Shoulda' Flipped a Coin

The sound of a coffee cup slamming down onto a wooden table evokes a hard blink and slight jump from a stocky, but solidly built, middle-aged black woman, whose short-cropped hair sports more than a few patches of grey. Former Army Sergeant first class, Taylor Orlando, fidgets uneasy at the far end of a large table full of women. She looks to the source of the noise.

A celebration is at hand- as food, drink, laughter and profanity riddled chatter abound. There are seats open closer to everyone else, but Taylor wishes she had more space between her and the happy chaos. Her nervous, unsteady smile proves that.

The women at the party run the gamut- of ages, sizes, colors and identifications. Each is uniquely different, aside from attire, which offers little variance in style or color. The reason for that is simple. There is a strict wardrobe code at Starling Correction Center, the extended stay prison Taylor has been forced to call home for the better part of four years.

The party’s guest of honor is Cassidy (Big Cass) Hopkins, a large, forty-ish, rugged woman. Her disheveled shoulder-length kinky red-brown hair curtains her face, occasionally falling into it. Doing hard time, even by Starling standards, she is serving fourteen years for beating a guy to death with a stapler. She flashes embarrassment as a cake with lit candles is set in front of her by a woman who appears to be quite fond of her.

Taylor’s gaze is drawn to the flames, as she fakes a smile and lip-syncs along while the rest of the women sing Happy Birthday. Her hands tense up their grip on her coffee cup… ‘I just gotta survive the song, cake and presents, then get back to my cell’.

She knows the rapid-fire barrage of clapping comes next. While an expression of joy for most, it’s a traumatic trigger sound for Taylor. After years inside with the same women, she’s better at enduring it than she used to be, but pretty sure this is as good as it will get for her, and she reckons- justifiably so.

Though a first offense, getting the maximum seven years was well-deserved, especially in Taylor’s mind. Her crime, while not consciously deliberate, was- in her own words, heinous and inexcusable. She would not use the extenuating circumstances or tragedy of her situation to shirk culpability…

A decorated army vet with untreated PTSD, a homeless Taylor relied on the kindness of strangers and contents of dumpsters for sustenance. Her only steady companionship was Sylvester, a street-smart alley cat. He started off as an uninvited tag- along, but soon became a permanent dinner guest after watching Taylor eat until the guilt got to be too much for her.

That was how it had started, but through time, Sylvester had proven himself more loyal than any two-legged being Taylor had encountered since returning from her last tour of duty.

Had it not been for an un-dented can of tuna at the bottom of a nearly empty dumpster, they may well have still been together, roaming the streets, hungry- but free.

But the can was down there, and the dumpster was tall, and Taylor’s height was about a foot less than your average soldier, together a well camouflaged recipe for disaster.

The loud, off-key, overzealous singing fades, then goes silent in Taylor’s head as she flashes back to the incident…

Nearing the end of her usual scavenger route, a discouraged and hungry Taylor lifts the lid on the last unchecked dumpster. It reveals a hidden gem: A small silver can in the corner with a fish in a hat and glasses on the label. Score! An unopened can of protein her and Sylvester both could agree on.

Taylor makes a grab for it. Sylvester leans over her shoulder, salivating at the prospect of sharing a meal with his best friend. Taylor leans in and reaches down but comes up short. Tippy toes don’t do the trick either. She shifts her weight.

Her feet come up off the ground as she hangs over the edge of the bin on her stomach. She stretches her arm as far as she can but falls inches short. Taylor flashes stubborn determination as she stabilizes herself with her other hand on the side of the hopper. Sheer will gets her pinky atop the can. She drags it closer and snatches it up. “We got dinner, buddy!” her voice echoes from inside the metal cube.

There is suddenly a deafening pounding on the side of the can. Taylor falls into it face first. Her skull hits the dirty, wet bottom with the clank of metal on bone. Her mind flashes to the sound of artillery fire and soldiers falling around her.

In a terror-fueled blind rage, she comes up out of the dumpster swinging, can of tuna still in hand. Several flails later her panic subsides. She comes back to the here and now of the alley, and to a repetitive sound that’s part thud and part crunch.

As her eyes refocus, she finds herself atop the elderly shop keep whose dumpster she’d been raiding, slamming the can of tuna into his temple. His wire framed spectacles are smashed and mangled but still on his face.

Taylor realizes what she has done. She stops swinging, jumps to her feet and backs away, as if decreased proximity can distance her from the act she has just committed. The clerk’s wrinkled hand goes limp, releasing the bat he used to bang on the dumpster…

Meanwhile, back in her current reality, the singing stops. As Cass leans down to blow out her candles a patch of her untamed mane goes rogue and falls over her shoulder into the open flame. It puffs up, quickly aglow with burning embers.

Quick minded and fleet afoot, the woman who put the cake down tosses her glass of pop in Cass’s face. She is a good shot, and the fire is dowsed instantly.

A moment of stunned silence turns back to merriment as Cass regroups her hair and cuts the cake while everyone laughs about the miss-hap. 

Taylor dry heaves as the smell of the burning hair hits her. She cups her hand over her mouth, knocks her chair over as she gets up and sprints to her cell.

