Outcast

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Table of Contents

by
Lewis Ericson

 

 

This story would not be told in a manner befitting the subject matter if it had not been for the collaborative efforts of a group of extraordinary people who have given of themselves and shared their hearts and souls.

A very special Thank You to Mr. Pleas Butts, III

Mitchi, author of
Angel Blues

Brad “Baruch” Stone, NREMT—Intermediate

Thanks to my screeners and sounding boards that keep me honest . . .

A.F. Scott

Angelia Crawl

Adriane Rivers

Dianne Hamilton

Grady Harp

Travis Lee

Kim Sims author of
Transcendent
and
Sensuously Seasoned

Tim Dahl, thanks for your indulgence.

And finally a big THANK YOU to the editors and staff of Urban Books.

E-mail: [email protected]

 

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832)

The crunch of teeth grinding against one another and the copper taste of his own blood made Tirrell Ellis as angry as an attacking lion. He drunkenly stumbled into a wall of antagonistic hands that pushed him back into the center of the melee. It didn't matter that his opponent was taller and outweighed him by almost fifty pounds; Tirrell had learned to fight with everything—anything at his disposal.

A jarring left uppercut to his chin sent Tirrell flailing to the floor. The roar of the crowd around him was deafening. Through the delirium of beer and tequila shots, he struggled to get up, pulling on the brass rails of the bar. Before he could collect himself he felt the sting of a steel blade slice into his forearm. Tirrell grabbed a bottle lying inches away from his fingertips, turned sharply, and lunged at his assailant. Swinging violently, he knocked the knife out of the man's hands and smashed the bottle against his skull. Tirrell repeatedly hit the man as he fell backward. Blood sprayed from his open gash like water. He pleaded for Tirrell to stop.

“Drop it and put your hands in the air! I said drop it, Ellis!” The commanding voice that exploded above the jeers brought a halt to the attack.

Tirrell dropped the shard that was left of the bottle and he sank slowly to his knees. As he raised his arms to surrender he was snatched by the scruff of his neck and his face was shoved into the floor. “Get off me, man,” Tirrell yelled as a knee was jammed into the small of his back, pinning him down. He winced as his hands were twisted and locked into a pair of handcuffs; then he was yanked to his feet and dragged out of the bar into the humid night air.

 

It was just after five-thirty in the morning. The scorching orange-yellow-white glow of the languid summer sun boiled over the horizon early, unwilling to relinquish its grip over North Carolina, or the rest of the eastern half of the country.

Tirrell lay wide awake atop an unyielding metal bunk, restless and disgusted that he couldn't get comfortable enough to get a good night's sleep. He flexed his bandaged left bicep and grunted. Lifting his head slightly from the flat pancake of a pillow, he stared at another man sleeping in a bunk across from him. His bearish snoring indicated that he was not at odds with the conditions in any way.

Tirrell glanced at the cracked face of his wristwatch, threw his legs over the side of the bunk, and slowly stood up. He yawned and arched backward to stretch out the kinks in his taut six-foot-one-inch frame. The muffled sound of marching and cadence nearby piqued his interest. He glanced up toward the long rectangular window encased in the impenetrable cinder-block walls and hoisted himself up onto a small rusted metal sink to get a look. There was a certain curiosity as to whether or not the ceremony would have a different perspective with him locked away in this fortress.

“Man, you gon' get yourself into worse trouble if you don't get down from there.”

Tirrell looked over his shoulder to see that his cellmate had awakened. The surly man scratched the whiskers of his unshaven chin and propped himself up on his elbows.

“Mind yo' damn business,” Tirrell shot back. His eyes darted toward the small window in the steel door that stood between him and freedom, defying the guards to catch him in the act.

“A'ight, tough guy. Suit yourself.” The man rolled off his bunk and shuffled across the concrete floor to relieve himself at the shared metal toilet next to the sink.

Tirrell focused his attention back outside, where the Honor Guard, accompanied by six privates, marched toward the flagpole in the center of the courtyard to commence their morning ritual.

“Detail. Attention!” barked the husky sergeant as the Stars and Stripes were raised upward into place.

The company of soldiers snapped and saluted as the familiar sound of reveille resonated throughout the campus. Military and non-military personnel alike stopped in homage of this time-honored tradition.

