OK, I totally, totally promise I'm not doing this to be cruel or stick rigidly to "The Format." There is a VERY IMPORTANT reason it's taken so long to get to the chapter where they tell the kids the truth. That very important reason? Uh, I haven't figured out how to do it.
I've known since about Chapter 2 that there would be a "truth comes out" chapter. And yet . . . I'm still a wee bit stumped. I don't want it to be "James and Juliet recap the plot to LOST," since we all know what happened, and that would be boring. So, there's that. Plus, I haven't settled on how everyone is going to deal with it, how much to tell, how much to believe, etc. At least half of these flashback chapters have been nothing more than buying time while I try to figure it out. So, patience. I want to get it right! I am working on it, though!
But I do promise, I swear, the next "present day" chapter WILL be the one it seems everyone is waiting for, OK?
And with that stirring introduction, here's the flashback no one seems to want!
The Island, July through December 1977
The first two weeks really aren't that bad. Well, physically, they basically suck ass. Back-breaking work at the Swan Site from 6 AM to 8 PM every day (except every fourth day, when James also gets the night shift). The good news is he's too exhausted to dwell on the fact that communications with the mainland are cut off. Too exhausted to care that he's basically a worker bee now.
No one's said anything, and his jumpsuit still says "Head of Security," but that's pretty much over now. The brain trust is Horace, Radzinsky, and Chang, and they don't include him in their pow wows. No one's blamed him, no one's reamed him out, but the Dharma Initiative WAS infiltrated on his watch.
After two weeks, the site is cleared, and everyone kind of wonders what's next. That crazy light shit keeps happening every 108 minutes. There's no outside comms. They're stuck. Riding a van out to the site one day, James says, "Maybe you guys could set up some kind of computer system to keep that energy in check. Someone push a button every 108 minutes."
Radzinsky stares at him, mouth hanging open. "Holy shit. That's a good idea."
It's what Radzinksy's squad is working on now. You're welcome, Jack. You're welcome, Locke. Have fun arguing about that a few decades from now.
So, until the computer system gets set up, the rest of them have time, time, time on their hands. James chooses to lock himself in his (their) house and drink. And drink. And listen to his Iggy and the Stooges album. And drink some more. He hears a pounding on his door, chooses to ignore it. Next thing he knows, Miles is standing in front of him.
"How the fuck'd you get in here?" he slurs.
"Key," Miles holds it up. James squints, the key coming into and out of focus. Where did Miles get a key? As if reading his mind, Miles says, "Juliet gave it to me a few months back."
"Yeah, well, she ain't here, so why don't you give it to me."
Miles pockets the key. He falls back onto the couch, next to James. "Watcha drinking?" he asks.
James ignores the question, takes another swig of whiskey. "Whattaya want, Enos?"
"She's OK, you know." Miles says.
"I didn't fuckin' ask." Doesn't want to fucking talk about it, OK? He's pretty sure she got on the sub. Her name was checked on the muster list, after all. And her note said she was getting on the sub. Ergo, she got on the sub. She's not the type to say she's doing one thing, then go off and do another without telling anyone. She's not Kate. So, she got on the sub, which is the goddamn problem, because who the fuck knows if it even made it back safe or not.
"'Cause I'm here, you know," Miles says.
"World's worst trade ever. And, besides, so what?"
"I mean, I was on that sub, right? Me and my mom. If anything happened to it, I wouldn't be here now, would I?"
James snorts. Miles is right. Huh. No way James is gonna admit it, though. Instead, as a peace offering, he passes his bottle over to Miles. Miles drinks.
James says, "Well, good for her, then. Finally made it offa this place. Good for her." He sighs. Six years she was stuck here. Stuck with him for three of them. He should be happy for her, but he's not. Not totally. He wonders if he'll ever see her again. Why in the world would she stick around waiting to come back to the Island? No fucking way she'll ever be back. And if there was some way offa here, he'd get off, first thing, but it's been two weeks. The longer he's stuck here, the better the chance she'll be gone who knows where.
They drink for two days straight. They wonder about Jin. Hurley. Jack. Sayid. And Juliet. Fucking Christ, how is he supposed to think about anything else? He threw out some stanky casserole from the fridge yesterday. Something she made. It's been more than two weeks now and still she is everywhere. Her smell is fading, though, and it makes him sick.
When they run out of booze, James sleeps. And when he wakes up, he decides to get his act together. He helps out with random Dharma odd jobs. He reads again every night. The computer system gets set up. Construction starts again. He works.
