Call Me Joe Read Online Free PDF

in boot camp. He opened the first two, mostly from the novelty of actually receiving mail, read the pleadings with a mild curiosity, and then simply tossed each new one into the trash, unopened. There were several probing conversations with his C.O., but those finally stopped, too. It amounted to one of Joe's most valuable lessons: just disengage from anything that poses no real threat and, sooner or later, it'll go away.
     
    Whatever doesn't go away, ergo, is a threat. And Joe was, even then, well on his way to becoming an expert at dealing with those.
     
    A cautious man by nature, Joe made an art of blending in. On the job, he dressed as the natives do, dyed his fair hair, adopted the gestures and facial expressions, smoked if smoking was the norm. In short, he offered no target, no profile that might pique an unhealthy curiosity.
     
    The most convenient way to do this, he knew, was simply not to be seen. And the one place on earth where he felt truly invisible, by an almost cosmic coincidence, turned out to be this 1200-foot hillock, a mere speed bump in the scope of the Northwest mountains. It was the most beautiful, serene place he had ever seen. And it opened up places in his innards that he never knew of; tender places, thoughtful places. It was a side of himself he had never seen and it both delighted and frightened him.
     
    At times, he was like a kid with a new bike, reveling in the warmth that the new feelings of perfect peace engendered. At other times, he swatted them away like gnats, angered by his weakness and vulnerability.
     
    Over the years, he had learned to trust the mountains, to believe in the isolation, and to relax with the emotions. He vaguely recalled a term one of his platoon leaders had used to death in 'Nam: mellow.
     
    "Mellow". He had become mellow, somehow. His quick-starting cache of aggressiveness was still there; he could feel it if he dug deeper. But it was more manageable, now, more...utilitarian. He used it, instead of the reverse.
     
    Joe's mind was an oddly uncluttered place. He was distantly aware that other people had a million things on their minds at once. Not him. He thought of one thing at a time, resolved his feelings about it, filed them, and moved on. It had always been that way and anything that wouldn't resolve easily was quickly forgotten. So, once he realized that he was comfortable with the peace he found in his little roost in the hills, his early qualms were pushed aside.
     
    As he scanned the horizon, Joe was floating in what other people would describe as complete happiness. He experienced it as a curious, mildly-pleasurable silence in his head. It felt okay.
     
    Then, he saw the headlights.
     
    
     
    The street lamps were just winking on in Pioneer Square as I walked up the west end of Jackson Street toward my office. Monday was an off day, so I hadn't been there at all and I knew I'd be too tired to remote-check my voice mail when I got home. I was due to meet up with Lee Bjornsen, my D.A. buddy, at the Pyramid Ale House at 10 o'clock, just as the Mariners game let out across the street at Safeco Field, so I decided to pick up messages on the way there and not worry about it all night.
     
    My office shares the second floor of an old mercantile store, built in 1874, with a big ad agency and a two-man law firm. I have two front windows, restored hardwood floors, ceiling fans, and a flock of brass fixtures, all of which came with the lease. My own touch is huge black and white action photos of the Mariners: Ichiro pulling a home run back over the wall in Kansas City; John Olerud in full lay-out to rob Darren Erstad of a an easy double; Edgar Martinez's homerun swing in three panels; and the immortal shot of Junior Griffey, face lit up with a million-watt smile at the bottom of the home plate dog-pile when they beat the Yankees in '95.
     
    The only other photo is a life-sized shot of Clyde, trotting through the surf down at Long Beach.
     
    All the things