Ross Holloway and Ed Kraft had become friends overseas fast. They’d met in the shower one morning shortly after Ross had arrived in Iraq. Ed broke the ice.
“You can be sure I’m not gay or anything, but I’ve never seen an ass like yours on a man. Name’s Ed Kraft.”
Ross laughed. “Ross Holloway. Genes I guess.”
“J-e-a-n’s?”
“G-e-n-e-s.”
Ed laughed. “I could write home to my single sister about you. She’d suffer though and call me cruel.”
“I’m married,” Ross said, “so, you know, I’m not looking.”
“She must be special,” Ed said. “What’s her name?”
“Lyn. You’re right—she’s special.”
“Way to go,” Ed said. “Wish I could say that. Seems like years since I broke with mine. Only five, six months at the most though.”
“What’s her name?” Ross asked.
“Sharon,” Ed said. “But she wasn’t really a rose. (Silence) That’s a joke.”
“I’ll laugh later. You broke it off or she did?”
Ed took a moment. “Actually, at the end it was by mutual consent,” he said.
“So you’re free. Free to play the field,” Ross said.
“Maybe. I’m not sure you can call it that here.”
Ed fetched the towels for both of them. “So how do you feel over here?” he asked Ross.
“Like maybe I died and now I’m in hell?”
“It’s rough, believe me,” Ed said. “What do you say to a beer this evening?”
“Sounds like what I need, Ed. Hell keeps a person thirsty.”
Randall, you have such a talent for cutting through to the crux of the matter -- I like this story, for surely, "war is hell" -- peace to you my friend -- JMW
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A search for the ghost of a chorus girl chorine haunting a costume designer’s Manhattan apartment leads to an encounter with an eccentric, mischievous witch with the ability to send folks back through time…in this case, the 1919 Ziegfeld Follies.