He straightens his (their) house. He dumps the contents of the laundry hamper into a bag and takes it over to the Dharma Laundromat. He separates whites and darks. How is he supposed to think of anything but her? Here's her purple shirt, her blue t-shirt. Jesus. She just wore these. They haven't even been washed yet. How can she be gone?
He cleans, he dries, he folds. He neatly folds and stacks her panties. He thinks of the turn-on that was the first time he got laundry duty. At some point, it just became laundry, no different really than socks. He stops at the black lace ones, though, because that was what she was wearing the night after Amy's baby was born, which had been the last night that . . .
NO. He can't do this here. He saves those kinds of memories for, well, when he gets particularly . . . erm . . lonely; uses those memories for inspiration. Like the first time he made her come, and the pleasant surprise at how wonderfully, marvelously easy it had been. He knows now the moment is imminent when her forehead starts furrowing up, and it's somehow totally cute and amazingly sexy all at once.
Or the first time she saw him naked, looked down at him, "Oh! Oh. Wow," she said, then looked him right in the eyes. He'd never forget that.
Another go-to is the first time she gave him a blow job. Sitting on the couch, reading, and she slammed her book shut. "Hell, I'm bored," she said.
He looked at her over the rim of his glasses. The book he'd been reading was actually pretty good. "Sorry to hear it," he said, returning his attention to his book. And then before he knew what was going on, she was kneeling between his legs, and OH SWEET HEAVEN. If he remembers correctly, that first time was also the time Horace came pounding on the door about halfway through, and James managed to grit out some lame excuse as to why neither of them was coming (to the door).
He wonders how many times over the next two years they'd be sitting reading, and he'd ask her, "Hey, any chance you're bored?"
More often than not, the answer was a steely glare and a flat-out "no," sometimes a "don't you wish," but every so often a "you know . . .I think I am kind of bored."
THAT . . . THAT is the sort of thing he thinks about late at night, or yes, OK, FINE, in the shower, but NOT, NOT, NOT here in the Dharma Laundromat. But he's got the black panties, and thinks again about that night. The last time. If he'd only known, dammit. That whole crazy day starting so damn early with drunk-ass Horace. And there was just something different about it that last time, she was so happy, so relieved . . .
He screws his eyes shut, shoves her neatly folded clothes into his laundry bag. She'll want these when he sees her again. For when she comes back (ha ha HA. Of course she's NEVER coming back, but pretending will keep him sane). Or for when he gets off of here (ha ha HA. Like she's just gonna be waiting around for him, but pretending will keep him sane). Whenever that happens, she's gonna want her favorite purple shirt, and this pair of jeans with the fraying hems. He'll have them ready and clean for her.
And while he finishes folding his own laundry, he's not gonna think of the things he saves for private time. And he's not gonna think of the things he saves for drinking time (the first time she cried in front of him, the first time he told her he loved her, the first time she told him she loved him . . .). He'll think instead of all the normal, fun stuff he likes to remember.
Six weeks ago cleaning out their closet. Her holding out a beat-up hockey puck. "Why do we even have this?" And for the life of him, he couldn't remember.
Playing Pictionary. Her little sketches always so neat and precise, and, well . . . pretty damn good. "Think ya missed your calling, Blondie," he'd always say.
Working on a crossword in bed on a lazy Sunday morning.
That day a few months back when she came out to put gas in his Jeep. You'd think he'd save this memory for his private moments, not here in the Laundromat, but that part? The sex part? Sure, it was kind of adventurous and spontaneous, but, honestly? Uncomfortable. Un-freaking-comfortable, with his foot jammed up against the Jeep headlight, his right knee pressed into the grill, his quads totally strained.
Sex on the hood of a car? Mark it off his lifetime to-do list, never to be attempted again. Seriously, he'd ended up paying for that little tryst for a few days at least.
Instead, he likes to remember after. After they collected themselves, got dressed. The day was unbelievably gorgeous, no humidity. Juliet said she didn't care to head right back to the garage, so they sat in the Jeep, him in the driver's seat, her in the passenger's, doors open, legs propped up on the open windows. They sat in silence, passing a canteen of water back and forth. God, it had been a gorgeous day.
Out of nowhere, she broke the silence with, "Ever notice how some Muppets are on Sesame Street, some are on The Muppet Show, but only Kermit is on both?"
