The Scar

My stomach rumbled, I'd only had a Moon Pie for lunch, with a chaser of RC Cola. The sugar rush was gone and I was hungry and tired.

And needed to pee.

The one on the left was a guy, floppy long mousey grey-brown hair. Glasses with wire frames. Skinny hands. Jutting cheek bones and thin lips above a scraggly goatee. I was a little surprised he didn't have a man-bun. The one in the middle could almost be a clone, except she was a woman. Like the one on the left she was of indeterminate age. Instead of floppy hair, hers, also mousey grey-brown, was pulled back in a bun so tight I didn't think she could close her eyes properly.

Maybe she thought it would keep wrinkles at bay, and was cheaper than surgery. Or bo-tox.

The third looked like a football coach. A football coach who used to be a baseball coach who got hit in the head by a fastball three too many times, after which he went into football and used himself as a practice tackle dummy for the defensive line to practice sacking quarter-backs with. Again and again. And again. Then he decided to go into pro boxing, and wasn't any good. But kept trying. I waited for them to say something.

The coach guy had this dreamy smile on his face the whole time as the other two asked the usual questions about my experience, my education to that point, which profs at which Universities I had studied under that they might know, what my plans for the future were, on and on. There was a shaft of light coming in, I studied the dust motes floating around in it.

I tried hard to stay awake. I knew I wasn't getting this grant. These two dried up profs were going on and on about their own experience. The coach guy was still smiling dreamily, but there was something about his eyes, they weren't so dreamy after all, were they?

Then it was quiet for a while. I tried to bring myself back to full awareness.

Nerdy prof type on the left shuffled papers around and cleared his throat. I looked over at him, expecting another question. It came, but not from him.

"Where'd you get the scar?" Asked Coach guy.

I snapped my head back to the right and stared at Coach guy in surprise. That was the first thing he'd said.

The goat story was on the tip of my tongue, then the duel story, when I got a look into his eyes. Then the eyes of the others. I thought I better not tell either version. Maybe the truth? Maybe.

"On a roadblock, checking vehicles. There was an explosion, I caught some shrapnel."

"And didn't get anything else?"

"No, it was very powerful. The rest are covered by my clothing. It went off a ways from where I was."

There was a PV2 who got a lot more. I didn't mention him.

"What kind of explosion? A what, IED thing? Or a car bomb?"

"No, it was a suicide bomber."

"But if it went off far enough away for you to survive, what happened? What caused it to explode early? Did the bomber make a mistake?"

The other profs were silently grimacing at the grilling, waiting for me to say something like I was running away or hiding.

"I shot the woman in the Burka that was wearing it."

"Ahh," from Coach guy.

"A woman? You shot a woman?" from hair pulled back too tight lady.

"Or was it a man in a burka?" from floppy hair guy.

I looked straight at floppy hair guy and spoke.

"No way to tell afterwards if it was a man or a woman, not without a DNA test. But in my mind it was a woman. Yes, I shot a woman." I looked at hair pulled back as I said that last bit.

There was silence.

"Running at you then?" said Coach guy.

"No, just acting suspiciously."

The pale prof at the other end of the table looked up. The woman in the middle opened her eyes even wider.

"What about her made you shoot. Exactly," from Coach guy.

I took a breath.

"Not sure exactly. It felt like she was chanting prayers, she did turn and start a step toward us. But just the one before I fired. I just had a feeling."

"Anyone else hurt?" asked the coach guy.

"Yeah, she'd stepped out to the side, but only a little, so the car in front of her was messed up, killed the occupants. The one in front of that was also damaged, the people in the back seat were killed, the driver was wounded. The donkey she was leading was splattered everywhere. There was other damage in the cars behind her and the one we were set to check. With more wounded."

"And you could see her lips moving?" this from hair pulled back woman. Her stretched out eyes seemed to drill into me.

"No, couldn't see her face, only an eye slit covered in gauze, or lace or something. Just had a feeling."

I seemed to smell the explosives, the heat and the dust, the blood, the shit and piss from the dead and wounded. Donkey blood and bits, and the bomber's, everywhere. And vomit. Definitely vomit. Trying to make it up my throat, and around me. The room seemed dry and hot. Oven hot. In the distance I seemed to hear the gurgles the El-Tee made as he puked up lunch. The arterial blood from the newbie PV2 squirting into the dirt sounded like a garden hose opened up.

Yeah, maybe I should have told the goat story. The room was deathly silent, I was about to get up, this interview was a bust.

The middle prof spoke again.

"Normally this grant goes to a traditional student."

Those too-widely opened eyes darted from side to side, as if checking with the others.

"Your previous studies, and your academics are... good, and while not all of your studies are exactly in step with the ones suggested for the grant, they are similar. Close, very close."

I waited for them to let me down gently.

"The recommendations from your advisor and professors are very flattering. However your electives seem to be indicate interest in several directions," Said floppy haired nerd on the left.

OK, this is definitely not going my way, but then this was just one of the irons I had in the fire. I could make it without this grant. Maybe I'd have to take a gap year or two and earn the money by working full time.

"There is the mention in the requirements about the candidate being well rounded in his interests and off campus activities," said the coach guy.

"Yes, there is," admitted hair pulled back woman.

Floppy haired guy smiled at that.

They all turned their heads and looked at each other.

I sighed, I'd been sitting in that waiting room for two and a half hours while all the other interviews took place. I was the last, and these guys wanted to get away and drink sherry and mull over the decision before posting it next week. I needed another RC. After a visit to the men's room. My bladder was really complaining.

Then they surprised me.

"As has been noted, you aren't the most traditional candidate. And perhaps not the closest, strictly speaking, to the academic requirements, but there are other requirements... and recommendations."

She looked again at the other two. Then spoke again.

"But we all agree that you should have the third grant."

I was stunned. They never awarded a grant this valuable during the interview. Never. Always a week or so later.

The coach type guy grinned. The others didn't change expression.

"Congratulations," said floppy hair guy.

The woman tried to smile. It wasn't pretty, she needed practice. I stood up.

"You'll get the official notification by mail in the next week or so," said the coach.

They all got up and saw me out of the room. I was dazed, completely dazed. It was weird. My money worries were over, I'd get to finish this degree. I don't even remember getting back to my apartment in the graduate housing area.

I guess that old gypsy was right when she said that 'The Truth Shall Set You Free.' Or was that Mrs Thornton, my old Sunday School teacher?

God I hope that old gypsy woman was wrong about how I was going to die.