Boot(s)

9- Boots

Corporal Jackson

I took a deep breath like I was gasping for my first breath of oxygen after being held underwater. And that's what it felt like, too. Like I was being held underwater. And suddenly, the only thing I needed was oxygen. Or, in this case, the only thing my body needed was to stand up and dial that phone.

I pushed myself up off the floor and grabbed the phone from its hook on the wall. My fingers shook, but I dialed the number from memory. Even if I didn't remember, I had it tattooed on the inside of my right ring finger. Always with me.

My body couldn't inhale properly. One breath turned into two inside my chest. I was choking on my own air.

"Yello?"

Two breaths became one again. My eyelids fluttered closed: the sweet, sweet sound of home.

"I said, yello?"

I didn't want him to hang up, so I collected my bearings quickly. My fingers tightened around the plastic.  I stood up straight and cleared my throat. "Mr. O'Callahan, I don't know if you remember me, but my name is Peter Jackson. I, I was friends with your son. They called me Boots."

I could hear the smile in his voice. "Of course. Boots who wouldn't come over to our side of town. How are you, kiddo?"

"I'm okay, Mr. O. I'm okay." I didn't recognize my own voice.

"Still in the army, are ya?"

"Yes sir, I am. Yes sir. I, uh, that's why I'm calling actually."

"Is it?" The television played faintly in the background. Wheel of Fortune, maybe. Jeopardy.

"I just heard. I'm getting deployed. Syria."

"Wow. Ain't that something. Syria!"

"Yes sir. Syria."

"That's incredible. You servicemen, I can't begin to imagine the sacrifice. You are so brave."

"Thanks, Mr. O. I appreciate that."

"Truly, Boots. I mean that."

"I know, sir..." I promised I wouldn't, but I couldn't help myself. "Hey, how's Bo these days?"

The smile came back into his voice. He relaxed into his words like they were a recliner. "Oh, he's great, the usual. Man, his gig up North with the Knicks! Ain't that great? I was there just last weekend. We caught a Broadway show and a fancy dinner. What a life that is, eh?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but I let his words hang in the air for a few seconds. Something wasn't adding up. Bobby was a Hawk. He was down in Atlanta and he had been for the last two years, at least. Maybe even three. Four, could be. The years had started to blend together.

And then it made sense. Why Bobby was back home, playing for the shit-eating Hawks.

"Wow. What a life is right, Mr. O. What a life." I cleared my throat. At some point in the past minute, tears had started to gather at the bottom of my eyelids. "Well I gotta run, Mr. O, but thanks for picking up. I... I really needed to talk to someone."

I didn't care that my voice was crackling and hissing like a new log placed on a campfire. Odds were he wouldn't even remember this conversation. My heart burned for him, for Bobby.

"Of course, Peter. You call anytime. Bye now, son. Talk soon."

"Bye Mr. O. Talk soon."