The first ground action of the war had started yesterday when Iraqi infantry and tank squadrons pushed across the border and occupied the Saudi town of Khafji. When Jake had stopped watching the coverage yesterday (in order to get ready for his dinner-date with Kate), the fighting between the occupying Iraqi forces and the US Marines and Saudi Defense Forces had been reported as intense. It was worried that if the Iraqis reinforced their position on the Saudi side of the border, they would have a foothold which they could use to launch attacks on nearby Saudi oil fields.
Now, at 11:00 AM, New Zealand time, it was three o'clock in the morning in the war zone. Though American, British, and French planes were undoubtedly pounding the shit out of the Iraqis in Iraq and Kuwait, nothing current was being reported at the moment. Still, it was just entering prime time hours on the east coast of the United States (although it was still yesterday there) so the nightly updates were being presented for the enjoyment of the people during their dinner hour.
Jake watched the coverage as he made his breakfast. He cut up a small onion and grated some cheese. He then cooked a quarter pound or so of the fresh pork sausage he'd bought a few days before at a farmer's market he'd discovered near Ashburton. After draining the sausage, he dumped it into a small bowl and set it aside. He then scrambled three of the farm fresh eggs he'd bought at the same market and added them to the sausage. From the refrigerator he opened a zip-lock bag and removed two flour tortillas, part of a batch he'd made himself about a week ago. He had been forced to learn to make his own since tortillas were not something readily available in any New Zealand market. He heated the tortillas on the stove until they were soft and pliable and then put even amounts of the egg and meat mixture into each one. He sprinkled on the cheese and then poured some of the salsa he'd made (salsa was not generally available in New Zealand either) over the mixture. He rolled his constructions up, almost like he was rolling a joint, and the result was two fairly decent sized breakfast burritos.
He poured a large glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice into a glass and then ate at the kitchen table, continuing to watch the latest news from Iraq even though he had pretty much been caught up by this point and the newscasters were starting to repeat themselves.
The fighting in Khafji was still going on and the Iraqi troops were still there. Air strikes were being conducted around the clock but US and Saudi troops had been unable to force them to retreat as of sunset. It was no longer feared, however, that the Iraqis were going to use Khafji as a staging point for a larger incursion into Saudi territory. Instead, it was starting to look like nothing more than a nuisance raid. No further Iraqi troops had crossed the border.
Jake continued to watch as he smoked his first cigarette of the day. Once the dizziness from this fresh blast of nicotine faded away, he got up and went about the task of cleaning his house. Though he had a maid that came in once a week, she only did the detail work like dusting, washing windows, scrubbing sinks and toilets, and vacuuming. The daily tasks like cleaning, doing the dishes, taking out the garbage, and doing the laundry, Jake did himself. He found these chores somewhat of a novelty after so many years of having someone else do them for him.
It took him the better part of two hours to gather all the dishes and clean them, to get the laundry done, to sweep the floors, to mop the kitchen, to wipe down all the counters, to make his bed, to take out the garbage. Through it all, he turned the television on in whatever room he happened to be in and he kept one eye and one ear on the coverage of the war in case something new happened. Nothing new did happen, not even a SCUD attack on Saudi Arabia or Israel, not even a defecting Iraqi pilot heading for Iran.
Jake smoked another cigarette, this one out on his deck. When he finished it, he went back inside and into his master bedroom (which was now neat and fresh smelling since he'd opened the windows). He stripped off his sweats and t-shirt and tossed them into the laundry basket. He then shaved, brushed his teeth, and took a long, hot shower. When he was finished, he dressed in blue jeans, a button-up short-sleeved denim shirt, and a pair of Nike tennis shoes. He donned his San Francisco Giants baseball cap and his sunglass and then headed out of the house, not bothering to lock it behind him. His Harley was sitting in its accustomed place, looking no worse the wear for its unrecalled ride home last night, but he ignored it. Instead, he stepped into the Toyota four-wheel drive pick-up he'd bought his second day in New Zealand and headed down the summit road to Lyttelton.
He parked in front of the post office and went inside. Elisa was on duty behind the counter. She was a late-twenties blonde, a little on the plump side, but not unattractive to Jake's eyes. He had flirted with her shamelessly ever since initially establishing his post office box, but had never done anything more than that with her. He was honest enough to admit to himself that it was because she elected not to take their relationship any further. She was married to a first-mate on one of the fishing boats and took her fidelity seriously.
"How's it going, Jake?" she asked as he walked up to the counter.
"It's going just the way I like it," he told her. "Another beautiful day and I get to look at a beautiful lady."
She giggled as she removed her keys from a drawer. "You say that to all the women, don't you?"
"Just the beautiful ones," he assured her.
She opened his mailbox and removed a fairly impressive pile of envelopes from it. "Quite the build-up here," she said. "You haven't picked up your mail in a few days, have you?"
"There's never anything I want to read in it," he said.
"A rich celebrity like you?" she asked. "Ignoring your mail?"
He shrugged and gave her a smile. "It just reminds me that there's a world out there," he said.
She looked at him in wonder as he left the office and headed back to his truck. Most of the people of Lyttelton dreamed of visiting some other place in the world. Jake, who had the world at his fingertips, seemed to only want to stay here, spending his time drinking in their depressing bars and having sex with their notorious barflies. Go figure.
Jake glanced at the envelopes when he got back to his truck. Several were fan letters from New Zealand residents who had managed to beg or borrow his address. He would read them later, when he had a chance, and would maybe even answer a few. Four of the envelopes were bills — one from the propane service, one from the electrical service, one from the waste management company, and one from the mail order company he got his movies from. These, he would put unopened in a large envelope when he got home and send them to Jill in Heritage the next time he came to the post office. She would, in turn, pay them out of his accounts.
The rest of the envelopes in the pile were all personal correspondence. There were two letters from Pauline, one from his parents, and one from Nerdly. He didn't open any of them. When he got home, he would deposit onto a pile in his desk drawer that was made up of similarly unopened letters. He had no desire to read about anything that was going on at home.
He started the truck and drove down to the waterfront, stopping in front of the fishmonger shop owned by Elizabeth Crawford. He went inside to find Elizabeth and Kate, both in jeans with blood stained aprons around their waists, hard at work. Elizabeth was working the counter. Kate was putting some fresh squid on ice just behind her. Both sets of eyes lit up when he entered.