text: J.C. Laird Jake and the Girl with the Pretty Legs BookRix GmbH & Co. KG 81371 Munich 
   
   
   Jake and the Girl with the Pretty Legs 
   The butterfly effect. Something seemingly random and insignificant starts a chain reaction of events that somewhere in the future may lead to a life-altering—or as in Rachel’s case—a life-saving event. 
   This time that “something” was a red traffic light. 
   Rachel maneuvered her black, Nissan Maxima into the far left lane of I-25, preparing to make a left turn onto Central Avenue. She had thirty minutes to get to the bank, make a withdrawal and get back to the University of New Mexico for her class. She hoped her parents had transferred money into her account; the income from her part-time job at the Athletic Department didn’t come close to covering everything. 
   As she slowed and approached the intersection she saw an old man standing on the corner holding a small, makeshift cardboard sign with a short message scrawled on it. She squinted in the sunlight—she’d misplaced her sunglasses again—to read the nearly illegible writing: HOMELESS VET-NEED HELP-GOD BLESS. 
   She glanced up at the looming traffic signal. If it stayed green, the hobo was out of luck. If it turned red, she would find something to give him. 
   As if responding to her thoughts, the light turned red. She stopped…and the butterfly flicked its wings. 
   Rachel waved the man over. He came scurrying towards her, dirty and unkempt, wearing a worn army-fatigue jacket, covering a soiled t-shirt, faded and frayed blue jeans and tennis shoes that—maybe—had once been white. A battered ‘U.S. Army’ ball cap was perched on his head, struggling to cover unruly grey hair spiking from the edges in all directions. A matching, scraggly beard partially covered a darkly tanned, weathered face. Rachel estimated him to be in his late sixties or early seventies. She didn’t remember seeing this particular panhandler around before. But then, there were so many of them. 
   She fumbled through her purse on the seat next to her; she always tried to keep a few one-dollar bills on hand for just these occasions. 
   Her roommate, Wynne, thought that she was throwing her money away, that the beggars were just using the money for booze and drugs. Maybe some of them were, Rachel mused, but some just needed help, she was sure. And she could never completely reconcile the fortunate circumstances of her life with the less fortunate ones of those destined to wander the streets, with little hope, and a barren future stretching before them. She didn’t understand the whys or wherefores of how these things came to be, only that they made her sad. 
   When she rolled down her window, a slight breeze carried in the unpleasant odor of unwashed clothes and unwashed body. She wrinkled her nose, but realized that the hobo had at least tried to cover the smell with some type of cheap cologne—a kind of men’s musk scent—that made her want to weep. 
   No ones, only a lonely five in her purse. She turned back to hand the man the money, only to find him staring at her bare legs. 
   It was a warm October day, and Rachel was wearing shorts. They weren’t Daisy Dukes, but they qualified as first cousins; there was a lot of leg to see. She was well aware that men found her attractive, with her dark hair and dark eyes on a 5’5,” 125 lb. feminine frame with the curves in all the places God meant them to be. 
   Maybe she should have been offended or afraid. But the man’s reaction when he realized that he had been caught looking was almost comical. He shuffled back a couple of steps, his watery, pale blue eyes cast down towards the ground in embarrassment. He looked to the left, then the right, everywhere but at her. She thought that he was even blushing beneath his rough, weathered skin. 
   He began stammering, “I’m sorry ma’am…I didn’t mean…shouldn’t be looking…it’s just…” He kept looking down and around, but not at her. “Sometimes I forget…I’m sorry ma’am.” 
   Rachel had to bite her lip to keep from laughing; the man’s embarrassment was so acute. As it was, she couldn’t keep her expression from turning into a huge grin. She held the five dollar bill out the window. “I’m only twenty-four. I’m not a ma’am yet, just a miss. Here, take it, it’s okay, I’m not angry.” 
   He finally looked at her and, seeing that she really wasn’t upset with him, allowed a smile to creep back onto his face. He took the money and said, “You have real pretty legs, Miss.” 
   She finally did laugh. “Why, thank you.” Men had used various terms to describe Rachel’s physical charms, but she couldn’t recall hearing the simple ‘pretty legs’ before. Impulsively she asked, “What’s your name?” 
