High Hunt. David Eddings

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      So I quit playing poker. I guess I’ve always been a sucker for fatherly advice. Somehow I knew that Riker was right though. Whatever the reason, I’d lost the feeling I’d had that the cards were going to fall my way no matter what anybody tried to do to stop them. If I’d have gone back the next day, they’d have cleaned me out. So the next day I watched the ocean, or read, and I didn’t think about poker.

      Two days later we slid into New York Harbor. It was early morning and foggy. We passed the Statue and then stacked up out in the bay, waiting for a tug to drag us the rest of the way in. We all stood out on deck watching the sun stumble up out of the thick banks of smoke to blearily light up the buildings on Manhattan Island.

      It’s a funny feeling, coming home when you don’t really have anything to come home to. I leaned back against a bulkhead, watching all the other guys leaning over the rail. I think I hated every last one of them right then.

      Two grubby tugboats finally came and nudged us across the bay to a pier over in Brooklyn. Early as it was, there must have been a thousand people waiting. There was a lot of waving and shouting back and forth, and then they all settled down to wait. The Army’s good at that kind of thing.

      Benson dragged his duffle bag up to where I was and plunked it down on the deck. I still hadn’t told him I had his watch. I didn’t want him selling it again so he could get back in the game.

      “Hey, Alders,” he puffed, “I been lookin’ for you all over this fuckin’ tub.”

      “I’ve been right here, kid.”

      “Feels good, gettin’ home, huh?” he said.

      “It’s still a long way to Seattle,” I told him. His enthusiasm irritated hell out of me.

      “You know what I mean.”

      “Sure.”

      “You think maybe they might fly us out to the West Coast?”

      “I doubt it,” I said. “I expect a nice long train ride.”

      “Shit!” He sounded disgusted. “You’re probably right though. The way my luck’s been goin’ lately, they’ll probably make me walk.”

      “You’re just feeling picked on.”

      Eventually, they started unloading us. Those of us bound for West-Coast and Midwest separation centers were loaded on buses and then we sat there.

      I watched the mass family reunion taking place in the dim gloom under the high roof of the pier. There was a lot of crying and hugging and so forth, but we weren’t involved in any of that. I wished to hell we could get going.

      After about a half hour the buses started and we pulled away from the festivities. I slouched low in the seat and watched the city slide by. Several of the guys were pretty boisterous, and the bus driver had to tell them to quiet down several times.

      “Look,” Benson said, nudging me in the ribs. “Eine amerikanische Fräulein.”

      “Quit showing off,” I said, not bothering to look.

      “What the hell’s buggin’ you?” he demanded.

      “I’m tired, Benson.”

      “You been tired all your life. Wake up, man. You’re home.”

      “Big goddamn deal.”

      He looked hurt, but he quit pestering me.

      After they’d wandered around for a while, the guys who were driving the buses finally found a train station. There was a sergeant there, and he called roll, got us on the train, and then hung around to make sure none of us bugged out. That’s Army logic for you. You couldn’t have gotten most of those guys off that train with a machine gun.

      After they got permission from the White House or someplace, the train started to move. I gave the sergeant standing on the platform the finger by way of farewell. I was in a foul humor.

      First there was more city, and then we were out in the country.

      “We in Pennsylvania yet?” Benson asked.

      “I think so.”

      “How many states we gonna go through before we get back to Washington?”

      “Ten or twelve. I’m not sure.”

      “Shit! That’ll take weeks.”

      “It’ll just seem like it,” I told him.

      “I’m dyin’ for a drink.”

      “You’re too young to drink.”

      “Oh, bullshit. Trouble is, I’m broke.”

      “Don’t worry about it, Kid. I’ll buy you a drink when they open the club car.”

      “Thanks,” he said. “That game cleaned me out.”

      “I know.”

      We watched Pennsylvania slide by outside.

      “Different, huh?” Benson said.

      “Yeah,” I agreed. “More than just a little bit.”

      “But it’s home, man. It’s all part of the same country.”

      “Sure, Kid,” I said flatly.

      “You don’t give a shit about anything, do you, Alders?” Sometimes Benson could be pretty sharp. “Being in Germany, winning all that money in the game, coming home—none of it really means anything to you, does it?”

      “Don’t worry about it, Kid.” I looked back out the window.

      He was right though. At first I’d thought I was just cool—that I’d finally achieved a level of indifference to the material world that’s supposed to be the prelude to peace of mind or whatever the hell you call it. The last day or so, though, I’d begun to suspect that it was more just plain, old-fashioned alienation than anything else—and that’s a prelude to a vacation at the funny-farm. So I looked out at the farmland and the grubby backsides of little towns and really tried to feel something. It didn’t work.

      A couple guys came by with a deck of cards, trying to get up a game. They had me figured for a big winner from the boat, and they wanted a shot at my ass. I was used up on poker though. I’d thought about what Riker had told me, and I decided that I wasn’t really a gambler. I was a bad winner. At least I could have let that poor bastard keep his pants, for Christ’s sake. The two guys with the cards got a little snotty about the whole thing, but I ignored them and they finally went away.

      “You oughta get in,” Benson said, his eyes lighting up.

      “I’ve had poker,” I told him.

      “I don’t suppose you’d want to loan me a few dollars?” he asked wistfully.

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