Dog Fight

The smaller dog was trying his damnedest: teeth bared, scrawny legs spring-loaded and ready to pounce, and voice raised with the most ferocious barks he could muster. The bigger dog was unperturbed and uninterested. As their human caretakers passed each other, the little mutt snapped his teeth at the great dane. The towering hound barely glanced at the yappy pup, gave one apathetic boof, and continued down the sidewalk. The smaller dog was reluctantly pulled along, but as he trotted away, he seemed content to have put this altercation behind him. Who knows what he thought he had been defending. I’m sure the bigger dog wouldn’t even remember this disturbance to his afternoon walk. The humans certainly wouldn’t remember, and the various other passersby on the sidewalk hadn’t really noticed the scrap to begin with.

As the smaller dog turned the corner and disappeared around the block, I turned away from the bus window and checked my watch. Today was my one day off this week, and I was anxious to finish this last errand. My days were pretty much all the same: work, sack lunches, more work, and then an evening watching tv. I would like to go out and see the world, but as a recent grad with a mediocre job, I couldn’t really afford to do anything fun. I figured I might as well work as much as I could because A) I could pay off my student debt faster, and B) it would give me something to do.

This day was different though. I had a few errands to run, not the least of which being I needed to rent a storage unit. After graduation, I had found a meager apartment - it was actually a glorified closet in an elderly couple's house. My parents found comfort that I'd have some supervision - even if it wasn’t theirs - but living in a closet meant I didn't have much room for storage of my own. I had heard about storage unit auctions on some reality tv show. I held no delusions of finding the Dead Sea Scrolls in someone's abandoned shed, but I needed a storage unit, these were cheap, and who knows, maybe I'd find some baseball cards I could resell to pay for next week's groceries.

There were only two other bidders on the property on that scorching, blindingly bright day. After some warnings and disclaimers, which I mostly tuned out, we were led to the first unit. If it had an auspicious aura, I couldn't read it. Unit 203 was just as dilapidated as the units on either side. I bid eighty bucks while the other scavengers kicked the dirt, and I was soon handed a tiny silver key. As the rest of the group proceeded to the next unit, I wrestled with the lock and resolved to get this over with quickly, so I could return to the relative oasis of my window unit a/c.

It took two hands to pull the shed door up high enough for me to crouch inside. Looking around, it seemed the previous renter hadn't owned much more than I had: a duffel bag, an old military uniform, a nice pair of shoes that looked like they might be my size, and a little black Moleskine book. I almost turned around and went home, figuring I could investigate whenever I came back with my own possessions to add to the modest heap. In the end, I decided it would only take a minute to sift through these few items and then I could check this off my to-do list.

I sat on the floor with my back to the wall, as I tried on the shoes. They fit and they weren’t too worn out. I reached for the duffel bag and dragged it toward me. As I gently unzipped the bag, I stared blankly at the contents. I wasn't sure I was seeing properly in the dark of the now setting sun coming through the half open shed door… but the duffel bag appeared to be full of cash! My first thought was, "Get the hell out of here!" I not so gently zipped up the bag, slung it over my shoulder, and made for the exit, still wearing the shoes I had found. As an afterthought, I grabbed the Moleskine book and shoved it in my pocket, before slamming the shed door closed and walking hastily toward the city bus stop. I didn't even lock the storage unit, which must have looked suspicious to the other couple I had met that morning, who were watching from the window of the leasing office. I almost missed my stop, as I was so distracted by the duffel bag in my lap, trying to look inconspicuous, and considering this large sum of money - where it came from, who would leave it, whether it was safe to keep it, and if so, what I would spend it on.

When I finally made it home, I rushed inside, locked the door, and settled down in the lawn chair where I watch tv. I once again pulled the duffel bag to me and with deliberate, yet trembling fingers, I counted. $20,000 cash. Twenty thousand. Dollars. Cash. My mind reeled at that number. What could I even do with such a windfall? Who would forget such a pile of money? I suddenly remembered the little black Moleskine book that was still in my jeans pocket on the floor. Perhaps that could give me some clues as to who and why. I fished it out and inspected it more closely than I had in the storage unit. The covers were worn and the corners were bent, as if mine wasn’t the first pocket it had been roughly shoved into. I settled back in my chair and began to read.