   Looking down at the ground like an embarrassed child, he answered, “Jake.” 
   Now the horns on the cars behind Rachel had begun blaring; the traffic light had turned green. The old man trotted off the roadway, back onto the shoulder. 
   Rachel whispered, “Good luck, Jake,” and she slowly drove away. 
   # 
   Three days later Rachel saw Jake again. She was out jogging in the early afternoon sunshine, clad in red running shorts and a t-shirt that declared ‘WOMEN WHO BEHAVE RARELY MAKE HISTORY.’ She was moving at a good pace along a path parallel with Central Avenue when she caught sight of the green army jacket and ball cap across the street, near the local Wendy’s Restaurant. She altered her course and crossed over at the light at University and Central. 
   He was standing near the sidewalk in Wendy’s parking lot, a well-worn army knapsack on his back and a frayed army duffel bag resting on the ground next to him. They may well have been relics from a World War II army surplus store. 
   Jake looked at her as she jogged up. For several seconds he stared blankly. But then, glancing down, his eyes lit up. “The girl with the pretty legs!” 
   She laughed. “Okay Jake, enough with the pretty legs stuff; my name’s Rachel.” 
   His simple, huge grin revealed, amazingly, a full set of teeth, albeit several shades removed from white. Then his smile faltered. 
   “What’s the problem, Jake?” she asked. 
   He looked back at her, then at the Wendy’s behind him. “I’m hungry, but they don’t like me inside. I’m bad for customers…or something.” He pulled a dollar out of one of his coat pockets. “And I got money too.” 
   She took a deep breath. “My treat for lunch. What would you like?” Wynne would probably think she was crazy. 
   Jake could hardly contain his excitement. “A double cheese burger, some French fries and one of them big Frosties!” 
   Rachel was back five minutes later, with a Frosty for herself, too 
   After taking the food from Rachel, Jake was back to looking at the ground and shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Would you…aaah…eat lunch with me?” he stammered. 
   “Sure, where?” Rachel couldn’t quite believe she’d accepted. Wynne would think she’d lost her mind. 
   He motioned across the street at a large expanse of University property on the corner adjoining the campus, the grass shaded by a number of wide crowned, long- needled evergreen trees. 
   It was under one of those trees that Jake pulled from his duffle bag an old, worn army blanket and spread it on the ground. The hem was frayed, and it was torn in a couple of places, but Jake handled the brown blanket as if it was expensive and delicate fine linen. 
   People walking by occasionally stared, talked and whispered among themselves about the raggedy, homeless man and the pretty, college coed sitting and talking on the blanket. Rachel hardly heard them so engrossed was she in Jake’s conversation. 
   Sometimes Jake rambled, sometimes his sentences became disjointed and sometimes he forgot his train of thought, but slowly, Rachel pieced together a little of Jake’s life. 
   Jake Christopher Landry, his “whole full name” he called it, had been born and raised in the small town of Flat Rock, graduated high school there, and then attended a year of college at Eastern Michigan University. With the Viet Nam War in full swing, he had felt compelled to fight for his country, so he enlisted in the Army. He had almost completed his second tour of duty when the helicopter he was in was shot down. Severely injured, he had spent a month in a military hospital in Saigon, was transferred back to the States for another three month stay in a veteran’s hospital, followed by an agonizing, yearlong rehabilitation. 
   Jake had a girlfriend when he left for ‘Nam, but not when he came back. Because not all of him came back. Oh, he had kept all of his arms and legs, all right. But part of his mind was gone—a permanent sacrifice for his country. He tapped the right side of his head with his knuckles. “I have a metal plate here where part of my head was.” 
   Since then, Jake had wandered through the years, life becoming not much more than eating, sleeping and basic day to day functions to stay alive. Sometimes there were “special” good things for him, like Rachel, “a pretty girl who was nice to him.” He blushed, something he did easily in her presence. 
