After the gulf war, I returned home to mixed reviews. Some Americans believed saving Kuwait was necessary. Others felt all OPEC nations should be left to defend themselves, or not.
I didn’t give a damn one way or the other. I enlisted with my best friend after a night of bar hopping. We actually broke into the recruitment center, managed to get past the computer password and filled in our enlistment papers before dawn. I suppose if we’d not successfully enlisted, we’d’ve been arrested for several crimes.
Basic training sucked as did subsequent training, but we did okay. Then Bush the elder decided it would be war. Shit, I’d thought. This can’t be good in any way.
Finally, my enlistment time ended and I almost regretted signing over my weapons. However, I concluded I’d used them plenty, and as a civilian I’d not miss a firefight.
But shit really does happen.
Why I chose to start a private investigation company is still an unanswered question even to me. I didn’t need the income. I inherited a fortune. Yet that, money I mean, wasn’t enough. Perhaps serving my country instilled a need for true purpose. Whatever it was, I began helping people in the New York metro area.
What I hadn’t anticipated was the reaction. A year after my first job, a pissed off husband hunted me, nearly killed me. That day altered my future. I wasn’t about to quit. Instead, I got a federal carry permit.
With that in hand, I went to a gun shop in New Jersey where I lived. The moment I wrapped my hand around the grip, I felt an odd sense of comfort. As if the contact included a warm voice that said, “welcome home, friend.”
It wasn’t until my long absent father decided he should appear like an unwanted poltergeist that I actually needed to use the weapon. At the time I was tempted to turn it on him after he’d managed to get a gangbanger to threaten us with a semi-automatic Uzi, which forced me to kill the drugged up hired gunman. Self-defense gone awry.