Soldier Come Home
By Michael Gosalia


“Mars to Earth Space Station, there’s a mission from Greenland coming in.”
“Roger that, let’s see if we can’t get a reading on it.”
“Alright, forward thrusters, go ahead.”
…

At six o’clock I’d found myself parked at a bench near the Boy’s Club, huddled up with my jacket and hat lying over me. I felt a pain in my stomach like it was bruised. After getting up and wondering where I was I brushed my hair and walked back to my Uncle’s condo. I didn’t have my keys. I hoped and hoped that my Uncle Mark would be home. But he wasn’t in like he said he’d be though like he said, “If you leave the key by the pot near the door you’ll always remember where you’ve put it,” and I had. The plant in the pot was too dried out and dead to hide anything so I‘d gotten into the habit of leaving the key under the doormat, however. I unlocked the door and walked slowly and sullenly back into my condo, back into my sober life.

The apartment was a bit messy but it was clean. I couldn’t stand leaving it too messy for longer than a few days otherwise I’d feel like filth, like I was stuck in a swamp with all the more things to do before I could leave. I always wanted it clean enough so that I could just get up and go. The door opened up to a plain room with a kitchenette and bed, tan fixtures highlighted the whitish walls, walls that seemed to be made out of clay. The living room, a step down and to the left was occupied by two couches that faced one another and a large ceramic fireplace. I didn’t know the name of it but it was something of the western Adobe type, shaped like a giant pear. It sat near the center of the room and you put logs into to it.

I pretended that I lived in a Russian space station, shaped like a ring, or a far off, futuristic 1970’s research capsule near the North Pole, somewhere in Sweden or something, or northern Greenland. I pulled the curtains halfway and sat down on of the couch. I even put my foot on the coffee table, something my Uncle hated. How lucky was I that I’d not been put in jail by now. I lit a cigarette and wondered what happened last night. My last memory was being kicked by someone in the abdomen while I was lying supine on the floor. It must have been Tom, or the cook. “They must have taken me for a wastrel,” I thought, “and kicked me for it.” I took a deep drag from my smoke. “Had I really drank that much? Did I black out?” I walked to the fridge and drank some orange juice from the carton. Another long day. I phoned my mother and told her that I’d be back home within the next couple of days.

Then I started thinking about what it would be like to live in a real research station, a capsule. It was beginning to warm up outside by now and the fog was lifting. I thought temperature gradation would be a big part of it. There’d always be a magnetic hum in the station from some battery or electrical device. It would be peace and quiet, like my place, only for real. And it would feel as though time stood still, like how it is at light speed. Every now and then I could scream or belt out a few bars, like “ah uh,” and no one would hear or notice me.


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Michael Gosalia is a former banker living in the Seattle area.