   Besides functioning on a very simple level, Jake forgot things. During the warmer months he lived in the Bosque, the green belt of trees and vegetation along the Rio Grande River. During the winter months he slept at Joy Junction and the other homeless shelters around the city. But sometimes he forgot how to get there and had to ask people, just as he sometimes had to ask how to get back to the First Baptist Church near Lomas and Broadway, where they served free meals to the homeless. He couldn’t remember how long he’d “lived” in Albuquerque. He forgot street names. He forgot people’s names. But he said he’d remember Rachel. He promised he wouldn‘t forget her. 
   He stopped talking, and pulled a worn picture out of a pocket in the backpack and handed it to her. “That’s me when I went to the Army.” In it was a serious looking young man, clad in an Army dress uniform, hat tucked under his left arm, ramrod straight and staring soberly into the camera. It was a very young version of Jake, with a buzz-cut and clean shaven. He was standing in front of a red Ford Mustang, maybe a ‘65 or ‘66. “You can have it if you want…” A panicked look overcame him, “…uh…Rachel…yes, Rachel.” A look of relief flooded his face when he managed to remember her name. 
   Handing it back to him, she said, “I can’t take this Jake, it’s too important. It’s part of your life, who you are.” 
   He was looking down and away from her now. “I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t always like this,” he mumbled. “I used to be a real person.” 
   “My God, Jake…don’t say that…” Her eyes brimmed with tears, and her throat constricted with grief. The man before her might be a shell of the strong, committed young man in the picture, but they were both still Jake. 
   Suddenly he was on his feet. “I have to go now. They’re coming.” He was looking past her, down the street. 
   She followed his stare and saw two uniformed policemen two blocks away, talking in front of a store. “What’s the matter, Jake?” she asked, watching panic contort his face. 
   “They don’t like people like me hanging around. They make me leave.” He picked up the old army blanket, carefully brushed off the loose grass sticking to it, and gently and painstakingly folded it. 
   “That must be a very special blanket," she said.” 
   He continued folding it, and then carefully put it back in his duffle bag. “It was my father’s from when he was in a war, World War II, in Europe. He gave it to me when I was little. Before I was like this. It’s all I have of his.” 
   Hefting his duffle bag and back-pack, he turned to her. She could see tears in his faded blue eyes. “Thank you…ma’am, I mean…miss…er, Rachel…,” he faltered, but continued on. “Don’t forget… once I was different…better, that is…not like this.” Then his mind slipped gears again, and that childish and embarrassed smile creased his weathered and lined face. “You still have the prettiest legs I ever seen in my whole life.” He turned and walked away. 
   Rachel watched until he had disappeared around the corner. She hadn’t known what else to do or say. 
   # 
   A week passed, and the clear, high desert nights of Albuquerque had become increasingly cold. It was late, after eleven pm, but Rachel had had a late dinner with her boyfriend, Jon, and she needed her daily run. Wynne said she was crazy to be jogging around town that late at night, but Rachel, in her baggy grey sweat suit to combat the cooling October night, was fearless. Besides, she had her trusty Mace in her pocket. 
   She stuck to the well-lit areas around campus and the adjoining neighborhoods. But she was cold and decided to take a short-cut back to her apartment. She detoured between the two O.M.I. buildings near the loading dock—a route she had taken dozens of times. 
   But this night, it was a terrible mistake. 
   The first attacker, wearing a hooded sweat shirt, came out of the darker recesses of a doorway and hit her low, like a football player, driving her into the adjoining building’s stucco veneer. Her head thudded off the wall, the sledgehammer of pain buckling her knees, black stars on a brilliant white background exploding in front of her eyes. The man’s fist crashed into her jaw, and the stars grew bigger, threatening to meld into total darkness. Her legs failing her, she began a slow slide down the wall, but still managed to maintain her hold on consciousness, trying to concentrate on getting enough wind back in her lungs to scream. 
   Mauling hands were pulling, yanking her sweatshirt and bra up, over and covering her head, pinning her arms above her. More hands, a second person, was pulling at her sweatpants, trying to pull them off as she sat dazed on the cold cement, propped weakly against the rough wall. 