March 12th

Shelly told me to write down what I'm thinking… I wasn't expecting homework when I signed up to...well, anyway... what am I thinking?

It's sunny today.

March 19th

Shelly wasn't impressed with my last entry. She says she knows I'm thinking about more than the weather. I guess, but why write it down? Thoughts are supposed to be in your head. But I promised I'd try, so….

It was rainy today. The rain makes me sleepy. I like the sunny days better. Or at least, I used to. These days, they're all the same to me.

March 26th

Shelly said this was better, but that she wanted more. More days, I guess? I don't know.

May 7th

I haven't seen Shelly in a while. But I need to do something. If I can't talk to her, maybe I can talk to myself? That makes me sound even crazier… but I can't talk to anyone else about this. Hell, I spend my days trying to forget. If I don't want to know it anymore, why would I want someone else to know it? Maybe if I write it down, it can stop living in my memories and it can just live here instead.

I spend my days working. Not because I need the money; the VA takes care of that. And it's not like I need much more money than that. Rent and food is all I need, and lately I find myself not even eating that much. I don't go out at night. I'm not even sure anymore what people do when they go out. I just like the distraction of going to work all day.

May 9th

Every day feels like another fight. I’m not really sure what I’m fighting for or even who I’m fighting against - maybe I’m fighting against the way the world is; or maybe against the way the world is changing; or maybe I’m fighting against some part of myself. I think that’s it. I think I’m fighting against myself, and the world just keeps turning around me. The problem with fighting yourself is that you’re always on the losing side, one way or another.

From the bus stop to my apartment was realistically only 50 yards, but I was beginning to feel like I had walked a mile in this man’s shoes. I kept reading long into the night. Passage after passage explained how this man (I began referring to him as “the veteran” in my head) struggled readjusting to civilian life. The next hundred pages or so described good days, sometimes several in a row, but also many bad days. At least I learned where the money came from. It wasn't anything illicit - just extra money from a guy who wasn't using it. That set my mind at some ease, even if I still didn't know why he would leave so much money in a storage locker. I fell asleep in my chair, reading the little black book.

The next morning, I awoke sore. A hot shower and a hot coffee, graciously provided by my landlords, perked me up. My trepidation about the money had dissipated from my readings. Today was about deciding what to do with my windfall. I knew I should save a lot of it and I would. But I had a few things to take care of, starting with taking my hand-me-down truck to the mechanic. The truck ran fine, but the a/c didn't work and it was long overdue for a tune-up. While I sat in the mechanic's waiting room, I dove back into the little black book.

February 9th

I started seeing Shelly again. It's been nine months since she's read from my journal and she seemed really pleased with the consistency and content of my entries. Writing actually must've worked because today we talked about when it happened. It's the first time I've talked about it in years. It still bothers me. Mark and I took off together. We were supposed to land together. I guess we always knew there was a chance that wouldn't happen. But we were supposed to land together. That day… That day, he saw I was in trouble. I just couldn't maneuver out of the line of fire. He baited them. I could see him baiting them. And I could see when they took the bait. I suppose he felt like he was making a sacrifice. I'm the one who ended up paying the price. Sure, he didn't get to land that day. But I did. And I've had to live with that for all these years. The real sacrifice would've been leaving me up there, so he could live with the guilt instead.

Again, my mind reeled. I hadn’t expected something so heavy. The next forty pages or so detailed how this man was immediately honorably discharged, how he spent decades angry at something he couldn’t articulate, how he refused to enjoy the time he’d been granted (out of respect for his friend’s memory, or out of punishment for himself, he wasn’t entirely sure), and how he gradually traveled the road to acceptance. As the mechanic’s receptionist called my name, I turned to the next page - the last page. She called my name again, but I had to read this final entry.

August 11th

I'm moving to California. I got a civilian job on a base out there and I'm leaving my old life behind: the uniform with all its dark memories, the duffel bag I used to carry my few possessions in…and the cash. It’s nothing but a reminder of the time I wasted not living my life. I hope someone else can make better use of it than I did. But I’m ready to start over. And Shelly told me I could call her any time.

It’s sunny today.

I relented to the receptionist’s insistent summons and closed the veteran’s journal. I recovered my keys and drove home, once again too preoccupied with the Moleskine book’s call to action to notice the scenes rolling past my windows. I would make good use of the $20,000.