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Chasing Amanda

By Robin Patchen

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“So now we’re going to attack a nation of innocent civilians.” The long-haired English professor on the opposite side of the booth leaned forward and slapped his hand against the table.
Lieutenant Mark Johnson shot a look at Justin, who sat at the end of the table to his right. His friend shrugged and poured another swig of beer down his throat. If Mark were going to endure this, he would definitely need another drink.
The English professor continued the lecture, focusing most of his attention on the other two men at the table, sycophants with wide eyes and slack jaws. Maybe their slack jaws could be attributed to the professor’s brilliant discourse. More likely they were shocked he’d spew his beliefs in front of a Marine just two months after September eleventh. The professor had started out sounding almost intelligent, but the more the squirmy little guy drank, the less sense he made. Great. A liquored up anti-American on a soapbox.
Mark scanned the room. Where was that waitress? The bar had filled since he and Justin arrived an hour before, and he couldn’t find the girl who’d brought their first round of drinks anywhere. He wouldn’t miss her—her face was pierced with more metal than a suicide bomber’s vest.
“This whole thing is our fault to begin with,” Professor Lightweight continued. “Those so-called terrorists are only responding to American imperialism.”
Every muscle in Mark’s body tensed. He turned his attention back to the professor and folded his arms on the table. He leaned slightly forward and stopped. Why did he care what the guy thought? He shook his head and sat back again.
The man’s eyes darted from Mark’s face to the others around the table.
On his left, the chubby redhead leaned forward. “I’m not sure about that, Professor…” And he was off, chasing the American imperialism rabbit trail.
The professor nodded his agreement, then downed the last drop of his frou-frou drink. An appletini, Mark thought.
The apron strings hanging along the waitress’s backside caught Mark’s eye as she scooted behind his chair. “Excuse me.”
The woman startled and turned. Not the metal-infested face he’d expected, but a blond-haired, blue-eyed stunner.
“You need something?” Her gaze met his, then darted across the room. Tears hovered in her eyes and made them sparkle.
He cocked his head to the side. “You okay?”
He followed her gaze. Two men at a bar-height table near the door were staring at her. One seemed to be laughing, the other’s mouth hung open. When he caught her gaze, he licked his lips.
Mark wanted to stand, but she was right behind his chair, and he didn’t want to ram into her. “They bothering you?”
She looked at him again, then at the others at the table. “You guys need another round?”
Mark heard their chorus of yeses. He kept his eyes on the men. They kept their eyes on her.
“Did you want another one?” she asked.
“Sure.”
She walked away, keeping at least two tables between her and those men as she made her way toward the bar. She stopped near the front door and whispered in the ear of a tall, bald man wearing a black, button-down shirt. The bouncer. She pointed to the two yahoos, then continued to the waitress’s station.
The bouncer elbowed his way to the guys and escorted them outside.
She hadn’t needed his help after all.
“…to Iraq, which was his plan all along,” the professor said. “That’s why they didn’t stop it. Any excuse to get Saddam.”
Mark glared at Justin. “Seriously? I come all the way to visit you, and you make me endure this guy?”
His friend shrugged. “He’s not usually like this.”
“Meaning he’s usually a sober anti-American conspiracy theorist?”
Justin laughed, poured the last of his beer down his throat, and belched. “Ignore him.” When the professor opened his mouth, Justin jabbed him in the ribs and lowered his voice. “Knock it off. Mark’s had enough.”
The professor hiccuped. “Have I offended the bellicose combatant?” He slurred his insult. “Ought I to be afraid?”
Mark squeezed his fists, took a deep breath, and tipped his chair back. Something else to look at. Any distraction would work.
“Hey,” Justin said. “He’s my friend. Knock it off.”
“Don’t worry.” The professor patted Justin on the back of his hand. “He probably doesn’t even understand what I said.”
Mark lowered the legs of his chair and set his elbows on table. “I’m a Marine, so I must be an idiot, right?”
The professor shrugged, not bothering to hide his smile.
