The years passed. After twenty years of service, Floyd was called in and asked if he wanted to retire from duty.
By then, he’d earned the rank of Command Sergeant Major.
Life was good. No hassles, money in the bank, plenty of respect.
“Do you want to carry on?” they asked.
He was told he could serve for another ten years, maximum. He could retire at any point during that time by giving one year’s notice.
Floyd gave it some thought.
He’d come a long way since D Block and haircut orders.
He decided to soldier on.
***
Oddball—now a Chief Master Sergeant—was in the same position.
If he wished, he could carry on for another decade.
He weighed up the options. In the end, he figured, why not? He still enjoyed the job. He wasn’t tied to a desk entirely—he still got his hands dirty.
“Don’t let the grass grow under your feet,” he’d say to the workshop team. “A lot’s changed since I signed up. Keep up or get left behind.”
Time, as always, passed.
Oddball knew exactly what he wanted to do when he was finally discharged.
He had money in the bank, a military pension, and a long-standing dream he was ready to turn into reality.
He’d be his own boss, and no one else’s.
Floyd was less certain.
He also had his pension. He’d saved most of his pay, and didn’t need to rush into anything.
“Let’s see what happens,” he told himself.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Oregon
Oddball eventually returned to his home state of Oregon, settling in Pine Bluff, a quiet town nestled in the trees.
There, he opened his own mechanic’s shop.
It had been a dream in the making for years. He’d saved relentlessly while in the Air Force to make it happen.
He reached out to old contacts across the services:
“Oddball’s open for business.”
The sign above the shop read:
Oddball — Custom Cycles & Bodyworks
The word spread fast. Soon, he had a steady stream of clients from across the country.
He wasn’t in it for the quick buck.
“It’ll be finished when it’s finished,” he told everyone.
Some of his custom work even ended up in national motorcycle magazines. He could have expanded. Hired a crew. Built a brand.
But he didn’t want that.
“I’m happy as it is,” he’d say. “If something gets screwed up, I know exactly who to blame.”
Decision
Floyd had been discharged in San Francisco.
“You’re only 47,” the supervisor at the discharge office said. “Too young to do nothing. I know someone looking for a site manager, if you're interested.”
The job was at a large shopping mall and car park going up along Interstate 80, between Sacramento and Reno.
Floyd said he’d think about it.
He took a short-term lease on a house, moved his gear in—most of it tools—and gave himself some breathing room.
Two weeks later, he went to take a look at the site.
Before going, he made a few local enquiries. Turned out there’d been a high turnover of site managers.
One look, and he saw why.
Overweight, foul-mouthed civilians barking orders, wandering around like they ran the Pentagon. Constant pressure from union reps, safety inspectors, and stressed-out managers who looked like they hadn’t slept in weeks.
He could have started the next morning.
But he didn’t.
“I’ve had thirty years of Uncle Sam telling me what to do,” he thought. “No way in hell am I taking it from some fat civvy with mustard on his tie.”
Floyd knew exactly how that story would end: quitting or cardiac arrest. It wasn’t worth it.
As he stood on the ridge overlooking the construction mess, his eyes drifted east—across the valley, up to the mountains.
Something stirred in him.
He thought of his childhood in Tennessee. The fishing, the woods, the quiet.
He remembered his father once saying, “I’ve had enough of noise and pollution. I want to see a proper sunset every night.”
“That’s what I want,” Floyd muttered. “Out in the country.”
Far from the madding crowd.
He’d read the Thomas Hardy novel years ago—an old English story about farm life and heartbreak. The title stuck more than the plot ever did.
That night, Floyd stayed in a Sacramento motel. He sat in silence, staring at the TV without watching.
City life was easy—TV, water, lights, phones, pizza in 30 minutes.
But it was also grey and loud and angry.
Concrete and glass, noise and fumes.
The buzz of people in a rush to go nowhere.
“I want out,” he said out loud. “Off the beaten track.”
He opened his notebook and did the math’s.
His pension, savings, monthly costs—it added up. Just.
Outside, he’d noticed an internet café next to the motel. He went there, paid for a couple of hours, and started looking.
Properties in northern Oregon and Washington State.
Quiet places. Country homes. Cabins. Forest clearings.
Next morning, he started making calls to the realtors. Packed up his bag and headed north on Interstate 5.
He always travelled with a bag.
Two changes of clothes. Wash kit.
A habit drilled into him from years of deployments.
“Be prepared,” they said. And they were right.
You never knew what the road would throw at you.
