Radioman (A 2/19th Spinoff) - Complete

Breakfast

The smell of coffee filled the kitchen slash dining room as I stumbled down the hallway, rubbing my eyes. A quick glance at the clock, a plastic cat who's tail swept back and forth and eyes moved right and left, showed me that it was only ten in the morning.

Stillwater, you bastard, I thought, yawning and stretching. My sleep patterns were so screwed up I rarely slept longer than six hours.

Hannah was standing at the stove, dressed in a pleated powder blue skirt and a white ruffled blouse. Her hair was held back by a dark blue handkerchief, her feet were bare, and she was humming to herself as she used the spatula to flip a pancake. Country music was playing from the 50's plastic radio on the counter that I vaguely remembered as having been in the garage.

"Coffee's on the table," Hannah told me, her voice full of warmth.

It made the honey warm feeling spread in my chest again.

"I thought you could use a good start to the day, since we have plenty to do," she told me.

I sat down, picking up the coffee cup. Black and sweet, like I liked it, and strong enough that I could see a thin layer of oily colors on the top. I took a sip, watching Hannah cook. When she opened the fridge it looked more like something off a showroom floor than the mold infested wreckage it had probably been before she had started cleaning.

I could live like this. Really live, I thought to myself, watching her move. I wondered how she'd look pregnant and Hannah turned toward me and smiled. She tossed the pancakes on two plates and came over to sit by me, setting a plate in front of me.

Pancakes with strawberry preserves and whipped cream on top, a small 3-egg omelette, some bacon slices, and a slice of grapefruit.

"Thanks, Hannah," I told her, leaning to the side to rest my head against hers.

She purred with pleasure, "Of course, Paul."

We ate in silence, although I took my left hand and rested it on her leg instead of keeping it in my lap.

Keep your elbow off the table. Eat with one hand, other in your lap unless cutting. Eat slowly. Chew thoroughly. Don't slurp your coffee. I thought to myself, keeping MSG Crowe's classes front and center.

The Hot Site Crews lived under terrible conditions, and MSG Crowe had realized we were all devolving, civilization slipping away. Most of us had eaten like we were in prison by September, so she had arranged three weeks of Wednesday Training dedicated to nothing but teaching us manners that we had almost forgotten.

No field expedient explosives, no hand to hand combat, no knife fighting, no field expedient booby traps, nothing related to combat.

We had dressed up in our Class-A's the first week and relearned how to sit properly at the table and how to eat like humans.

I chuckled remembering how Stillwater and his older brother had to have their left hands tied to their chairs so they didn't pull their plate close and shield it with their arm. King had commented that it was how people ate in prison and reminded me that both of them had done stints in Maximum Security Juvenile facilities.

The second through fourth weeks MSG Crowe had us dress in civilian clothing to eat. Had us dress in our best, like we were going someplace fancy or on a date. Bomber had dressed in Texas style, but I still remembered Stillwater looking more like he was going to work at the mill, dressed in flannel and Levi. MSG Crowe had been forced to take him up to the PX in Stuttgart to buy decent clothing.

Stillwater was a guy I wanted next to me when the bullets started flying, but remembering how MSG Crowe had sent him back again and again to try to get him to dress properly outside of a flannel shirt and jeans. I chuckled again at the memory of him looking completely confused as to why a jean jacket, flannel shirt, and jeans with a bloodstain on the leg weren't acceptable to wear to a decent restaurant.