The Observatory - Timothy Tarkelly

Summer induces a special kind of nostalgia. Lately, I’ve been thinking of my second summer in the Army and about this place my “friend” took me to.

The observatory was quite a find, especially considering Hobbes was the one that found it. It stood as tall as a one-story house, facing a swamp that is edged by trees (willows, mostly) and emitted the subtle smell of hard-boiled eggs. There were several benches and platforms for standing and peering with binoculars to spot various water-dwelling birds, or the local ghost-like fowl: the Red-Cockaded Woodpecker.

“I told you it was awesome,” Hobbes said. For once, he was right. He had a knack for thinking and doing terrible things, or for finding humor in some of life’s darkest moments. The day he took Carly and I to the observatory came only a few days after he had been officially informed of his approaching trial by court-martial for Cocaine use, assault, and other un-soldierly conduct. I didn’t like Hobbes. I didn’t like his stories (“Tarkelly, did I ever tell you about the time I got beat up my girlfriend’s husband?”), or his propensity to launch me into terrifying scenarios I simply didn’t belong in. However, I loved Carly and she thought Hobbes was something spectacular.

To prevent any positive notions about Hobbes, he is not a nature lover. He doesn’t care about birds, unlike me, an active birder and owner of off-brand binoculars in three different sizes. We were at the observatory because it was on the far-ass end of Fort Gordon and he was absolutely certain that no Drill Sergeant, Military Policeman, or anyone else would find it. It was a safe place to drink underage.

Standing at the top of the stairs, I could see almost the full length of the gravel road that got us there. It fed into another road which fed into another. Even I agreed with Hobbes’s summation. Carly was thrilled and so we would come back later that evening.

Carly was my girlfriend. She had excellent taste in music, edgy tattoos spread all over her body, and was most assuredly trouble. She was also serving extra duty for a DUI and was facing discharge due to her complete lack of any sort of discipline, or respect for authority. I was nothing but intrigued by her, following her around all of the time, not yet realizing how much of a joke our “relationship” was to our friends, and even to her. Simply put, I was not up to her speed. I had never done drugs, or really ever been in trouble in my life. I still cannot fully articulate what it was that drew me to her, but in order for our relationship to work, I had to engage in a lot of faking. I lied a lot about bands, about drinking, and generally ever enjoying the activities we were involved in. When I said I wanted to go to the observatory that night, it was definitely a lie.

Hobbes asked me what I wanted to drink I said Milwaukee’s Best because it was what my Dad drank. When we had finally met back at the observatory, I regretted that decision. I have come to find a great love for beer, and I can keep it real as far brand is concerned, but at eighteen I had to fight the urge to gag in order to prevent Hobbes and Carly from discovering the fraud that I am. Apparently, I didn’t hide it well at all and my drink of choice was the give-away. People don’t drink Milwaukee’s Best because it is the best. They do it because a 32 oz. can costs less than two dollars.

The whole night became about my past. Hobbes asked a series of questions designed to expose my true nature. I‘m not saying that I am, or was, a square, a goody-two-shoes, or whatever. I was unpopular and hadn’t been invited to the kind of party where teenagers made mistakes. I never did drugs because my parents allowed me to watch Pulp Fiction when I was six and for a very long time I was afraid that any attempt at getting high would end with me frothing at the mouth, requiring a colossal needle to be plunged into my chest.

My experiences with alcohol had been minimal and monitored by my parents. For instance, in the seventh grade I was obsessed with James Bond and all I wanted that year was to play cards and drink martinis. That is what we did, without anybody my age around because I didn’t have friends. I lived my life through my family’s Movie Gallery card. I hadn’t been high, or really ever been drunk, but I’d watched plenty of movies where people did and I felt like that was the same thing.

Carly started edging away from me and toward Hobbes. My hope was that as we watched the sunset and got drunk on terrible beer, Carly and I would find some time alone for me to say sweet things and for her to find herself enamored, giving us no other option than to finally have sex. That was clearly not going to happen. Hobbes and Carly shared stupid looks and winks; gestures of “if only Tarkelly wasn’t around, we would have no other option than to finally have sex.” Their secrecy was about as effective as my veil of feigned life experience. I wasn’t mad at Carly, though, nor would I have had the right to be. She is allowed to want to have observatory sex with any person she chooses, but I was mad at myself. I felt like a failure. I thought of all of the times I declined a chance to smoke pot for the first time because I never wanted to hang around in moldy basements with Godsmack fans. There were opportunities to be a fifth wheel with my brother’s friends, who lived a life much more similar to Hobbes’s than my own. I could have drained their booze and learned the ways of a real shit-bag warrior. They would be having sex with Carly right now.

