A bus station security guard rousted Paul Jones from a restless sleep on a hard bench saying, “Day shift will be here soon, Doc.”
“Thanks … ah … Guard.” Jones had a history of indecision and not remembering names, even his own. Neither could he fathom why everyone who seemed to know him called him Doc.
Jones limped to the restroom and relieved himself before splashing water on his face and hand-combing his hair. He went to a vending machine and slid in three quarters. While fingering three other quarters in his pocket, he mumbled, “Too many choices.”
Buck and a half for breakfast sandwich at Café. And free water.
He tapped the coin return pad and took the quarters from the return tray. He left the station into a mix of rain, sleet, and snow driven by swirling blasts of early December wind. His exposed face and hand smarted.
I hate sand!
He covered his right ear with his right hand and leaned into the wind. His deaf left ear went unprotected. The wind driven empty left sleeve of his too large faded red and black checked Mackinaw smacked him on the chest, head, and back as he shuffled toward the illuminated Good Eats Café sign a long block away. He uncovered his ear and struggled to catch his flopping, unfilled left sleeve and tuck it into the same side jacket pocket.
The wind switched directions at the intersection; he eyed a shallow alcove, hesitated, then stepped behind the post supporting the overhead cover.
Should get farther in. They’ll see me.
Traffic eased and he went to the curb to wait for the pedestrian crossing signal. A passing bus splashed slush and street debris-infused water from a clogged drain. The mini-flood washed over the tops of his scuffed ankle-boots saturating his Salvation Army gifted argyles.
The traffic lights changed to all-way pedestrian and Jones limped into the slushy intersection. A high-lift pickup driven by a red-light runner splattered Jones’s back with water and slush.
A blast of hot air from the overhead heater just inside the Good Eats Café door melted the slush in Jones’s greying hair while he waited his turn. He tucked his empty sleeve into his jacket pocket before gimping to the ordering end of the counter.
“Morning Doc,” came from the man behind the pass-through window to the kitchen. Same?”
“Well, Cook, … ah … well sure.”
A navy corpsman in combat uniform slid into the chow line behind a Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant and a Lance Corporal. The medic selected a sausage-egg breakfast burger and coffee from the serving line. There was no small talk before the three went to their Humvee at dawn and headed north toward Sabah Al Ahmad on a mine cleared road.
Jones slid six quarters across the counter to the woman he called Girl at the till and followed the floor arrows to the exit end of the counter. Girl placed a bagged double size breakfast sandwich on the serving end with a steaming 20 oz. cup of sugared and creamed coffee.
“Can’t buy coffee this morning, Girl. Water will do.”
“Not too many customers this morning, Doc. Cook said it’s on the house.”
“Thanks, Girl.”
“Cook had a leftover bear claw. You should have it. Want it in the bag with your sandwich?”
“Well … ah … yes, thanks Girl.”
She said, “And Doc your change is in the bag.”
Jones pinched the bag against the paper coffee cup and backed out the door into the alley side alcove. The rain, sleet, and snow mix turned to dry snow but was still whipped by gusts of wind. Still pinching the bag to the cup, he took a long drink. The hot liquid warmed his mouth and throat, and he felt the instant warmness in his empty stomach.
A deafening blast lifted their Humvee to a ditch. Petty Officer Second Class Corpsman Jones landed outside. Dazed Gunny crawled through the shattered front window and Jones pulled the LC through the other side window. The fuel tank erupted and the vehicle tipped over pinning the medic’s left arm to the ground. Windblown sand peppered his face as he writhed in pain while Gunny and LC struggled to tip the burning vehicle from Doc’s arm. Corpsman Jones struggled to roll over but didn’t hear Gunny shout, “Doc, Doc, wake up!”
“No use,” Gunny said. “He might live if I take off his arm. If it blows, we’ve all seen our last day.”
Gunny’s prediction wasn’t totally right. The explosion finished the amputation and seared Doc’s flesh where Gunny started the cut.
The lee side of a commercial trash bin in the alley gave Jones some shelter. He kicked a broken milk crate from behind the trash bin for his breakfast table. He squatted next to it, ate the still warm breakfast sandwich first, gulped some more coffee, then nibbled the bear claw with intermittent sips from the cooling liquid. He took the six quarters from the bag and dropped them into his Mackinaw pocket. With his stomach full and warm, he fell asleep sitting on the milk crate. Dry snow drifted and covered his ice coated boots.
Jones struggled to roll over. The wind tipped dumpster held him down by the left sleeve of his coat and windblown snow peppered his face as he twisted and wrenched with memory pain. He didn’t hear Cook shouting, “Doc! Doc! Wake up!”
Cook and a just arrived patrol officer struggled to tip the overloaded snow laden Dumpster from Doc’s empty sleeve. Girl tried to help, but it was too heavy for adrenaline powered Cook, Girl, and Officer.
“Give me your knife officer,” Cook said, “I’m going to cut it off.”
“Paramedics are less than a minute out, they’ll help lift.”
“It’s an empty sleeve. His arm is somewhere near Al-Wafrah!”
Officer questioned, “What?”
“In Kuwait! The war!”
EMTs wrapped Doc in a warming blanket and took vitals.
Officer asked Cook, “How’d you know about the empty sleeve?”
“I’m the one who cut off his arm!”
A small voice came from inside the ambulance, “It’s OK Gunny. I know there was no choice.”
A bus station security guard rousted Paul Jones from a restless sleep on a hard bench saying, “Day shift will be here soon, Doc.”