2/1/11

Recruiting Anne
By Chuck Von Nordheim


Anne knew the afternoon with Darren Waggoner had to be a dream, an enchantment that would fade. She knew the laughter that throbbed out of him, even though her heart vibrated to it, belonged to someone else. She knew she reminded him of who he had been, but that she was not who he remembered.

Darren began by being annoying as a fly that kept landing on your arm just long enough to make your skin tingle before buzzing off. “Hey,” he said. She stayed focused on the finance major she was checking in. “Hey,” he said again. Every day, jerks tried to skip standing in line by faking friendship with whoever did Writing Center in-flow. “Anne,” he said, “Hey.” Anne and the other tutors petitioned to do front desk duty without name-badges to foil said jerks, but nothing changed at Taft State. “Anne Green,” he said, “From Mrs. Alvarez’s American history class.” Then everything buzzed with change because Darren Waggoner landed in your in-flow looking as dimpled and blue-eyed as ever.

Anne accepted the following the facts: 1) boys voted high school kings sought upscale princesses, 2) princesses bought their clothes in magical realms like Rodeo Drive, and 3) those who wore thrift store clothes played the peasant in that kingdom. Kings might get a kick out of slumming; servant girls might thrill as he galloped by. But, in the end, the habits of peasants made them too uncouth for the palace.

Darren fizzed with enthusiasm for Taft State, the future, life; listening made her happily woozy as sipping Merlot. “Got a medical early out,” he said, “Probably more a blessing than a curse since I was pretty scary on a dance floor.” Sodas banged down vending machine chutes as they talked and the microwave oven dinged; usually Anne found the Miller Hall snack zone stark as sodium-vapor streetlights, but today it felt comfy as a bonfire. “Seems a lot longer than three years since Garfield High,” he said. “Maybe it’s because I went so far away. Get enough range and your sight picture completely changes.” The money spent at malls upgrading her thrift store look mattered not all to him; Darren’s sniper gaze locked only on her eyes. “Let me score you a real cappuccino instead of this swill from the machine. Least I can do if you’re going to help me with my paper.” Darren then shifted to conversation to the weird things he obsessed about when he was in Iraq, such as the shape of classic Coca-Cola bottles and to how many decimal places he could calculate pi in his head.

Anne flashed her Java Junkie discount card when Darren paid for their mugs of Sumatra; she had drunk coffee with boys wide-shouldered as him, but not as dimpled. Those other boys had paid Anne with soulful glances and bids urging hearts as trump. Those other boys reneged each and all, leaving her with what she held on her own.

Darren slapped Anne’s shoulder like a fan at a football game; electric tingles pulsed from where he whacked her. “Wow,” he said. “You make me sound as squared away as a West Point grad.” The espresso machine fumed, scenting the air with foamed milk. “Your big brain shrunk the rest of us to mental midgets back at Garfield,” he said. “That’s why you got so much flak. It was a schoolyard tactical consideration. You’d have towered over us if we didn’t make you keep your head down.” Darren’s sincerity stopped Anne from spurting something about her brain not being the only big thing about her; his voice lacked any lilt of mockery and that discombobulated her protective machinery of self-deprecation. “I missed out on getting to know you then because I was scared,” he said. “That’s the one good thing about deploying. You get over fear.” Darren then went on a jag about the thrill of speeding down a twisty California highway a hundred feet above the Pacific surf on a weekend pass three days before he flew to Baghdad.

Anne admitted to herself, as she often did, that her behavioral model of fairytale driven pair-offs left out some painful data-points. Control for class and fashion accessories and plus-size Juliette remains a mismatch for welterweight Romeo. And part of the reason for the new clothes is that the biometric disparity between her and Darren had increased.

Darren squatted next to her, so close his breath warmed her ear lobe. “You zapped all the passives my professor wigs out about,” he said. “Now you rocket through when you read it.” A mop plopped on tile as a barista swabbed the lobby. “They’re closing up,” he said. “I took too much of your time.” When he reached to pluck his jump-drive from her laptop, the firm curve of his right pectoral slid across the flab of her upper arm. “You must have missed chow at the dorm dining hall,” he said. “I owe you dinner.” As he led her to the door, Darren analyzed the various species of roller coaster he had ridden and came to the conclusion that Cedar Point’s classic Blue Streak still topped his list.

Anne submitted to his invitation without a word, surprised by the deviation in the familiar pattern. The other boys dumped her once they got what they wanted. The other boys left her on the curb in front of her dorm watching their taillights dwindle.

