest because they are either gorgeous, and he is a marine. While the second possibility is something about them drew him in as the observer and protector he was.