Hitch Kick

The sand was a yellow-white, combed with more care than a Zen garden. Jogo stared at the long jump pit, unblinking. A gentle breeze brushed the perspiration away from his cheek and brought the scents of autumn past his nose. The metal bleacher was no throne, and he was no king; his once straight back bent forward so his elbows could rest on his thighs. His hands were clasped before his mouth as if to prevent evil from invading, or escaping, his lips.
  Two worlds were colliding, unbeknownst to the empty track or to the blades of grass casually waving to each other on the field. It was that unshifting sand. It was the gunpowder. Jogo's eyes were the barrel, behind them, that was the bullet. Click.
    In the veil of the still smoking gun Jogo is months and miles away. Afghanistan's yellow-white earth stretches up to a clear blue sky, the perfect canopy to the festivities beneath it.  Jogo is no longer conscious of wearing his running shoes and basketball shorts. Fatigues and army issued boots replaces them, trapping him. Older villagers avoid eye contact as they rush by with their little ones, whose hands are filled with dates and other sweets.
    Jogo looks with irritation out into the distance before bringing his surveillance closer in. His uniform is chafing and a headache is gaining strength from his exposure to the bright sunlight, so it is with a frown that he takes in the colorful scene before him. Decorations and vibrant clothing aside, not even the villagers are exhibiting much enthusiasm. Man, this place is dead.
    Jogo comes to rest his eyes on a hut. A boom of thunder suddenly punches him in the chest and a plume of smoke is in the hut's place. Roars from voices and explosions follow, flooding in and then rippling different directions.
    Jogo acts without thinking; that's what training was for, and he efficiently responds to the orders of his commanding officer. He takes point in a running crouch, his gun held up to his face so as to resemble the beak of a heron. He banks left before seeking cover behind a pile of junk. He leaps over a broken body to safety.
    Jogo brushed away a gnat that had tickled his leg, his old high school track and long jump pit before him once more.  He drew out his measuring tape as he strolled over to the runway. 76ft on the dot, that's where he always used to start from, so that's where he marked, applying athletic tape on the rubber track. He went into his dance, leaning back on his left leg, then bringing it next to his right and sending his momentum upwards so he was on his toes briefly. Repeat. Breathe out and lean back, breathe in and bring it together. He took off down the runway, his head down for acceleration. He straightened up in plenty of time for the launch. There was the subtle feeling of stepping over the toe board before his arms circled forward from behind, his back arching in sync. His legs pedaled in the air for an instant before he brought his body into a V shape.
    His left leg broke the sand first. His knee giving out, Jogo collapsed into the sand. Grains covered the side of his face and clung to his clothing.
    Jogo cries out in pain. He clutches his knee and rolls to the dusty ground, blood dribbling between his fingers. All sound vanishes for a second before it engulfs him with a vengeance. Kneeling on his good knee, he glances over his cover. A woman stands facing him, a pistol outstretched in her arm. A child is linked to her other hand. Both of their abdomens look to be too heavily padded.
    Jogo ducks in time to avoid a second hit. When he pops his head up again, he sees the woman and child had sprinted toward the center of the village, threatening to join the panicked, stampeding herd. Jogo aims, fires twice, and neutralizes his targets. He collapses behind his cover, letting time pass without him.
    "Your knee. We'll get this looked at, buddy." Jogo looks dumbly up at a face strapped into a helmet, the eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He heaves Jogo up and helps him to the Humvee. "Don't worry, you'll be back on your feet soon," the soldier smiles some pearly whites at him.
Jogo bites his lip, knowing that long after he's able to smoothly put one foot in front of the other, he'll never be able to walk away from this.
    "Oh God, Jogo? Here, let me help," bustled a young woman. Jogo grimaced as he accepted assistance out of the long jump pit, his knee throbbing. The woman helped him over to the bleachers.
    "John Gonzalez, what have you done to yourself?" the woman asked reproachfully.
    Jogo's face cracked into a heavy hearted smile, "Oh, you know, I'm always doing crazy stuff. What you been up to, Anderson?"
    Kate Anderson had met John through the track team, not JROTC, but that didn't stop him from referring to her by her last name. "Geez, it's been three or four years, hasn't it? I don't even know where to start. Did you know I was going to school in Seattle? We have a cross country race out in the canyon this weekend, so I came down early to see the fam’. I just ran up to this old place to do strides. I literally just got here when you decided to eat sand."
    "You're still racing, then? For a college?" Jogo felt he was talking to someone from the past, Kate had changed so little.
    "Oh yeah," she answered. "Are you still jumping?"
    Jogo shook his head. "I was competing for the army, but then..."
    Anderson nodded her head in a sympathetic manner. "You hurt your knee. That's tough, man. How did it happen?"
    Jogo rubbed his hand against his buzzed hair. "I was sent to Afghanistan. I was shot."
    Shock graced Anderson's face. She hadn't expected that answer. "I'm sorry," she said and then pointed to his knee. With his eyes glued to his hands in front of him, he didn't notice the gesture. "That's the most painful place, isn't it?"
    "Yeah," he shared. "I had to shoot suicide bombers. They were a mother and child"
    Kate's eyes went round and her mouth hung agape. There was nothing she could do or say to console her old teammate, to comfort her old friend.
    Jogo seemed to guess her dilemma and patted her arm. "It's okay, Anderson. I'm just glad you're the same. I just...wanted to let you know how I've been doing. And I've been having a hard time of it."
    Kate, her eyes still reflecting mild horror, shook her head. "No, Jogo. It's not okay. I'm just so sorry you have to know first hand how not okay our world is."
    "I didn't ask to be a killer. I'm not who I was before." Jogo paused. "I liked who I was before."
    "I did, too. Are you getting the help you need?” Kate asked with concern.
    “Yeah, I am.” Jogo’s face was lax.
    The gears in Kate's head were visibly turning. Finally, she asked with mock worry, "But Jogo, you were such a good dancer. Will you be able to dance again?"
    Jogo's tightened lips slid into a smile. “Remember when you asked me to that dance?”
    Anderson chuckled, relieved that Jogo took to the change of subject. “It was worth it just to watch you. Remember how I asked you? I decided so last minute, that I wrote the question on a note and slid it into a book. I told you it was good and that you should flip through it but-”
    “-I totally missed it. You had to flip to the right page for me.”
    “Yeah,” Anderson smiled happily, reminiscing. “We really need to catch up. But first, do you need ice for your knee? Do you need help walking to your car?”
    Jogo looked up at her thoughtfully, shielding his eyes away from the falling autumn sun. “Yeah, I could use your help