Darren guided her to the hostess stand, an index finger gently pushing where the shaft of her spine plunged into her pelvis. “One thing you learn out there,” he said, “Is how important it is to find someone who’s got your back.” The smell of the pan-crisped steak fries that came with her French Dip, rife with garlic and rosemary, made Anne’s mouth sop with saliva. “Hollywood hype can bite you in the butt,” he said. “Gung-ho G.I. Joes are generally worthless.” Anne saw her face reflected in the surface of her Diet Pepsi; she tipped her head hoping to look less double-chinned. “You find a troop with the right stuff,” he said, “You go for broke getting them on your roster.” Darren then discussed how he found the sinusoidal waves on oscilloscopes soothing when he repaired radios between patrols.

Anne wished she could be ordered to go outside the wire under the command of this man, but the 2X body she had been issued put her in another army. Her destined captain would likely be the type of man who led electronic legions without bothering to bathe while slouched on sofa. She could dream, though, while this hunky guy locked his eyes on hers, of alternate worlds; then, suddenly, the dream shifted to nightmare.

Darren ordered her a banana split. “Morons enlist for bennies,” he said, “The ones that sign up just to get a VA giveaway, they’re the ones who crap their BDUs every mortar whoosh.” The waitress clanked down a surreal sculpture, white vanilla bleeding brown caramel, yellow pineapple, red strawberry. “I drew plans for a mansion with hidden passages and a helipad in the fifth grade,” he said, “I’ve revised it to three bedrooms and a yard for dogs seeing as how the VA won’t front for secret doors behind sliding bookcases.” Anne left fingerprints on misted metal as she pushed the sundae away. “I learned how to be a good follower,” he said, “I’m sure executing a boss’s ops plan for a system upgrade will be cake after taking down insurgent bomb factories.” Darren then jawed about toys and how he had loved making elaborate scrawls with a Spirograph.

Anne despaired as awareness sunk in that the entire evening had been a set-up for a cruel joke. She refused to take the bait, to react to the insult. She would not give him that satisfaction.

Darren slid the dessert back. “We’ll tap the VA to get start-up money for our own outfit eventually,” he said. “There’s a time to pull things down, there’s a time to build them up. Even if there’s no dollars in it, I want do stuff like write code to make their water pumps work better.” Mounds of whipped cream quivered like a scared cat when Anne gave the sundae a lateral prod. “A project like that wouldn’t be a go without a word guru to write pitches and grant proposals.” Anne dug her nails into her thighs to keep from crying tears of humiliation. “You need to recruit a top troop to make the mission work.” Darren then yakked about the squiggle in the Yin/Yang symbol and his theory regarding the combination of opposed opposites as he nudged the banana split back in front of her.

Anne shoved the dessert at Darren. “I know I’m a big girl,” she said. She listened to the metal dish screech across the table. “People like you have been making me aware of that fact all my life,” she said. She heard it smack against Darren’s palms as he stopped it from spinning off the table. “But I will not sit here and let you poke fun at me. I said goodbye to Garfield High and now I’m saying goodbye to you.”

Darren grabbed her before she ran out. “Wait,” he said, “My signal got garbled.” Pine-scented cologne wafted into Anne’s nostrils, a forest she wanted to set on fire. “I nearly died,” he said. “And it woke me up. I vowed I was going to live life for me. Not to impress parents. Not to please friends. Not to live up to anyone’s standards. I refused to adios wondering about what might have been if only I had the balls to go after what I really wanted.” Anne could have fled when he released her upper arms and his hands rustled down her dress to the small of back, but she stayed. “I didn’t think I pulled down enough IQ to interest you,” he said, “And I worried way too much about the other kids would say. I’m sorry. Give me a second go, Anne. Honest to God, that roadside bomb scared all the asshole right out of me.” And then, as his hands slid to her hips, Darren whispered that the thing he loved most was curves and that he hoped to spend the rest of his life exploring every inch of them she had.

Anne walked to the table. She would need to revise to her model of human behavior. Some enchantments endured. Some kings like their queens queen-sized.

Anne and Darren both held the handle of the spoon. Syrup-sticky hands stuck and broke free, making noises like a suckling child. They would guide other things together soon.


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Chuck now enjoys the pleasures of a G.I. bill funded education after serving in the United States Air Force for 22 years. His work has recently appeared in 10Flash and Every Day Poets.