Uh, what? Huh? He said, "I just fucked you on the hood of a Jeep, and you're thinkin' about the Muppets?"
He watched her jaw tense, her lips purse. She hated when he used that verb in its correct context. But what the hell else you gonna call what they just did?
Her words clipped with tight precision, she answered, "If it is any consolation, I was not thinking about the Muppets while you were fucking me on the hood of the Jeep." She spit out the last part of the sentence. Uh huh. And ha ha. God, he loved getting under her skin.
"No offense meant, sweetheart, but what would you call that?"
She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, blinked a few times, glared. No answer. Yep, thought so. And he laughed, loving pissing her off like that. She took a breath and said, "Seriously. Next time you watch, you'll see. Kermit's the only one on both."
"Rolf the Dog?"
"Muppet Show only."
"I'm gonna have to take your word for it, then."
She said, "There's a rumor Stuart is pulling The Muppet Show in at the Flame."
"I think I'd rather stick hot pokers in my eyes than spend my free time at the Flame watchin' the Muppets with that freak show. And, listen, if we ever get offa here? Trust me, watchin' Sesame Street ain't on my agenda."
"Fair enough," she said.
"Now, The Muppet Movie," he said. "I loved that when I was a kid."
"Wait a few more years, you may be able to see it again."
Fucking time travel.
They sat for a while longer. Until she said, "They'll probably send out a search party if I'm not back soon." She got out of the Jeep and closed the passenger side door behind her. She stuck her head back in and held out her right hand. He shook it. She said, "On behalf of the Dharma Initiative Motor Pool, it has been a pleasure servicing you today."
He laughed. "And vice versa." Sort of a pleasure. Shit, his quads burned. Goddamn, ten minutes of sex on a Jeep, and he was gonna be uncomfortable for freaking days.
"If I knew you were gonna be doing laundry, I'd of gotten you to do mine, too." Miles interrupts his memory.
That's right. She's gone. Gone, gone, gone, and he's in the Laundromat.
"Maybe next time, Miles."
Miles blinks in surprise. He was probably expecting some smart ass, grumbled reply. Sorry to disappoint, buddy.
He goes back to his (their; shit, his) house, and puts away the laundry. He gets a beer from the fridge. Dharma Initiative shit beer. Still, it's beer. He drinks.
Some time later, there's pounding on the door. It's Miles. "Did you hear? Radzinsky made a connection with Ann Arbor."
As it turns out, all they know is the sub made it back safely (and Miles and James had that part figured out already). It's hope, though. Hope that dwindles through September as the communication system fizzles out again and again.
In late September the announcement comes: food rationing. Teams are assigned to hunt and gather in the jungle (James does not volunteer, sticks with the Swan construction site). Heavy labor on a half-empty stomach. Potato chips are all gone, and he had no idea it was possible to want potato chips so bad. Salty, crunchy, greasy. It's all he can think about while pouring concrete, knowing lunch is gonna be boar and mangoes (welcome to the future).
By November, they've run out of more than just chips. A short list of things James would probably give his right ear for: individually wrapped sliced American cheese, oatmeal, peanut butter, beer, an ice cream sandwich. This morning, he got to the cafeteria only to find out the last bowl of Dharma flakes had just been eaten. For the first time in weeks he remembers the stupid Fruit Loops conversation. Oh, weren't they living large back then with their Dharma O's and flakes and Chex. Now it's toast with a thin swipe of jelly. Blondie, I hope they got Fruit Loops wherever you are, because they got jack shit here.
Earlier in the week, he went to the machine shop, grabbed an awl and punched another hole in his belt. His clothes don't even fit right any more.
So, he sits here on the fucking dock, hungry, tired, lonely, feeling sorry for himself. This was a lot easier after the plane crash. When he didn't have to work all day. When he didn't have anywhere else he wanted to be (anyone else he wanted to be with). He watches the light sparkle off the bay. Middle of November and it's still more than 80 degrees. That's probably something he shouldn't complain about.
He hears footsteps, knows it's Miles even before Miles says, "Please don't tell me you've thrown it in the drink."
James shakes his head, holds up the ring.
"You're excused from your deadline," Miles declares.
James looks up at him. Lots of gray in Miles' hair. He watches Miles hitch up his pants. Miles needs to make a trip to the machine shop to tighten up his belt.
James got the ring on a Thursday in May. He was gonna ask that weekend, but then he decided he needed more than 48 hours to come up with the appropriate proposal scheme. Miles rolled his eyes when he found out, but James was gonna do something special for their two-year anniversary in June.