“What do you teach, professor?”
“Literature. I prefer British, but I dabble in French and American, when I must.”
“So you think understanding Shakespeare makes you qualified to discuss Middle Eastern politics?”
The professor opened his mouth to speak, but Justin interrupted. “Mark studied…” He looked at Mark for confirmation. “Middle Eastern history, right?”
The professor’s eyebrows rose. “Community College?”
“Arabic language and culture. The Naval Academy.”
“I see. Easier to kill them when you understand them.”
Mark leaned toward the little man.
The professor’s eyes widened, his mouth opened in a little O.
“‘A peace is of the nature of a conquest; for then both parties nobly are subdued, and neither party loser.’” Shakespeare. That ought to shut him up.
The professor straightened, blinked.
The pierced waitress returned, the dim lights reflecting off the bolt in her nose. “Amanda said you needed another round.” She handed out the drinks, careful to balance the professor’s appletini as she lifted it across the table. He didn’t take it from her. Instead, he looked down her shirt when she leaned over to set it in front of him. Drunk, conspiracy theorist, letch. The list grew.
The waitress straightened, handed Mark his beer, and met his eyes. She laid her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you.”
Mark thanked her, sipped his beer, and sat back again. Easier to ignore the professor that way. He scanned the bar. Where was that blond? Amanda, the waitress had called her. There, handing out longnecks to a bunch of college kids crowded around a table with too few chairs. She was smiling.
He looked beyond her, took in the room. Most people were younger than he. His friend, the eternal student, had dragged him here tonight, and it might’ve been fun if not for the arrival of Professor Lightweight and his fan club. The bar had that hopeful attitude you find in college towns. People standing, drinking, flirting. A group of five girls—women, he supposed—threw back test tubes full of green liquid. They’d regret that in the morning. A couple was locked in an embrace against the far wall. Students sat on every stool and stood lining the bar three or four deep.
Then the hair on the back of Mark’s neck stood up. He scanned the room again, more slowly. There, by the window at a table for two sat a young man, alone. Hoodie pulled up over his head, yellow-blond hair sticking out underneath. Mark followed the man’s gaze. Saw the blond waitress. The man watched her as she took drink orders from a table a few feet away. He could hear her voice above the din. Carefree now that those two jerks had been kicked out. Mark’s gaze returned to the hooded guy by the windows. Still watching.
Mark rubbed the back of his neck. He couldn’t rub away the feeling. Something was wrong.
Justin’s voice rose above the crowd. “You should see this guy in action,” he said, tilting his amber-colored bottle in Mark’s direction. “The women this guy gets. We should’ve all been Marines, eh?”
Mark raised his eyebrows, shook his head. “That’s why I joined.”
The professor looked like he might lose his liquor. The chubby redhead’s eyes widened, the other guy looked from the professor to Mark.
“It’s true, isn’t it? Since September eleventh?” Justin elbowed his forearm, splashed his beer on Mark’s T-shirt.
Mark grabbed a cocktail napkin and soaked up the liquid. “I’ll admit women have been a bit more . . . grateful in the last couple of months.”
Justin raised his glass. “See? Perfect for Mark. Still never getting married, right?”
Mark nodded, half smiled. “Unlike you. Does your fiancee know she’s going to have to forever support your addiction to school?”
Justin shook his head. “Nah. I’ll finish my Master’s this fall and hopefully…” He nodded to the professor, “be hired full-time next summer.”
The professor picked up the conversation, and the other guys joined in. Mark ignored them, scanning the bar again. Hoodie kept his eyes on the waitress. She didn’t seem to realize she was being watched. Then, just like that, she disappeared out the front door. End of her shift? He glanced at his watch—just after eleven. He looked up in time to see the creepy guy in the hoodie follow her.
The hair on the back of his neck rose again, and this time, Mark rose with it. He tossed a twenty on the table. “I’ll meet you back at your condo.”
Justin started to stand, but Mark dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Stay. Have fun. I’ll see you later.”

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