It had been a very long day for Dave Barber and I. He had filled in for me at my office while I was working a medical flight to Greeley, Colorado.

Earlier in the morning, Sgt. Tommy Jenkins was either shot by someone, had accidentally shot himself or had pulled the trigger on purpose. In any case, he needed more medical aid from a larger hospital than our base hospital could give him.

When I returned to the base, I offered to buy dinner for us. We also decided to go to a local mall and visit our favorite bookstore.

On the way home I decided I wanted to stop quickly at Deanna Hurless’ so I could tell her how Tommy was doing. She and I were both members of the base honor team and Tommy was the unit’s NCO in charge.

As I got out of the car, I told Dave I’ll only be a couple of minutes. He decided to stay in the car because he was too tired to expend anymore energy jus’ on a quick visit.

Two hours later it dawned on me that Dave was still waiting in the car. I rushed down stairs to find him sound asleep even thought the temperature was near zero degrees.

When he woke up, he looked at me and asked in a rather sarcastic tone, “A couple of minutes, huh?”

I had no excuse for my forgetfulness.

My neighbor Beth Wachter was well-known for her practical jokes. One night she covered my 1972 Volkswagen Bug with Gummy Bear candy.

After she was finished, the fog that had moved in, turned to a heavy mist. The moisture sealed the little pieces of gooey candy to the surface of my car.

It would take me hours to get all the gelatin-based confectionary off my car. Along with removing the candy, it would also remove several patches of paint as well.

Too bad Beth didn’t know I had jus’ spend around $300 to get my Bug re-painted over the weekend.

At first I couldn’t believe what it was I was seeing. A man was running across the parking lot of the Salvation Army store near the corner of Sutro and Wells, close behind him was an uniformed officer.

As the pair drew closer, I could tell the officer was a Nevada Highway Patrol trooper. He was being outrun by the man he was obviously chasing.

Then they raced across the mini-mall parking lot, where the man being chased literally jumped up the steps, further out-distancing the officer. The man outrunning the trooper was heading straight for me.

I decided to act.

While I had no idea why the man was being chased, I knew he had to be stopped. In my experience, people don’t simple run away from law enforcement unless they’ve done something they don’t want to be arrested for.

I could tell he was going to pass right by me.

As he did, I spun around and clothes lined him at the chin. He was in such a mental state from having run so hard and so fast that he didn’t realize the potential threat I posed.

He flopped hard on the ground. And as he rolled over onto his stomach, intending to get up, I stepped on him and grabbed his arm, placing it in a straight-arm-bar.

Te trooper finally made it to where I was holding the nearly exhausted man on the ground. The officer was panting heavily and I thought he was going to collapse as he came to a stop.

“Give me your cuffs,” I said.

He handed them to me and I slipped them on the man on the ground. He didn’t put up a struggle as he was completely spent from his attempt to avoid arrest.

As the trooper sat on the curb, several Reno Police units rolled up and took control of the scene. Even an ambulance arrived to check out both men.

I never did find out what the guy was wanted for or why he ran from the trooper.

It was the first time I had ever flown on what some people call a “Puddle Jumper,” a small propeller-driven passenger aircraft. The planes size didn’t bother me as I had flown with my Uncle in a much smaller two-passenger aircraft before.

There were five people aboard the craft; the pilot, co-pilot, a couple and myself.

We left Denver right on time and I leaned back and allowed myself to drift off into sleep. I have no idea how long the flight was, but I do know that I was awakened by severe turbulence.

My mind was still foggy when I heard the pilot say we’re less than five minutes from Wyoming’s capitol. He added that there were strong winds and the flight would be rough for the rest of the way.

There would be no more sleeping for me as I leaned into the aisle, looking if I could see anything ahead of us. I couldn’t see anything, so contented myself with looking out the window to my right.

The craft flew over a series of barbed-wire fences as we made our final approach. That was really the last thing I saw before came to a violent and abrupt stop.

There was no warning, no shouting or screaming as the crash happened so suddenly. We’d learn later that the aircraft was flipped over on its back by a gust of wind about one-hundred feet from the end of the runway.

Everyone walked away without injury.

Mike and I had become good friends in the time we had served together. He was always going on about his beautiful wife and how lucky he was to have her and what he planned to do after he finished his current hitch.

We had just returned to the fire-base after being on a patrol for three and a half days. As usual he had mail waiting for him on his rack as we entered our tent.

And as usual, I had none. So I was looking forward to living vicariously through whatever Mike’s missus had written.

We were nearly knee to knee at the end of our racks, when he opened the envelope. I took notice that it didn’t have the same sweet aroma of perfume that many of the other had.