Even if things had gone my way with her that night, I would’ve been trying too hard to protect her head from the wooden deck and hoping that I didn’t get splinters in my knees. I would have thought every noise from the swamp around us was someone coming to arrest us for vagrancy. I would have ruined it by worrying too much and then I would have been even angrier for my life choices.

I sat in silence and eventually, they could tell that I could tell what was going on. It became quiet and uncomfortable for everyone. Hobbes decided it was time to go back to the barracks and I was relieved. Most likely, I would have never had the nerve to confront them, but I had been stewing in my self-hatred and perceived betrayal for so long that there was little else I could think about doing.

It was dark now and we lingered a little at the top of the observatory. Hobbes commented that “it is actually really cool out here.” I rolled my eyes. We had been out there for a couple of hours and he just now noticed that yes, nature is interesting and beautiful; that we found a unique place that was quiet and filled with interesting smells, sights, sounds, and red-cockaded woodpeckers and maybe it was worth appreciating. He’d been too busy trying to fuck my girlfriend.

I pushed past him and sped down the stairs, trying to get to Carly’s car before he did, so that I could make sure he wasn’t in the passenger’s seat holding her hand and shooting more ridiculous, suggestive glances. Suddenly, I was paralyzed by the realization that we had all been drinking. I didn’t take the time to consider that if we drove somewhere remote and drank, we would have to drive back.

“Guys, we fucked up,” I said. “How are we gonna get back?”

“What do you mean?” Carly asked.

“We’ve been drinking…” Hobbes and Carly started laughing and I tried to pretend like I was kidding, but my heart wasn’t in it. We got in the car and at this point, Carly wouldn’t look at me.

She turned on the music and we pulled onto the gravel road, headed back to civilization. During a cymbal crash or something like that, Carly would tap the air freshener that was hanging from her rear view mirror in time with the music. I always thought this was extraordinarily adorable and she did it all of the time. The air freshener was the kind you get at a store like Hot Topic, and it wasn’t just any air freshener, it was the Misfits skull logo. I was never much of a Misfits fan, and I don’t think I was ever with her when she listened to them, but she still had it and I found her fascination with it endearing.

I sang along to the music, as my singing voice was one of the qualities she claimed to like about me, and tried to act like I hadn’t just been humiliated. Maybe, it was all in my head and things were fine. As I was starting to relax, I was paralyzed again, but this time it was from the flash of blue and red lights that suddenly filled the car. A Military Police car was behind us.

Carly pulled over, trying to act like everything was fine, but nervously biting her lip and looking to Hobbes for reassurance.

“What are we going to do?” I asked. “This is it. Our lives are ruined.”

Hobbes yelled: “Lock it the fuck up, Tarkelly.” I looked to Carly and she gave me a look of pure disgust. I was furious that they could be so calm about this. Of course, they were both on their way out of the Army, having already spoiled their future. I did “lock it the fuck up,” and went to silently hating them and thinking about what jail would be like. More than anything though, I just kept replaying the image of the terribly heartbreaking look Carly had given me in my head. In that moment, she gave up on me. I knew we were done.

The Military Policeman walked up to the car. Carly tried to be all sweet and innocent, but the MP saw right through it.

“So, what are you guys doing all the way out here?”

“Just driving around,” Carly said rather unconvincingly.

The MP started saying something in response, but suddenly stopped. He pointed to the Misfits air freshener and asked: “You a fan?”

Carly said that she was and he immediately rolled up his right sleeve. He reached his bare forearm into the car for all of us to see the remarkably large tattoo of the very same logo.

“They’re the best,” he said. Then, he turned around, walked back to his car and drove away. We sat in silence for a minute, unsure if what was happening was real. Apparently, we escaped being arrested for drunk driving and underage possession charges because Carly bought a cheap air freshener, promoting a band I never witnessed her listening to. As we drove back to the barracks, they talked about what a “cool cop” he was. I disagreed. While I was glad he let us go, I couldn’t thinking about all of the people he had arrested before then. They were essentially guilty of not liking a band; of not being young, white wannabe punks who listen to anti-commercial music, yet join one of the world’s largest organizations of trained killers. Of course, I kept my disagreement to myself. The next night, Carly broke up with me.

-

Timothy Tarkelly (he/him) is a poet and author from Southeast Kansas. His work has appeared in Back Patio Press, Rhodora Magazine, The Daily Drunk, and others. His third collection of poems, On Slip Rigs and Spiritual Growth, was published by OAC Books in July 2021. When he's not writing, he teaches English to highschoolers who are much more talented than he is.