She half closes the door behind her, collapses in front of the toilet, and does the wet version of what she had done dry in the common. As she clutches the bowl, she tries to keep the horrific, encroaching memory out, but she is no more able to do that than she was able to keep the vomit in. She slumps to the ground and curls up in a ball on the floor as the flashback strong-arms its way into her head…

Taylor is heading her team on a routine supply run at the tail end of her second tour in Afghanistan. The sun beats down on their Humvee as it rolls down a desolate dirt road, kicking up more dust into air that is already laden with it.

A decade younger Taylor, in her prime, and her team of soldiers are cramped inside the truck. A surge of wind rushes the vehicle and blows sand and dust through the open window. The soldier closest to the window gets the worst of it.

He is Private Pete Morris, a mid-twenties, black male, who opted out of dodging bullets on the streets of his south-side Chicago neighborhood, for the security of three squares and army green. He turns away from the window, spits grit from his mouth, and angrily wipes the sand stuck on his sweaty cheek.

Across from him- Private Ophelia ‘O’ Suarez, also mid-twenties, a feisty Latina smirks, “Sick of this place yet, Morris?”

Morris grunts as he wipes more sand from his lip. “I was sick of this place before I got here.”

Taylor watches more dust spray into the open window “Mask up, guys. Bandanas at least. It’s a dusty one today.”

Grunts, grumbles and eye rolls erupt around the vehicle, but Taylor’s orders are followed. The most vocal objection comes from Private Anthony (Scarp) Scarpino, thirty, Brooklyn born and raised, and built like a tank. “Great! Somethin’ else to make it hotter.” He takes a worn bandana from his pocket and pulls it sloppily over his face.

Across from Taylor is her second in command, Corporal Quint Marley, mid-thirties. His southern drawl hints that when he’s not in army boots- he’s probably in cowboy boots. “At least we’ll smell less of your bad breath, Scarp!”

Scarpino cups his hand over his mouth, exhales heavily, then sniffs his palm. “It ain’t me- Marilee!

Marley stink eyes Scarpino over the Marilee shot. “It’s Marley... Corporal Marley to you, Scrote-ino!”

Orlando steps in before tempers heat and testosterone levels rise. “Come on Quint- you can’t pull rank and call him a scrote at the same time. It’s gotta be one or the other.”

Marley’s eyes roll at Taylor over the top of his mask. “You’re a buzzkill, boss.” His eyes pan to Scarpino with a mischievous squint, “And you’re still a scrote, Scarp.”

The last aboard is Danny ‘Red’ Kelley, not old enough to drink, but plenty old enough to handle AK47s and grenades. Skinny and wiry, with bright red hair, light skin, clear eyes and an eagerness to fit in that shows. “That smell is you, Scarp? I thought it was that rotting hyena carcass we rolled over.”

Suarez jumps on the bash Scarp bandwagon, “Hell no- that smelled liked roses compared to Scarp’s nasty-ass halitosis!”

Everyone laughs. The truck slows down as the man in the passenger seat leans through the center opening. Corporal Cliff Bennet, forties, is a soon to be retired lifer, and a giant of a man. His height and girth fill most of the front compartment. “Got a fork in the road- Sarge. Both routes get us to Nimruz. Same time, same distance… You wanna go left, or right?”

Suarez cheekily suggests, “Just flip a coin, boss.”

“What difference does it make? They’re both gonna suck.” Scarp grunts as he wipes his sweaty brow.

Taylor looks out the window at the dirt plumes on their left. “Go right. It’ll move us away from that dust bowl.”

Dirt swirls around it as the Humvee takes the right fork in the road, kicking up more sand behind it. The air is so thick with it that visibility turns white-out-like, save the white is tan. Finally, as they roll further along, the dust settles, and they can see through the air again.

“Thank God,” exclaims Scarpino as he tears his bandanna off.

Before he can tuck it back into his pocket, there is a deafening explosion as the ground erupts beneath them. The right front end of the Humvee bounces high in the air, hits back down hard, and lands, tire flat and fender bent. The passenger door is blown open. Bennet falls out– severely injured. Not moving.

The inside of the truck is a shambles. Gear has flown everywhere. Everyone is banged up and bleeding and stunned.

Taylor wipes the blood from a gash on the right side of her forehead. She scans the condition of her crew as everyone slowly starts coming back around… except Marley. He is slumped over, held up only by his seat belt.

Taylor unstraps herself, crawls over to him and props him up. His head flails like it’s on a swivel, eyes wide open. Taylor gently leans him back against the seat, and palms his eyes shut. She pulls a dog tag from the chain on his neck and pockets it.

She turns back to the rest of her crew, gauging them for damage and awareness. “Suarez, Red- you guys okay? Scarp? Morris?”

Everyone starts to slowly move a bit more, inspecting their injuries, and each other’s. Suarez answers first. “I think I got a dislocated shoulder, and my knee is fucked.”

“Beat to shit- but I think I’ll live,” answers Morris.

“What the hell just happened?!” demands a wide eyed Scarpino.

“We musta tripped an IED,” assesses Taylor. “Kelley- you okay?”