Tirrell ran his hand over his close-cropped fade and down his face, pondering for the umpteenth time why he'd ever signed on. It wasn't as if he took any of this seriously. He didn't want a career. He bought into the commercial hype and was just looking for a little adventure—maybe even garner some respect along the way. He'd grown weary of aimlessly running the streets of his hometown neighborhood, but what exactly was he hoping to prove by joining the Army? His chance to be all he could be, or at the very least more than he was, had taken a toll.

With a sense of misdirected pride, Tirrell ran his tongue over the cut on his bottom lip and glanced at the bruised knuckles on his hands, recalling the incident that landed him in this predicament. He heard the rattling of keys and jumped down from his perch just as the steel door swung open. He sucked in his cheeks and glowered at the MP, following his eyes as he surveyed the ten-by-ten space. Tirrell leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest with equal amounts of arrogance and insolence, taking a stance that was sure to provoke them.

The MP moved his hand slowly toward his holstered weapon as if to intimidate him. It didn't work.

The guard didn't say a word—he didn't have to. Tirrell knew what was coming. He retrieved his fatigue shirt from the foot of his bunk and slipped into it.

“Can I at least have a last cigarette?” He smirked.

The guard was not amused and grabbed him by his wounded arm, shoving him toward the door.

Tirrell scowled. “Man, damn. Watch it!”

Outside the cell they were joined by another MP and the two escorted Tirrell to his fate. Preparing himself for what lay ahead, he silently counted the steps from the cell to his sergeant's office.

First Sergeant Ken Horton did little to dispel the stereotype of the hard-edged career soldier. The barrel-chested man who stood a foot shorter than Tirrell was just as gruff inside as he was outside. Not one to mince words, and never very tactful when it came to dealing with the men in his charge, he sneered at Tirrell's salute and laid into him as soon as he entered his office.

“Ellis, what the hell is wrong with you? I got a phone call at two in the morning about your stupid ass gettin' into some more dumb shit.”

The man was two shades darker than Tirrell's paper-sack brown complexion, but if he could have turned red from his acerbic attack he would have.

“Are you fuckin' retarded? I told you what would happen if you didn't keep a lid on that temper of yours, didn't I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shut the fuck up! I can't save you this time, boy. I don't know what the captain is gonna do to your sorry ass! I can't believe you did all this over a piece of pussy!”

A knock at the door brought an abrupt end to the sergeant's tirade. A bespectacled, bookish-looking clerk stuck his head inside.

“Excuse me, Sergeant Horton.”

“What is it?”

“Captain Walters is ready to see you, sir.”

The man nodded and waved the clerk away. He looked at Tirrell and shook his head. “Ellis, I don't know what the hell you're thinkin'. Do you know that you can be kicked out on your ass for this or worse? Is that what you want? A dishonorable? Answer me, boy!”

“No, sir.”

“Then what the hell did you enlist for if all you're gonna do is keep fuckin' up?”

Tirrell's hazel eyes shifted from the sergeant to the floor. “I don't know, sir.”

The sergeant squared his shoulders. “I really hoped you were gonna be able to pull your head out of your ass. You could have been a halfway decent soldier, Ellis. Instead, you're a goddamn disgrace!”

Tirrell closed his eyes, demeaned by the dressing-down and disappointment he heard in his superior's voice.

“Let's go. We may as well get this over with.”

Sergeant Horton stepped quickly into the company commander's office ahead of Tirrell, who was flanked by the two stoic MPs. They saluted the white-haired grandfatherly man seated behind a large oak desk as he raised his eyes above the rims of his glasses. He closed the thick official manila folder in his hands and laid it down in front of him. “Private Ellis.” The man stood, rounded the massive desk, and removed his glasses.

Tirrell unflinchingly met his cool blue-eyed gaze. Working in the motor pool, he'd seen the captain a few times, but had no direct contact with him until now.

“You've been seeing Dr. Miles for anger management for the past few weeks. That arrangement apparently isn't working out very well for you.”

“Yes, sir.” Tirrell read the captain's puzzled look. “I mean no, sir. It doesn't seem to be.”

