The story comes full circle.

There are still times, snuck in between 70 hours at work and the additional 6 with the triplets, that I squeeze in a real conversation, one that can stop me in my tracks and leave me itching for a keyboard to jot it all down before it leaves my head. Three weeks ago I met Jason, an Army E5 from Denver awaiting deployment to Iraq. He came into the Firerock while I was behind the bar, tagging along as a friend's wing man. He is of Thai decent, with dark sin and almond eyes, so he can easily blend into Iraqi society to gather intelligence; that's the reason he the only soldier from his unit being deployed. He said he had three weeks to go before boarding the plane. Tonight the send-off party I randomly planned ended up being just he and I. He leaves in 5 hours.

I like blindsiding people with quirky questions when I can't think of anything else to say, like, "What age did you discover where babies came from?" or, "Where would you go if money was no object?" Tonight it was, "If you had to pick, what would you say is your favorite memory ever?"
"I.... can't think of anything...." he said. "What about you? You first."
I launched into the story of Richard And The Night Of Arkansas Four-Wheelin'. Before I could get to the part about walking face-first into a cow, he remarked, "that guy sounds like my grandfather."
I teased, "Is your grandfather an Thai redneck?"
"No, he's white, he lives in Georgia...." The more I listened, the more he offered. That was the send-off party I really wanted, actually -- just to listen to him wax poetic for hours before being sent off to war. I got my wish.

"I understand about the Ozarks, I love to camp," he said. "Summers in Denver, that would be the best time. The air is so still in the mountains, it's more peaceful than you can imagine. Or in the Plains, I used to go camping in the Plains. You'd find a little spot by a little lake and just set up camp in the summertime. Me, I'd sit there and fish even though I haven't caught a fish in about ten years. Then the storms would roll in -- you could see them coming for miles, all the thunder and lightning. You just sit there and watch it move towards you, then it passes over, and once it's all done, the stillness is amazing. There's no wind, there's not even the regular sounds of nightime. It's almost eerily quiet. But it's peaceful.

"That's the peace you look back on to help you through conflict. In my job, it's all conflict and chaos. It's guns and training on how to survive torture. That's how. You call back on those times. It's not one memory per se, it's just a period of time that was peaceful enough to last you through the chaos.

"It's like, even in winters in Denver, when we would run for PT. I would run ten miles. We would all start out together, but after about five miles I'd be by myself. Then it's just you and the sun is coming up, 'cause it's like, six in the morning, and it's just you running towards the sunrise with nothing but the road ahead of you. There's the sound of your own breath, the sound of your feet hitting the pavement, and that's it. Those times of peace, of silence, those are what get you through the conflict.

"And when this is all over, that's what I really want. Some peace. Everyone deserves it. When I come back, I probably won't need a lot of money. I don't crave it. I just want nice piece of land in the mountains with a little house on it, with a porch and a little lake that I never catch fish in, and I'll be the crazy chinky guy who lives back in the woods and sits on the porch and drinks lemonade and sweet tea and shoots things with a shotgun, but only for fun.

"Yeah, that'll be me someday," he said quietly. He stared at the TV without really watching it, shaking his straw in his Captain and coke. "When I come back," he said a little louder, smiling at me and stirring the rum with a little more conviction. "I really do want this life to end when I'm, like, 70. Not now. Good thing I'm bulletproof." I sipped my vodka through a thin smile.

He saw the doubt in my eyes and conjured something deeper than the patterned list of regurgitated responses soldiers use to defend themselves. "I may not be the smartest guy, but I'm prepared to fight for what I believe in. I live the way I live because somebody did what I'm doing right now, and someday someone else will be able to live the way they want to because of what I'm doing.

"And I'm not going over there because I think we'll win this war. There's no way. We won't see the end of this war in my lifetime or your lifetime. These cultures have been fighting each other for thousands of years; you can't change that in two. That's why I don't understand people who get upset that we've been over there for almost four years and it's not over. It's not going to be over and it probably won't be one of those wars with a winner and a loser. But think about this -- my grandfather is from Georgia, he's a huge racist. My father is a racist, but not as much as my grandpa. Me, I'll admit I'm a little racist, but not as much as my dad. But my son? He's not going to be racist at all. Same thing with Iraqis. The old, crusty Iraqis who have been taught to hate Americans since birth, they're going to hate us no matter what. The older ones, like in their 40's, they're going to hate us. The young guys over there, they probably hate us too. But the little kids might not. And their kids might not. And if I can affect even one little kid in a positive way when I'm over there, so that when he grows up he doesn't want to strap a bomb to himself, then I've done my part. I could die over there and be proud that I gave my life at that point. It's the ultimate sacrifice.