In June, he got home early, made dinner (women dig it when you cook for them, and James has this go-to baked ziti recipe). Then he waited. And waited. And waited. It wasn't unheard of for her to get held up at work, so he waited. She came home with her left hand wrapped in thick gauze.
"Don't worry," she said. "X-rays were negative. Smashed it in a van door."
Well, shit. He wasn't gonna give her a ring she couldn't wear. Besides, in July, it was the three-year anniversary of their stay in Dharmaville. He could wait. Or, shit, her birthday . . .
When Miles found out, he did more than roll his eyes. He stuck his hands in his armpits, flapped his elbows "Bok! Bok! BWAK!" he squawked like a chicken. "Just keep putting it off, LaFleur. Isn't her birthday in November or something?"
"Yeah."
"Let's make a deal: give it to her by her birthday, or throw it in the bay."
"Deal."
Now, here it is her birthday, and here's the ring. James is fighting tears. "I shoulda given it to her," he says, kicking himself for being too scared.
"What difference would it make? She'd still be gone, wouldn't she?"
"Yeah, well." He's worried she's really gone. She does know how much he loves her, right? That's what he worries about. He's worried she's moved on with her 1977 life. Plus, "At least she'd have somethin' to remember me by."
Miles chooses not to argue with that. "How old is she today?"
"Ain't polite to ask a lady's age, Miles." Miles nods. "Thirty-six," James finishes.
"Well, that's not a big one. No big ones until 40. You got four years, then, though . . . Big 4-0. Gotta do that one up right."
"OK, sure." James doesn't have a lot of confidence he'll ever see her again, much less four years from now, but Miles seems to, so . . . OK. OK. Maybe Miles is right. He's more objective, at least. "What do you think she's doin' tonight?"
"Getting wasted? Getting laid?"
"Not funny, Miles. Ain't in the mood."
"What? You hope she's just sitting around, lonely and mooning over you?"
"All right. I'll go for gettin' wasted then. Party with the Dharma ladies." Please. Please. Please. Still be affiliated with this ridiculous hippy outfit.
"New deadline," Miles declares, pointing at the ring. "You've got 48 hours. When you see her next, you got 48 hours."
"Deal."
In honor of Juliet's 36th birthday, Miles and James finish the bottle of rum they've been saving for a special occasion. It's the last of the booze. Add that to the list of things James would potentially kill for.
December 8, and someone is pounding on James' door way too early in the morning. Of course it's Miles. It better be. No one else is welcome to pound on his door any damn time of day or night. Miles ain't welcome to, either, come to think of it. He swings open the front door. There stands Miles, crunch, crunch, crunching on something, his hand deep into a bag of Dharma chips.
"These are for you," he says through a mouthful of chips, handing over the bag. James stares in disbelief. "Sub came in last night," Miles clarifies.
"What?" James exclaims. Who's on it? Could . . . no. No way. No way, although . . .
Miles, reading his mind, shakes his head. "Just the crew. Horace pulled them all aside for a little tête-à-tête. Said he'd fill the rest of us in later this morning."
Sure enough, Horace calls them all together for an update. "The good news is, we've got a fresh supply of food." Lots of clapping, random whooping. Horace holds out his hands, palms down, urging quiet. "We'll still have to stay on rationing, though. No telling when we'll get another. Captain Bird?"
The captain speaks. "We dropped everyone off safe and sound back in July. As far as we know, they're all doing just fine."
"As far as you know?" someone shouts from the crowd.
"They're in Ann Arbor and we're . . . well, we're not. I've heard that most of them have left, moved on, or back to their old lives." Miles and James exchange a look. No way Juliet has moved back to her "old life," but moving on? Sure, sure she could have done that.
The captain continues, "I think there are thirty or so hard-core believers in the Initiative still doing good work in Ann Arbor." Another shared look. Shit, Juliet's no hard-core believer.
"You got any messages from any of them, at least?" It's Mack, Juliet's old boss.
"Sorry," the captain winces. "Sometime back in August, Dr. DeGroot gave me the green light. Said if a window to get here ever opened up, I needed to take it. I gave him about a four-hour notice for this trip. No time for any messages or anything."
Now there's all sorts of mumbling and grumbling. The food will be nice, but, shit, really? They've been stuck here for more than four damn months, and this is all they're getting? "This is horeshit!" someone shouts.
