World War One was his life. 1918 was the year Dallas Landry considered himself dead to the rest of the world. Sure, his body might still carry on and forward, but his mind never had. It was the bloodiest time to be alive, but Dallas wasn’t sure that’s what he would call living. He’d been young, 18, when the war had started and he had been thrust into the trenches of Europe. It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t anything like the movies wanted it to be. He had been just another soldier, and with his uniform still folded and placed back in the safe in his closet, he felt like he’d never left.
It was strange to live a life solely to meet someone to complete it. Fate had thought it was funny, but Dallas definitely did not. Too many times he’d buried a platoon mate; their bodies being lowered into the ground at a ripe age of 60 since they’d met their soulmates before or after the war. He’d watched countless flags get folded and handed to their soulmate, as the person gave heartwrenching sobs at the funerals. Dallas had left them just as numb as he’d arrived, wondering when he’d finally be put into the ground to rest.
If there was anything one could tell by the man, it was that he was tired. His life was normal, at least, as normal as he could make it. He had never been asked to serve in World War II, or in Vietnam and Korea when the times had come. Dallas was past his prime, despite the fact that his body remained there. He’d met a few people over the years, gone as far as to sleep with them with the idea that he’d recognize his soulmate in an instant, but nothing had happened. No spark of life was reignited in his mind, and he’d left just as broken as he’d appeared.
This interview was supposed to get things into perspective for him. He’d been contacted by a woman who had obviously done her research, and at this rate, all Dallas had was time anyway. His life on his little ranch was quaint, and the small town had kept him afloat the past few years. He was still paid by the government for his service in WWI, and he added that to his salary of breeding horses and rounding up cattle every now and then. Dallas had no family. They’d left him a long time ago, and it wasn’t like he could try and start one without his soulmate. He was trying to do good by the world still, a world that needed all the help it could get as of late.
The café was just as small as the town, and Dallas had been in there enough to recognize the people who came in there frequently to the strangers that were just visiting. He’d found himself an empty booth in the back, pulling his ball cap down slightly to tame his curls that only seemed to cause him more harm than good. Older women fretted over them, and half the time Dallas was older and felt like a child again. He wanted to be done with life sometimes, but he wasn’t a quitter. Instead, he lived his lonely life and dealt with it whatever way he could. Therapy or no therapy. It wasn’t until blonde curls were in his peripheral that he looked up, meeting a shade of blue that matched his own, “Ma’am,” he said slowly, standing up to take her hand and pull off his hat, “Please, sit. ‘N you can call me Dallas. Ain’t no one called me Mr. Landry in quite a while, miss’m.”
Her nerves were obvious, and Dallas hoped it wasn’t him who was making her uncomfortable. He didn’t have a great way with words, but he hoped he gave enough for her research to continue. Reliving his life wasn’t what he wanted to do on a daily basis, but no one ever asked. Maybe he’d finally get heard for once in his life. Plenty of times Dallas had felt like he was drowning in air, something quite overdramatic for someone like himself, but it was the sad, gruesome truth to his life. “No, miss’m. Miss Rutherford, ain’t it? It’s a real pleasure t’finally put a face t’the voice.”
Dixie’s sheepish expression warmed a little as Dallas stood in front of her. She took a half step back as he lifted from his chair, her eyes lifting. She herself was a tall woman, and it surprised her a little that he had some height on her. Everything about his appearance took her a little off guard. She was pretty sure no matter how many times she met up with him for supplemental information or follow up interviews she would be shocked to the core that it wasn’t a small, bent over old man in her company. Perhaps a little rudely, she stared at their hands together, her left hand lifting automatically to hold his hand between both of hers. She was a warm person, the gesture was natural for her, and her mind was much too consumed with the surprise that his handshake felt firm and strong despite his true age.
“And ma’am is my mother,” she replied with a gentle twang, a warm smile spreading across her features. “Dixie will do just fine for me, Dallas.” She made a point of using the name he had requested, letting go of his hand and smoothing out her skirt a little, a nervous habit. Her eyes flickered back upward when he said it was a pleasure, and the thin, gentle smile returned to her features as she peered up at him. “I could say the same myself.”
In the next moment she was digging through her bag trying to find her wallet wherever she had carelessly tossed it in in her hurry. “Oh, are you sure? I had planned to get a drink myself and really it’s no trouble,” she babbled into the gaping opening of her purse. “Consider it a thank you for meeting with me, really, I’d be more than happy to—I swear I put it in here this morning.” By the end she had trailed off and away from her offer and was talking only to herself. She stood up straight again figuring she might have an easier time of finding the wallet once her supplies had been dumped from the large bag.
“I’ll need a moment to set up,” she told Dallas, pulling a notebook and a small device out of her bag. She nodded toward his seat again, mumbling, “Please, sit,” as she settled down into the chair across from him. Her thin hands flipped through her notebook until they found the page where she had already begun compiling notes about him in a neat, loopy script. Carefully, she placed the device between the two of them and caught his eye. “Would you mind if I recorded our session today? I’ll be taking notes by hand as well and I’ll be more than able to work with those, so whatever you’re comfortable with is fine.”
Dixie waited until Dallas had had time to consider and give her answer before handling the recording device. She folded her hands primly in front of her and gave a small nod. “Alright, Dallas, we’re on the record now. I’d like you to know that at any point you have the right to end the interview,” she explained in a careful tone. “You don’t owe me anything, so I want you to know that you are at liberty to choose whether or not you want to answer any of these questions. If you find I ask you something that you don’t care to speak to, I accept that—no explanation or apology necessary. You just let me know and we’ll move right along, alright?” She had looked him right in the eye as she explained all of this. For this journalistic project, it was one of the most important parts to her. These were people’s lives she was probing into, and she did not take it light or for granted. “Share what you’re willing to, you still have a right to your privacy.”
The woman sat back a little, visibly relaxing after the somber disclaimer. Pen in hand she was poised to ask her first question. She wanted to start the interviews off slow and communicate she saw her subjects as people who shared her humanity. “First question,” she said, eyes flickering away from her page of notes to check up on Dallas, “How are you doing today?” She waited politely for him to have a chance to answer. Some people laughed at her when they got this question, but she had always felt it was polite to ask and a suitable warm up for both journalist and subject. “Unless you have something else you’d like to begin with, I think it might make sense to first talk about your early life? When and where you were born? The family structure, early education, anything you remember from childhood. Does anything stand out? This session will be very… broad.” It took her a moment to think of the right word, her twangy accent a little thicker when she finally thought of it. “Think of it as me gathering a survey of your life, whatever you’re willing to share, that is, to reflect on and think of deeper questions to explore in our next session.”
