Sample Platter - Journal Entry - Gabe Serafini (OC)
(( PB: Milo Ventimiglia ))

I don't know how I got here.

I mean.

Along the way, there was transportation. A plane, a bus, some taxis, some other vehicles. But sometimes, even when I remember all those things happening, it still seems like I blinked my eyes once and suddenly appeared in an e-cafe, or whatever they're calling them. And sometimes, I can't figure out why I'm here, even if I can tell myself what it was that motivated me.

Marvin's house was too safe. If I had stayed any longer, I might have gotten comfortable. I might have enjoyed it. He says that was "the whole damn point", but I'm not sure he exactly understood. Maybe he might have, once, but he hasn't been in the thick of it for a long, long time. I don't know safe and comfortable anymore. I don't want to sleep somewhere I don't know. So that could be part of it. I doubt that's all, but if I have to, at least I can cite something. Reversal of roles: comfortable has become uncomfortable. Of course, it was nice to spend some time with him. I know I'm lucky that my dad has friends who are stupid enough to care about him and his family. Can't imagine how that came about. Didn't think he had it in him.

When my mother died, I didn't know. No one told me she was sick, until after the fact. Marv was the one to tell me, too. There isn't an important moment in my life that I can remember him not being a part of. My dad...I think "aloof" is the right word for what he was. Is. “Disinterested”, maybe, too. Marv is a good dad, though, even if he's the reason I can't go back overseas. Keeps threatening to make up a bunch of crazy shit, if I try to reenlist. They'd believe him, too. He's the one who kept me flying, even after sniper school. If it weren't for him, I'd have probably been stationed somewhere else entirely. I wouldn't want that.

But God (or whoever), I want to go back. I was doing...I don't know how to say it. Something. With a capital S, to emphasize the importance of it. Twenty-three years of preparation for one thing to only last four years, that's what's crazy. Marv seems to think that what I'm doing isn't right for me. "Could have played it safe. You could have been a contender," he says, and I think he thinks he's quoting something, but I don't know what. He always says it in a strange, funny voice. I'm not sure what he means. There isn't anything else I could have done. I was born into this, I did everything right. I was meant to do this. What's the point of anything, if I've been forcibly cut off from what I do?

Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can take a break for two years, just a year or so, and he'll forget about it and they'll remember me and be proud to have me back. Until then, I'll stay here. Not here here - I don't think people can live in diners - but I mean...around here. In this city. This isn't an impossible mission. There are things, here, that I don't mind. Last week, while still with Marv, I saw fireworks for the first time since I was a kid. Colorful explosions everywhere, but no one was dying. Beautiful. I would like to see more things like this. There's only one person I know here, but I think he might be able to help me.

Before I made the bus-with-the-terrible-stench ride over here, it dawned on me that I didn't know where I was going. Fayetteville, sure. I remembered that much. So I did what anyone would have done, I...looked into Nick's file for his phone number, so I could call and I could ask him. But since I was already in it, it seemed pointless not to just look at his address. So I did. And now I'm here. Because he promised me he would save a room for me, if I ever came "back into town". Haven't seen him in two years, but it's Nick. Man of his word. Wouldn't say something like that if he didn't mean it, not to me. More than just that, I think he'd be disappointed if I never took him up on it. I think I would be disappointed, if I never got to see him again. He was going to play all the songs he used to sing for me, probably because I think he made most of them up. He just likes to say things, and sometimes he just says them with a melody. Nick, he's crazy. But he's my friend.

...There were other things in his file, which he never told me. Should have made me angry, maybe, since I thought he trusted me that much. But I'm not angry. I would just like to see him. I would like him to be okay. Could be naive of me to think that he doesn't have other good friends, but maybe this is why I'm coming here. While he's teaching me about summer and "euro dance pop", I can tell him that I think he'll be all right. It would be a very bad world, if he wasn't.

I don't really like writing, but sometimes I have more to say than I can talk about. Guess that's why I couldn't wait to get to his place before sitting down with an iced mocha (these are very, very good and I might have another, then take one with me before I go) to put this all down on, essentially, a piece of electronic paper. If I went there first, I wouldn't have had this chance. But no matter how much I like it, this drink is starting to make my stomach hurt and my hands wobble, kind of. If I waste any more time, anymore proverbial breath, he might be asleep when I get there.