Horace steps up again. Again holds out his hands, palms down, this time urging calm. "I know it's not ideal," he says. "But it's a start. We're going to be on the lookout for another window to get the sub back. Things are getting better, even if it doesn't seem like it now."
Uh huh, whatever you say, bossman.
Except, you know what? He's right, James thinks later that night. James was able to finagle himself a six-pack of beer (hasn't lost a step in the hoarding department, thank you!), and he sits on his sofa in his house with his boots propped up on his furniture, and he drinks. He eats chips, crumbs spilling everywhere, and Horace is fucking right. It is getting better. He's got beer. He's got chips. What the fuck else does anyone want or need anyway? This is the fucking goddamn life, and all he's ever wanted or needed in the world.
Fuck you, Juliet, off wherever it is you've decided to go to get on with life. Go ahead, send a fucking postcard when you get a chance. I'll be right here, thank you very much, and don't have to listen to anyone complain about feet on the furniture, CLOP (left foot), CLOP (right foot) . . . TAKE THAT! Good fucking riddance!
A week later, rumor comes that a window's opening. The sub's leaving in 12 hours.
James packs in haste. What was that? What was he going on about good riddance and fuck you and send a postcard? That was nearly 6 beers on a nearly empty stomach and down at LEAST 10 pounds besides. That was . . . well, good thing Miles didn't hear any of it, because he'd be crowing now.
James stuffs his duffle with jeans and shirts, shoes, socks, boxers, one jumpsuit, cause you just never know, a few books. With the room left over, he packs in a pair of jeans for Juliet, her favorite purple top, a skirt, a dress he always really liked. Hell, she's been gone nearly half a year, probably got herself a whole new wardrobe by now, but, damn, this dress always looked good on her. He'll sweet talk her into wearing it first time he sees her. And he ignores the side of his brain telling him that is Not Going To Happen, because really, she's not there anymore, is she? And if she's gone, how hard is he going to try to track her down? And maybe she doesn't want him to track her down. And it's just so much easier to imagine sweet talking her into wearing the dress, because that, yes, that he can do. Yes he can.
He pries up the floorboards by the bed. Pulls up the ring and puts it in the duffle. He leaves their house behind. He picks up Miles.
They walk down the dock together, into the slanting afternoon sun. "Sure we're doing the right thing, Boss?" Miles asks. No, no he's not, but he doesn't say anything. Miles keeps up with the nervous chatter. "Cause, it's 1977 out there. What the hell are we gonna do?"
James actually has this one halfway figured out. "We'll buy Microsoft."
"Excuse me?" Miles asks.
"Then we'll bet the Cowboys in the '78 Super Bowl. We're gonna be rich."
Miles laughs, grins big. "Right on, partner."
They hop into the sub. They get bunks, drink up their sedative. About 15 other guys are making the trip with them. Here we go . . . James uses his duffle for a pillow, aaaaaaaaannnnnd . . . he's out.
He comes to with Miles shaking his shoulder. Where the fuck? He squints, opens his eyes slowly. Are they on a bus? "Think we're here," Miles whispers to him.
"Welcome to Ann Arbor!" a booming voice from some fat, bearded bozo at the front of the bus. "I'm Dr. Gerald DeGroot. We've got a little Dharma office set up right here," he gestures to a nondescript building on the right side of the bus. James ducks his head, looks out the dingy window. "We've kept your arrival a bit hush-hush, as we weren't sure you'd actually make it. But here you are! We'll take you right inside and get you processed into the Dharma Mainland Branch."
Everyone stands up and grabs their things. James hoists his duffle over his shoulder.
They walk into the office building, just a huge room, a warren of shoulder high cubicles, a happy, busy buzz of activity.
James glances up at a sign, "LAST CONTACT WITH ISLAND: 134 days." Well, that's a cheery thing to spend your days lookin' at. Stupid Dharma fucks, he sneers at the sign, mentally flipping it the bird.
DeGroot, misinterpreting his look, explains, "We didn't count that 2-minute affair in September."
Miles has wandered off. People at the front of the room are starting to notice their arrival. Where did Miles get to?
And please. Please. Please. Please. Please.
He almost can't stand it.
Another cliff hanger. Maybe that was cruel. And the next 1977 chapter won't even be the reunion (sorry!). We have to find out what Juliet's been up to for the fall. Like, what DID she do for her birthday? Hint: didn't get laid. Hint: didn't get wasted. Hint: didn't sit around her apartment feeling sorry for herself.