"I can trace my family history back to the year 966," he continued. "On my dad's side, there are knights, there are people in my family who had William Shakespeare arrested for poaching on their property. And there's also been someone who has fought in every single war since the Revolution. My dad is a retired Air Force captain. He was in Viet Nam. He never had it easy, being the sole provider for a wife and four kids. All of his brothers and sisters are doctors and lawyers and psychiatrists. But they're the ones who are arguing over who's going to get what when my grandparents kick the bucket, and my dad's the one who says, 'I'd rather they just keep everything and stick around a little longer.' He values life in a way that others can't because of what he saw. His kids do too, I know I do. That's why I'm prepared to give everything. It's my turn.

"Are you just going over there because you want to shoot people?" I asked, visions of Jake From Kansas dancing in my head. His signature phrase had been, "Just wanna kill some mother-fuckers!"
"God, no!" Jason said. "I'd rather not kill anyone. I will if I have to, if my life is in danger, but that's not my main reason for going over there. I'm a pretty peaceful person who just wants to stand up for what I believe in. I hear all the talk on base, like, 'sand-nigger-this' and 'diaper-head-that'. I don't get it, really. I don't hate anyone. They're doing what they believe in just like I am. How can you hate them for that?"

"Okay, now you," he teased. "If you could do anything you wanted before you die, what would it be?"
In the last few weeks, I've become a big fan of admitting weakness, of letting the Super Confident Go-Getter Girl facade down. I answered honestly.
"Besides the obvious -- sky-diving -- I wish I could.... be more fearless. Not with things or situations I can control. They don't scare me. I mean with situations that are beyond my control." I stared at the light glinting off the rows of bottles as I continued, knowing that what I was saying was silly.

"Like, when I was on the road, I was unstoppable. I was so confident and happy and fearless. But now that I'm back, and I have to write about it, and convince publishers that what I did is worthy of their time, I'm scared. They are the situation I can't control. I can't control what they say. And every time I sit down with the intent to edit something or write a pitch letter, I just.... can't do it. I don't know why. But I think it's like this -- if I haven't sent anything for consideration, they haven't said yes, but at least they haven't said no. If they say no, it may prove that I'm not really a writer, I'm just a girl with a shitty bachelor's degree and no hands-on experience at anything but waiting tables. If they haven't said no yet, I can still feel like a writer. I wish I could use that same armor I had when I was on the road and say 'Fuck it!' But I haven't gotten that far yet."

"Fuck that!" Jason said, furiously stirring his drink. "You can't live like that! Shit! What's that old saying? 'I'd rather be counted among those who tried and failed than with those who had neither the will to try or the desire to falter.' I don't know who said that. But seriously, if those people don't want to publish your work, then fuck them! Go to someone else! You can't let someone else's opinion tell you what you are!"

He was calling me out. "I don't let anybody tell me who or what I am," he said. "I'm a high-school dropout. Look at me now -- I have an intelligence job. If I had listened to the stupid fucks who told me I wouldn't amount to anything, I wouldn't be doing what I'm doing now."

I knew he was right, of course he was. He still is. But at least I bit the bullet and admitted that I'm a coward.

At last call Jason shook hands with the other people in the bar and we walked outside. An April rain was falling just enough to make walking to the car an annoying process. He didn't care. "I'm not going to see rain for at least six months, I have to soak it up now. I love this weather..." The rain streaked down his shaved head, snaking over a vein in his temple. He trailed off, turning to me and pretending not to notice that I was walking slower than usual, trying to prolong the moment before I had to let go. Deep down I knew it was good practice for saying goodbye to my brother when he leaves for war, but that didn't really make it any easier. If anything, it made it worse.

Finally, after an agonizingly slow stroll to my car, we shared a short hug. "Be safe out there," I warned, my words floating thinly through the raindrops.
"Oh, I'll be fine! You know me..."
"Yeah, you're right. I do."

But did I? Do I? This is a stranger who wandered into my life three weeks ago, quickly became a constant, and now is leaving again, just as quick as he came. And he's leaving a mark I won't soon forget.

Oh, wait. That's what I did last year. So the truth is yes, I do know him.

The story has come full-circle and it's only half-finished.