Dear John--part 3 of 15 - Sex Stories

Dear John--part 3 of 15

... him, try and make him understand that neither of us could help ourselves and that we are here for him,” he said. “He just has to let us.”

“I know, I know,” she said.

******

The plane ride was bumpy and loud and uncomfortable but it was direct to Tucson except for one short stop in Fort Stewart, Georgia. I was settled into the Hot House Motel—that was actually the name of the place—and kicking back.

My initial disability check was also already deposited. I had cut the woman off from getting the direct deposit of my regular paycheck of which I still had one of coming. So, I was going to be able to get a decent place soon. It wouldn’t be no castle on the Rhine, and I’d actually seen one of those on the ride to the airfield, but it would be good enough for an old soldier like me. Well, okay, not an old one at age 27 almost 28, but a veteran at all events.

I hadn’t heard from the woman since the Dear John letter that she’d sent me. It seemed odd being back and not seeing her or the babies. The babies were five or six years old now. Beautiful I was sure.

The military had seen fit to give me a decent wheelchair. It was small and collapsible for cab rides, kinda neat actually. I still technically had a ’93 Silverado back in Phoenix, but to get it I would have to have checked in with the baddies, so I just figured to write it off and forget it. It was nigh on ten years old and probably needed work at all events, so sayo-fuckin-nara. I’d get some new wheels with hand controls as soon as I could afford them. I’d get by. I didn’t need their fucking charity.

The good news for me was that the Hot House Motel was next door to the Hot House Bar and Grill. Was I a lucky sonovabitch or what!

The Hot House as a residence lasted one week. My last regular paycheck arrived at the end of the week and I was able to pay the first and last on a little, 600 square foot, one bedroom with all utilities paid except phone which I didn’t have one of anyway.

“I’d been hanging at the HH B&G all most every night during the week that I’d lived next door. The looks I got from strangers when they saw my facial injuries were hurtful. No one ever sat near me at the bar, and a couple of the patrons, women, on day two of my stay, were clearly talking about me in low tones and their furtive glances in my direction were not empathetic. Nobody said anything, but I was clearly an unpopular newbie. Well, that was just too damn bad for them. I wasn’t about to just stay in my room waiting to die; they’d just need to get used to me being there.

******

“The Army had my address. They had to have it. My VA medical, my disability checks, my records if I did finally find some work somewhere: all depended in some way or other on them, the Army, being able to locate me or verify that I was a real person with a real record of service.

At any rate, them, the Army, having my records made it possible for somebody to find me. The cheaters had finally gotten whomsoever to ...