   Her sputtering mind latched onto one horrific word…rape…she was going to be raped! She would have screamed, but her jaws wouldn’t work anymore; all that came out was a hoarse, raspy moan through her clenched teeth and bleeding lips. Her mind lurched, stumbled, prayed, ‘Help me God…help me please…the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…’ 
   Suddenly, miraculously, the grasping, grabbing hands were gone from her body. There were sounds of scuffling, swearing, fighting. A scream, someone tripping over her. Her mind registered that someone was trying to help her. 
   Rachel slowly slumped over onto her side, gasping and gagging. The pain was so intense in her head and jaw that she thought she might vomit. She curled up into a half fetal position, bringing her knees up to her chest, but was too weak to work the sweatshirt down from over her arms and head. It was so dark and she was so cold. She couldn’t hear the sounds of fighting anymore. 
   Then someone was covering her nakedness with something warm. She mercifully slid into unconsciousness, thinking and feeling no longer an option. 
   # 
   She could hear voices, words, disjointed sounds. Slowly, they began to coalesce, sticking to her consciousness. She opened her eyes, squinting at the red and blue flashing lights swirling through the darkness. Her head was throbbing and her jaw hurt. Slowly, things came into focus. 
   Two police cars were parked near the loading dock entrance, their emergency lights slicing through the night. An ambulance was backed onto the down ramp, a stretcher with a moaning, inert shape awaited its loading. 
   Rachel pushed herself into a sitting position, resting against the rough stucco wall. Two male EMT’s standing next to her, waiting until the second ambulance was ready for her, immediately knelt down. The older of the two spoke. “Take it easy, young lady, you might have a concussion; why don’t you lie back down?” 
   Other than her head, jaw and swollen lips, everything seemed to be normal. “I’ll be okay.” A wave of nausea washed over her and it hurt to talk, but she wanted to know what was going on. “Did they catch the guys who attacked me?” 
   With an audible grunt a heavy-set police officer, whom she hadn’t seen at first, knelt down beside her. “The other ambulance is hauling away the two guys who assaulted you. They were beaten pretty badly, but we can’t take credit for that. They confessed to attacking you, but said some young guy in an army uniform came out of nowhere and beat the hell out of them. A campus police officer on foot patrol heard yelling and screaming, came to investigate and found you and those two punks unconscious, but no sign of any army guy.” 
   The grey-haired cop reminded Rachel of her father. He was still talking. “Any chance I can have that blanket and picture now?” he said. 
   Rachel glanced down. Her sweat suit was back in place and a dark wool blanket was now covering her lower body. In her left hand—and clasped tightly to her body—was a threadbare, brown army blanket, and in her right, a photograph. Both hands were cramped and sore. 
   “You’ve had a death grip on that old blanket and picture ever since we found you. You’ve been semi-conscious, but refused to let go of either. Someone had covered you with that blanket; I don’t know where the picture came from, either.” The officer reached out and touched her arm. “I’m Officer Mike Jenkins and I’ve been with the Albuquerque Police Department for thirty years. You have my word that I’ll take care of the blanket and picture and get them back to you.” He stood up and reached down. 
   Rachel reluctantly released the old photograph from her stiff fingers. The blanket she brought to her face, the coarse surface a caress against her cheek, inhaling deeply the faint odor of sweat and musk. The tears came silently; she handed the blanket to the officer. 
   Glancing from the photo to the smiling, but tearful, young woman before him, he asked, “Do you know the soldier in this picture?” 
   “I’m only twenty-four, that picture’s like forty-five years old.” 
   “And you know this how?” Officer Jenkins looked from the old army blanket to the photo, then back at Rachel. 
   She remained silent. 
   He sighed. “I don’t think I even want to know. We’ll get a description of the good-Samaritan from the perps and try to locate him.” 
   Rachel’s smile faded a bit. “I think he’s gone, officer. I think, maybe, he was just on loan.” 
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   Publisher: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG Implerstraße 24 81371 Munich Germany Text: John C. Laird Images: istockphoto.com Editing: Alexandra Laird All rights reserved. Publication Date: October 8th 2014 https://www.bookrix.com/-alsam2 ISBN: 978-3-7309-7790-3