Kelley doesn’t answer. He stares at Marley, slumped over in the seat next to him. The shock on Kelley’s face soon spreads to everyone else’s, as they see Corporal Quinton Marley’s limp body. Suarez starts to meekly ask, “Is he- “

Taylor shuts down the question “Okay- let’s get ourselves out of this thing,” but the answer becomes obvious as Marley’s body slowly slumps over, his head coming to a rest on Kelley’s shoulder. Kelley audibly gasps, then gingerly pushes Marley off him with trembling hands. 

Taylor rams the side of the door to get it to open. As she gets out, she sees Cliff Bennett on the ground in front of her.

She rushes over, kneels beside him, slowly rolls him over. A jagged piece of metal is stuck in his chest. Blood drips out around it, adding to a puddle already under him. She presses her fingers to his neck, hangs her head. “I’m so sorry, Cliff.”

Orlando pulls his tag and pockets them with Marley’s. She stands back up and walks to the blown open passenger door. She sees the driver slumped over the wheel, his mangled face trickling blood onto his knees. She grabs his tag. “I’m so sorry, Art.”

She rushes back to the back of the Humvee as Scarpino pulls Kelley out and sets him on the ground. Morris is still inside, trying to help Suarez out of her seat with her injured knee and shoulder.

Scarpino leans back into the Humvee and reaches for Suarez. “Gimme your hands, O.” Her small digits are swallowed up by Scarp’s hairy knuckled bear paws as she complies. His voice is uncharacteristically soft, “I got you, girl.”

There is another much more massive explosion, accompanied by a flash of light. Orlando, Kelley and Scarpino are thrown violently through the air, away from the truck.

Morris and Suarez are still inside as flames instantly envelope the entire vehicle. Orlando jumps up. She is staggered as she lunges for the doorway into the face of the black smoke and flames that are pouring out of it.

Kelley grabs her and pulls her back. Suarez and Morris can be heard screaming for a few seconds, then they go silent. When Taylor quits fighting his constraint, Kelley lets her go. She spins around, face covered in blood, dirt, ash and tears. She grabs Kelley by the shoulders and screams, "That was outta' line, Private! You just put your hands on a commanding officer!”

Kelley defends himself through a trembling bottom lip. “I had to. It’s my job to protect my fellow soldier... I’m sorry, Sarge.”

Taylor realizes her lack of appreciation of Kelley trying to keep her alive, and lets his arms go. She rushes over to where Scarpino has been thrown. Kelley is right behind.

From the waist up, Scarpino is charred and mutilated. His upper body, especially his head and hair, is still smoking. As it wafts up from him into Taylor’s face, her cheeks puff in a dry heave. She regroups with a wipe of her mouth and eyes.

As she leans over Scarpino, certain he is gone, he wheezes a breath. His voice is weak and raspy, but he manages to speak. “Morris and Suarez… did we get ‘em out, Sarge?”

Taylor looks back at the still smoking Humvee as Scarpino’s breathing grows more erratic, the wheezing more pronounced. Taylor takes his hand and squeezes it gently. “Yeah- Scarp. You did, you got ‘em, buddy.”

Scarpino smiles. A tear seeps from his eye. He squeezes Taylor’s hand and wheezes in a final deep gasp then releases his grip.

In the distance two young men, barely teenagers- run off, carrying an RPG launcher as they cheer and laugh.

More smoke wafts up from Scarpino’s smoldering torso- into Taylor’s face as she tears the tag from his chest. Kelley drops to his knees next to Taylor and vomits in a violent wrench...

A tentative knock on her cell door pulls Taylor back from the flashback. She looks around, realizes she is on the floor. Cass pushes the door open a little further, sees Taylor on the ground and rushes over to help her up. She asks with quiet concern, “You okay, Orlando?”

Taylor picks herself up and looks embarrassed as she admits, “Yeah- I’m okay… some dear old friends just paid me an unexpected visit… it happens to me sometimes.”

Cass takes a soft, gentle tone. “Happens to the best of us in here, Orlando… and you are the best of us. I’m half blind, and even I can see that.”

Taylor deflects the compliment with self-deprecation. “Then you see something I don’t see, and I see all kinda shit that ain’t there, Hopkins.” They share a quiet laugh.

“If you feel up to it, you got some other old, dear friends out there who’d love it if you came back and ate cake with 'em. I cut the burnt part off so I shouldn’t stink anymore- least not my hair.”

Another shared laugh, then Taylor replies, “Thanks, Cass. Gimme a minute. I’ll be back.”

Cass slaps Taylor gently on the shoulder as she turns to leave. "You shoulda flipped that coin, Orlando."

As Cass closes the door behind her, Taylor goes to a small desk at the back of the cell and pulls out a worn photo. She holds it delicately, un-crinkling the curled corners, then cradles it gently in her hands like it’s alive.

The glossy square shows her and her team huddled together and all smiles in a group photo. She traces over each face with her finger as she whispers their names in a broken voice. “Scarp… Art… Suarez… Morris… Bennett… Marley… I’m so sorry...

She sets the photo down on her desktop, emits a heavy sigh, wipes her cheeks, and drags herself back out to the party.