The Thing He Carried

Past

Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can't remember how you got from where you were to where you are.

Honestly, how had he ended up here? The plan seemed cut and dried – head to California, spend time on the beach helping Jimmy, and figure out life. While packing, things changed. Memories of bitter arguments returned.

What are you going to do? You can't go from couch to couch mooching off neighbors. You're not going to be a wash up. You can't get ahead being a leech. Under this roof, you're going to do something. You're going to be something.

At least that's how Jess remembered it. Those weren't the actual words. Luke hadn't actually said all that, but that was the cold sentiment. The biting words hurt at that time and they still did. Even still, they rang true.

That had been the plan – at least for a little while. Jess hated that plan. But being lost and confused it was the only viable option. The thought of it brought shame. Sick coated his mouth, burned his throat, and tightened his stomach into a knot of no return. Sticking to that plan would've been a point of no return. Twenty, thirty, forty years from now he could've ended up a washed-up writer with nothing to his name.

In the midst of chaos, with the clothes strewn as a carpet and the walls vibrating with blaring music (to drown out hope below and the despair inside), he slouched on the floor knowing this was wrong. It was all wrong.

Leaving for California was not an option. Staying in Stars Hollow was not an option. What then? As if someone or something overheard that persistent inner-monologue, the radio blasted a commercial put out by the Army. Do you want to do something important? Do you want to work for something bigger than yourself? Do you want a future? The Army needs YOU! Enlist today.

Generally, he tuned the words out. Those commercials were designed to entice and encourage. They sounded benign, but never seemed to have a lot of substance. They also called for attention. He didn't want to indulge in the commercial's needs. But this time Jess listened. This time they struck a chord. They gave answers.

Could he fight? Could he carry a gun? Could he be a soldier? He didn't know. Sure, he'd gotten into some fistfights, but that was in self-defense. He'd never picked up a gun – not even a shot gun. Every story about the war left him cold. A couple times he even found himself at protests. Innocent people died in battle against the malicious. But the malicious killed the innocent too. That left him even colder.

Without looking up the requirements to enlist, Jess finished packing and left for the bus stop. He didn't even say goodbye; he couldn't. He'd boarded the bus. He'd had that final talk with Rory (at least it felt like the final talk). He'd gotten off at the station and got a one-way ticket to Columbus, Georgia – to basic training at Fort Benning. He'd only known where to go by asking someone at the station.

A day later, he arrived. The welcome sign wanted to be cheery; it wasn't. Shouldering he bag, Jess walked up to the guard. "I want to enlist," he explained. The guard arched an eyebrow as if no one ever came with that request. "Ma'am."

"Bag. I.D.. Name," she demanded. After Jess turned everything over and she examined his meager bag of goods, she nodded him through. "Main office. They'll be waiting."

"Okay, ma'am," he said. Items back in his possession, Jess hiked up the incline. His feet dragged. His back ached. His shoulder stooped. He felt beaten down and warn out from life. This was the end of the road. This was it. The rug of certainty had been pulled out from under feet. Now he either would find himself standing tall or falling on his face.