Hercules Reynolds sat on the threadbare sofa, took a long swig of his beer, and stared out the window. He was a stone’s throw from his former home, Camp Lejeune. Six years as a jarhead—well, he supposed once a Marine, always a Marine, but whatever—and now he was considering a job as a mall security guard. He hadn’t even told his grandmother that he was out. He wanted to wait and tell her when he had something positive to report: Hey Mhamó, I left the service and got a job at a bank. Or a car dealership, or a construction company, or an insurance agency, or a school. Just not a mall cop. He had been a Marine sniper, for fuck’s sake. Hercules chuckled sadly then. He sounded like those pathetic alcoholics in movies who couldn’t move past the achievements of their youth. He glanced at the photograph of his brothers-in-arms that he had printed but had yet to frame, his black hair and bright blue eyes broadcasting his Irish roots. He felt a pang of guilt for abandoning them, but snipers had short lifespans in the service for a lot of reasons. His was physical. He believed in what he did, and he was good at it, but after a bar fight got out of hand, Herc had ended up with a stab wound in his hand and a severed tendon. The injury didn’t necessarily mean the end of his career, it meant rehab and retraining, but he knew a sign from Upstairs when he got one. It was time to move on. Herc didn’t need a lot of money. He certainly didn’t need fame. He just needed to respect himself. He wanted to be proud of the paycheck he earned. He just couldn’t seem to think of any way to do it.
Just as he began, again, to troll the internet for jobs for which he was qualified, his cell phone rang. The tinny strains of “Highway to Hell” told him who it was before he glanced at the screen and saw his childhood best friend’s gap-toothed grin.
“Hey, Billy.”
“Herc, what the fuck? You get out, and you don’t call?”
“How’d you know?”
“Daryl told me. He was bummed to see you go.”
“I’m gonna miss those sacks of shit.”
“Where you at?”
“Still in Jacksonville. Tryin’ to figure some stuff out.”
“Well, pack your bags, my brother. I’ve got your shit figured out for you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And what exactly have you figured out?”
“Sweet union job with lots of perks, nice little house with my girl. Life is good, bro.”
“That’s great, man.”
“I ain’t callin’ to brag, fucktard. Pack a bag. My supervisor said if I had any friends from the Corps, he needs a couple more guys. My girl’s parents run a boarding house with a real decent room available. This is opportunity knocking, mutherfucker. Answer the door!”
Hercules thought for a minute. He never leapt before he looked. In this instance, however, he didn’t have time to process all of his thoughts. Particularly what Billy had meant when he said the job had “lots of perks.” There wasn’t much for Herc to ponder. This wasn’t an either/or scenario because he just had the “either.” There was no “or.”
“Savannah’s five hours. Make it six in my piece of shit. I can be there by supper.”
“Booyah! Get a move on, brother. The party awaits.”
Herc raced around the small space to collect his few, meager belongings with one thought in mind: soon he would be able to call his grandmother with good news.