Of Course Stacey

Of Course Stacey: A Victim of War

John W. Gilmore

“Don't get too sentimental on me now.”

“Don't you worry about that. I have no intention to,” she said. Her face was all scrunched up and angry looking.

“You can be so ugly when you want to.” She sneered at me. “I don't know what that war did to you, but you're the meanest woman I've ever met. Jesus! I told you your damn dog just got hit and they took him away off the street, and you don't even care.”

“I do care. There's no reason to cry about it though, is there? Is that going to help, Carl? Really? He's gone. Do you want me to cry or something?” I walked over and sat on the sofa facing her. She was sitting in the adjacent stuffed chair. I looked at her. I didn't have an answer. I could see a tear slowly rolling down her cheek. I leaned forward and took her hand. She began to cry. It was as if all of those years of holding back the tears broke loose like a damn. I pulled her close as she lifted out of the chair and onto the sofa beside me, and held her as she sobbed. I hadn't expect this. I hated the bitch.

She had been a horrible, cold woman from the time we met. After the Gulf War we met in a small coffee shop. I was interested in starting a small internet business. I did a lot of back end work on websites. It was a lot of the programming behind the pictures. It was the stuff that made the page work...all the links, the buttons, the pictures would be nothing without all of the back end programming. My other friends started telling me about this brilliant woman named Stacey.

It seemed like synchronicity. I kept hearing about her and how she was interested in starting the same type of business I wanted and how good she was in web design. We seemed like perfect match. And so we met that fateful day at Starbucks in downtown Philadelphia. She was just starting as a grad student at Penn after getting out of the National Guard who was sick of it already. She wanted to leave early and start her own business.

I guess she wanted to follow the path of many of the tech wizards who had left college early and had made their fortunes. I had only gotten an Associates Degree in Business. Everything I learned about computers came from self study and practice. We were very different. We knew that from the first, but she was brilliant and I guess she thought I was too. There she was, carrying her mac book--a small woman with blond hair tied in a knot at the back of her head wearing fatigues and army colored Tee-shirt. I hated macs, and all that shit she was wearing too.

We sat at a table in the back corner of the shop and began to talk. She showed me some of her designs. She was a great web designer. She was intense, with laughing eyes, but even then I could sense something...a bit of sadness, or pain. We talked about our lives and our selves as we leafed through several pictures and designs.

“I was a prisoner of war for a while,” she said out of nowhere. “Everybody thinks that war was a cakewalk, but it wasn't for us. That was a lot of PR. I had to do things no other human being should ever have to do, especially to civilians.” She paused and looked away for a moment and then turn back toward me. “I was always in danger of being attacked, or sniped, or maybe running over a bomb, or walking past a car with explosives hidden in it 24/7. That's no way to live. I think it will haunt me for the rest of my life.” She looked down at her computer keyboard.

I didn't know what to say. I thought the war was a disaster and we never should have been in it, but I didn't think that would be very comforting. “Must have been horrible for you,” I said, instead. She looked up.

“That's an understatement. I was taken prisoner, beaten and abused. I was just lucky enough to escape when the Americans were shelling the compound and ran off into the desert. I wondered around in the desert with a concussion for three days until they found me.” I speechless. What do you say when someone tells you something like that? I hope you had a good sunscreen? I sipped my coffee. A couple of students slid in a booth across from us as I watched.

“I'm sorry that happened to you,” I finally said.

“That's just the way things go sometimes,” she eventually said, very nonchalantly.

“Really? That's all you have to say about it? I mean, what did you do? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. Life isn't easy, Carl. Don't you know that? You have to make lemonade when life gives you lemons, don't you?”

“Yeah, but didn't that at least make you pause a little. I mean, do you go to a group and talk about it or something?”

“If you pause you lose, Carl. Remember that. This is a race I intend to win.” She looked me in the eye. “I talked about it. A lot of people sat in a little circle and talked about it week after week, but the time comes when you have to stop talking and move on.”

“Well if you ever want to...”

“I'll let you know,” she said sternly. “Can we get on with this, please? I don't mean to sound like a bitch, but you're here to talk about being my working partner, not my therapist, OK? This is who I am. So you have to decide if you can handle that and if you want to work with me.” She looked me in the eye. “I love your work and I'm all for it. How about you? Will you stop trying to be my counselor and be my partner? I don't need a counselor.”

“OK. I can do that. It's fine with me. Fifty-Fifty.” We shook hands, and that summed up our relationship for the next ten years. Did I care about her? How could I not? She was nice and friendly. She was funny sometimes, but she was cold. Seems like she just couldn't identify with other people's pain because she couldn't even identify with her own. The only time she ever seemed warm and emotional was with that damn dog of hers.

She got Robby out of a shelter. He was a golden retriever puppy who had been caged most of his life with his mother, who had been put to sleep. She just fell in love with him and said he reminded her of herself. He grew...and grew and grew. You know how they grow. He was a beautiful dog with a big, swishy fan tail who loved to run and destroy the shoes of anyone who was crazy enough to leave one out in the open with him anywhere in sight. The dog was a delight.

I only came over to visit her once, when we were working on a project with an immediate deadline. That made it OK. Otherwise she didn't want anyone in her house, but that dog. She didn't have any friends visit. She always thought people wanted to take something from her, or steal something from her. She called it her personal space. She was fanatical about protecting her self and her space.

That is what her mantra became. She often talked about how she had to become stronger and more assertive. She didn't. She was just horrible with people and self centered. Being more assertive was the last thing she needed. Now the worst thing possible had happened--poor Robby was gone.

I held her in my arms and let her cry. She cried for quite some time. She looked up into my face. Our eyes met. She looked away shyly and then drew back as she wiped her eyes.

“I'm sorry. I just don't know what came over me.”

“It's OK Stacey. Your dog just got killed.”

“I know. I just don't usually lose control like that. Let's get to work.”

“What are you talking about? I just came over to tell you about your dog?”

“I know, but we can get a little work done now that you're here, can't we?” She smiled. “We have a deadline coming up.” I was speechless. “Please,” she said.

“Sure, Stacey. Let's get to work.” She opened her computer and I shook my head slightly, while she wasn't looking. We began to work on the next project. I hadn't expected that. I logged on to my Google Drive using my phone.

“Didn't bring your computer, eh?” She asked. “You have to be ready to deal with anything Carl. How many times have I told you that?” She put her hand on mine. “I'm sorry for being so intense. Thanks for helping we work through this. Sometimes you have to just push on through.”

I sighed. “Of course Stacey,” I said. “Let's just push on through.” At that moment I realized that I didn't hate her. How could anybody who really knew her?