Quacked Lurker's Homage to those who lost their lives September 11, 2001. I own none of the characters from the M7 show. (and identification of who's speaking is deliberately vague. It works better not knowing who suffered what).
The Ranch was a joyful location most times of the year. It could have been a festive spot all the time, but occasionally the men came to honor the fallen, remember the lost, and grief for those they couldn't save. Sometimes, they came to mourn, other times, they came to rejoice. Major holidays that weren't spent out of state, almost always found the men here at The Ranch, enjoying the festivities.
There were usually seven men from the local ATF bureaucracy and building, and their duties rarely allowed them to spend the actual 'holidays' away from the office, so they came before or after the 'break' from the job. On occasion, all that happened at The Ranch was a lot of talking before they retired to their beds. Not this time.
Today, as had been known to happen before, the seven men had been granted leave, and were trading stories they had heard, telling jokes, and otherwise laughing at the more absurd situations their coworkers and friends at work found themselves in. Dinner had been eaten, and since none of the men were hungry enough for dessert, they were passing the time in one of the best ways they knew how – encouraging each other, and reassuring their family-by-choice each and every one of them was alive and healthy. Intact in mind, soul, and body. There were unseen wounds, and deep bruises, but the Ranch was a place of healing, and times like here and now, brought a soothing balm to those wounds and bruises that healed slowly, if ever. Time and laughter healed what modern medicine could not – but only with the support of close family and friends who understood what the other was going through. No physical remedies could touch the emotional scaring that touched everyone at some point in their life.
All of the men had some kind of drink nearby. The assorted choices included homemade eggnog and coffee, but wasn't limited to that. Lemonade was available too, but currently no one was drinking that stuff. Regardless of what was in the cup at hand, the men were enjoying the festivities.
Silently, presumably unnoticed in the chaotic conversations of 'I Remember When' and the embarrassing story that followed one man slipped outside. He walked off the porch and settled on the bottom most step, leaned back and just stared at the stars in the heavens above. At the moment, he didn't care that the sharp wooden edges were pressing into his spine and back in three places. No, the man was caught up in the past as he looked eastwards towards the far horizon, where the first stars of the night were beginning to shine. He paid no attention to the rising, full moon reflecting the rays of the sun's light.
He took a long draft of the whiskey in his hand. "I miss you, Elizabeth. Every day, it hurts to realize you're gone." He whispered, before taking another chug from the bottle.
"Drowning your sorrows with alcohol doesn't work."
The voice was unexpected, but not terribly surprising. The man sitting down had known that eventually his friends would realize he was absent and come looking to make sure he was okay.
"I know" the first one said. "I limit my heavy drinking to one night a year." There was silence between the two, though the newcomer did motion for the bottle.
The whiskey was passed over. At other times, the silence would have been oppressive, but at the moment, it was welcome. Eventually, though, the need to say something made the first man speak about what was (so deeply) troubling him. "My sister died ten years ago."
The man leaning on the railing next to the steps was shocked. "The twin-towers?"
"No. I want to say that she helped retake the airplane before it reached its target, but that would be a lie. It was a stupid car wreck that took her life. Just hers. No one else was mortally wounded in the accident."
The news was heard. The sitter could see that it affected his companion, in the way he allowed his head to fall forward, and hang from his shoulders. "My wife died in an explosion. She was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time." The speaker stared at the three-quarter full bottle before handing it back, untouched. "Tried to forget the pain by drinking to oblivion. Ended up loosing memories of her and our son." He shook his head before retreating to the porch door, pausing by the threshold, and returned to the edge of the porch. This time, he walked past railing, with his feet not stopping until he stepped off the gravel path onto the dirt, past the eaves of the roof and examined the rapidly darkening sky, not paying any particular attention to anything.
A heavy sigh. "I think all of us lost someone close to us. No, I'm pretty sure we all have experienced the pain of needless death of close friends or family, but not so many as on that terrible day."
A strong hand landed on the first man's shoulder. "You aren't alone." He sat down on the huge rock that was part of the décor along the path that led from the driveway/carport to the front entrance of the Ranch. The aged rock-chair came from a minor stone-pit located somewhere on the lands surrounding the main building. "We all lost family to the war, in service, or as they were going about their duties in law-enforcement, though our loss is not as recent as yours."
A hesitant nod. A deep drink straight from the bottle, then it was offered to the second 'intruder' before he could snap his fingers. He could feel that the other man also needed fortification before he could speak past the demons he carried. "Korea claimed my sister's Fiancé. She never married, mourning his death till the day she joined him."
It wasn't long before the three men found themselves with yet another addition. The next man through stepped off the wood deck and slid sideways, closer to the walls of the building, but not so far away that the first man, still sitting on the steps, felt as if he were totally alone yet far enough away that no one was crowded unnecessarily. Again, the bottle of whisky traded hands. "A beloved cousin of mine died in Afghanistan, during Desert Storm." This time, the man spoke before drinking, but he made up for it, by draining the last third of the bottle.
The porch door slammed shut as the next person through was unable to slow its closing. "My grandmother lost her twin brother at Pearl Harbor December 7th, 1942. Every time I visited, she had another story about them as kinds their dreams, their goals. She and he were more than brother and sister. They were best friends." He took the empty whisky bottle and exchanged it for the new one in his grasp.
Somehow, one man who'd joined the others outside managed to escape notice, until he spoke up. His voice drawled as he too gave voice to his loss. "Ain't sure 'bout my folks. Just know none are hear to see me. Know they 'd be proud of me and my choices. An' I do miss them strongly, despite not knowing them."
One of the men who'd joined the others before the screen door slammed on its hinges finally spoke up. To him, it didn't feel right to listen to the others without revealing something about himself. And while parts of what he heard were personal, the official records did state that all of them, excepting one or two, were 'orphans' with no immediate family relatives left alive. "While I wish my mom was still alive, I'm glad she wasn't around to see the Towers fall, or hear that the Pentagon was attacked."
One by one, the seven men found themselves either on or near-by the porch. It felt good, right now, to be together, regardless of the location. Each of them instinctively knew that if one man needed emotional support, and was healed just by their presence, the others of the team would benefit as well. Nothing more had to be said.
The second, and then a third bottle of whisky were passed around and warmed the bellies of the men. All of them were fairly close by, even though they weren't all within arm's length of everyone. Some leaned against the wood walls. Others chose to use the railing as a 'back-rest' or similar. Another took the opportunity to let the porch pillar to be his support, and used the dead wood to keep himself upright.
Eventually, one man broke the silence that had overtaken them all. "A toast, gentlemen." He pulled out one last bottle of alcohol, opened it, and filled seven glasses halfway before passing the last drink to the waiting men. "To remembering our lost friends and family: you will not be forgotten by us."
Amen, chorused the men.
At that moment, shooting stars whizzed by, high in the night sky.
"Was that Hailey's comet?" asked one.
Another shrugged. "Probably just space junk burning in the atmosphere."
A cough. "Could have been a meteorite vaporizing as it fell down."
"Or a space rock that just skimmed the sky."
"Whatever it was, it's pretty."
"Yes. Yes it is."
While I personally didn't loose anyone ten years ago, several of my friends had family who died trying to help the survivors. And now, two of my siblings are also in the service, so I wanted to honor them in this way.
Thanks for clicking and reviewing.
I don't own The Magnificent 7. Don't sue, I just needed to get somethings off my chest.