Without saying a word, Mike’s face took on the pallor of severe shock. I watched as the letter dropped from his hand and hit the wood-slat flooring of our Hooch.

Curious, I reached down to pick it up when I heard a double-kick. Before I could reach Mike’s hand, he shot himself under the chin.

Blood and matter sprayed everywhere. I sat in shock as he lay on his back, atop his rack, dead.

Finally, I looked down at the letter still my hand. Through the drops of crimson and flesh, I read the words: “Dear Mike…”

The first time I saw the Mapes Hotel and Casino had been 21 years earlier as I passed through town on my way home for Christmas leave. The old building was the Greyhound Bus stop and it was there that we were allowed to get off, stretch our legs and get a bite to eat.

Jus’ over 23 years prior to this, Mom and Dad spent their one and only honeymoon night at the then popular hotel. About half a year later their marriage would implode and our family would start on the path to dividing, one side or the other.

By the time I left the Marine Corps and moved to Reno, the old nighttime hotspot had been shuttered for around five-years. I walked by its dirty windows and boarded up doors every day on my way to my first casino job at the Club Cal-Neva as a keno writer.

For years city fathers fought back and forth over what should be done with the place. Some wanted to refurbish it and turn it into apartments, while others wanted to demolish it, making room for a revitalized downtown area.

After nearly twenty-years of neglect, it was decided that the building was too far gone to save. And several groups had done their best to save the Mapes, even going so far as to attempt to have it listed as a historic site, but to no avail.

It was a crisp January morning when Kyle and I got up and drove downtown to the post office that sits between Center and Virginia. Its parking lot faces the Truckee River and at the time offered the best view of the Mapes Hotel and Casino.

We were there only a few minutes, when a siren wailed in the distance and the first explosion erupted. Within the blink of an eye the old brick structure was nothing more than a pile of rubble, its dust, tailing slightly northwest on the early morning breeze.

Like my parents marriage, it was now gone, irreparably damages beyond what it had been at one time. It too was a victim of implosion, destroyed from inside.

Fever over comes the body, heated
Skin that flushes at the very touch
Of coolness of anothers gentle hand
But then returns again with wild rush.

Ragged breath, drawn inward with gulps,
More a reflex, than for life itself.
The mere idea of surrender unheard of
Even as the body fails, misery in health.

Everyone dies alone, the dying will
Soon discover, at least in their body,
For the soul’s spirited one is joined
By others, those not passing cannot see.

Heart races, plunging higher as it beats,
Suddenly and irreversebly slows down,
Down, down, until it is nothing, a line,
Flat, untraceble, undetectable, no sound.

Than like that, it is over, life is gone,
Passed into the heavens beyond, leaving
Behind all of thoughs that love and still
Live to carry on, heart broken, grieving.

My life is a poor excuse as I’ve allowed so much to pass by me without so much as a sideways glance. And that which I have lived out, is filled with fraud.

When I do reach for that fictitious brass-ring and dare to step outside the boundaries I’ve long since established, I find I do everything, every action, every thought incorrectly. At least this is how I see things.

The rules I live by no longer work. While they look good on paper and feel good to speak aloud, they carry no weight in this life I live.

And I’ve no idea why they seem so abstract now.

There is a serious doubt I carry in my heart and in my mind that says I’ll never find the life I once had. I thought I was a man of adventure, of action, yet I’ve discovered I am nothing more than a character in one of my many failed short-stories.

Marvena Lassle was born November 15, 1958. She passed away November 1, 2009, after a long battle with cancer.

The last time I saw Marvena was in August 2008. We were at out 30th high school class reunion.

She told me she felt like she didn’t have long to live, so she was happy to have made it to the party. I didn’t find the comment surprising as I could tell she wasn’t very healthy.

Marvena was always a sweet-girl in school, a gentle spirit and one with quirky sense of humor. I recall many times, especially on cross-country and track road trips; she’d say something that would leave me laughing.

She was jus’ short of turning 51 years old.

To my pards, with a raspy voice,
I said, “I’m jus’ a little hoarse.”
Well, my pards, they had no choice,
They knew what to do of course.

They roped and tied me down
And tossed a saddle on my back
I squealed and tossed all around,
Couldn’t throw the rider or the kack.

Sunfish, crow-hop, bound for the sky,
Back down to earth, starting over again,
Rider spurring me from ear to thigh
Till my roar faded to quiet little din.

The moral is one you really can hear,
You could be roped, saddled and broke
When horse is heard and hoarse is near
Be careful of words that can be mis-spoke.