“Some very serious charges have been leveled against you, obviously not the first time, but definitely the worst. How do you answer to them?”

Tirrell swallowed back the acid rising in his throat. “You got my file right there, sir.”

“I can read, Private. But, I want to hear what you have to say. A man is lying in the infirmary with his head split open as the result of a common barroom brawl. Was it worth it? Was it worth almost killing a man and putting your career on the line?”

Tirrell shot his Sergeant a side-glance and then his gaze returned to the captain. “No, sir.”

“You've been in trouble before. You've been warned.”

“Is he going to die, sir?”

“No. And you can be thankful that he's not, otherwise, you'd be facing a murder charge.”

Tirrell's jaws tightened and he sighed. “May I speak freely, sir?”

“By all means.”

“I've been thinking. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to forgo any formalities and just plead guilty.”

The man scratched his bushy brow; he appeared bewildered. “So, you're taking complete responsibility here?”

“Yes, sir. Just do whatever it is you feel you have to do.”

“I've spoken to the judicial advocate in regard to your many offenses, and I have his recommendation as to how to best handle this situation, Private. I don't necessarily agree with it, but I have taken it under advisement.”

Silence fell in the room. The captain moved to the window and stared out over the parade grounds. “Before I make my decision I'd like to know what happened in your own words.”

Tirrell cleared his throat. “I was out at the Enlisted Men's Club with a couple of the guys from B Company.”

“Privates Hutch and Caldwell.”

“Yes, sir. We were just hangin' out, you know, havin' a good time.”

“Drinking?”

“Yes, sir. We had a few beers.” Tirrell neglected to add that they'd been smoking marijuana as well.

The captain turned and glared at him as if expecting him to admit to more, but no such confession was forthcoming. “Go on.”

“Private Sims came out of nowhere, shoved me into the wall, and accused me of messin' around with his girl.”

“Messing around with her?”

“He accused me of havin' sex with her, sir.”

The captain nodded.

“He got all up in my face sayin' how he was gonna kick my ass. I laughed it off and tried to walk away, sir. That's when he grabbed me, spun me around, and punched me in the mouth. He had a knife. He cut me. I thought he was gonna kill me. I had to defend myself.”

“With a beer bottle?”

“Yes, sir. I hit him with it.”

“And you kept hitting him, didn't you, Private? Over and over and over until he was damn near unconscious?”

“Yes, sir. The next thing I knew the MPs were draggin' me out of there and tossed me in the stockade.”

The captain pointed to Tirrell's arm. “You paid a little visit to the infirmary yourself, didn't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was Private Sims right? Were you having sex with his girl?”

“Yes, sir. But I wasn't the only one. I told him that, too. His girl . . . His girl is a whore, sir.” Tirrell stifled a smirk.

The captain returned to his desk. He slid the glasses in his hand up on his face until they rested on the bridge of his nose, and leaned over and picked up the folder.

“Private Ellis, you've been charged with being drunk and disorderly on base, and aggravated assault. Looking at your history and the outcome of your actions in this matter, you could be facing a minimum of eighteen months to three years' confinement. You'd lose your rank and your pay. I've spoken with Dr. Miles; he believes that, given another chance and more therapy, you could learn more self-control. But, taking into account what I've seen in your file, I'm not inclined to believe it. I could perhaps swing this situation in your favor. You claim that this time it was an act of self-defense—perhaps that's true. Maybe you should get a chance to redeem yourself. Tell me, Private; what do you want to do? Should you be given another chance?”

Tirrell inhaled, filling his cheeks with air and blowing it out slowly. Here he stood desperately wanting to walk away from the regimented order he never really wanted to be part of. He'd always been rebellious, but acting out and doing time were two different things. The stockade was definitely not going to be the answer.

“Private Ellis?”

Tirrell glanced shamefully toward his sergeant and then turned back to the captain.

“Captain, I never thought of this whole Army thing as a career move.”

“What did you think it was going to be? Club Med?”

“No, sir. I just wanted to do something different with my life. Give my life some meaning, but this isn't for me. This is somebody else's dream. Not mine. I think I'm done here, sir.”

“Done?”

“You can lock me up. Take away my pay. But, in all honesty, I just want out, sir.”