by Bill Brewer
“Math. I’m pretty good at math.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but I have to tell you that your defense is not adding up to an acquittal.”
Reeves watched Diegert’s face as the statement sank in.
“You will most likely be convicted of this crime and dishonorably discharged. I don’t believe Lieutenant Prescott is pressing any additional charges, and the final sentencing is up to the Judge.”
“As my lawyer, what do you advise me to do?”
Reeves tapped his pencil on the table while contemplating his reply.
“I don’t think you’re committed to the military life,” said Reeves as he slid his papers into his briefcase stood up and placed his JAG officer’s cap securely on his head. He crossed the small space of Diegert’s cell, then looked back as he stood in the doorway to say, “I see your future outside the US Army, but I’ll see you at the court-martial on Monday.”
7
The courts at the military base at Kandahar Airfield in Afghanistan were located in the commandant’s area, where legal proceedings were only conducted on Mondays and Fridays. After an uncomfortable weekend in the stockade, where the ventilation was so inadequate that the body odor rivaled that of a bag of hockey pads left in a hundred-degree car trunk, Diegert sat quietly with Captain Reeves as they waited for the court-martial proceedings to begin. The earlier consultation with his lawyer did nothing to raise Diegert’s confidence; nevertheless, he had to move forward with this unfortunate conclusion to his short military career.
Diegert shuffled in his seat and quietly ground his fist into his palm, feeling the regret of his actions as his thoughts moved on to what lay ahead. At first, being in the Army had been so cool, training at Fort Benning and being stationed at Fort Hood were both good times, but in Afghanistan, everything was totally fucked up.
“Private David Terrance Diegert,” shouted the MP serving as court bailiff. The lawyer and the accused entered the room, which was used for many functions but today served as a court of military justice. Seated behind an eight-foot folding table was Colonel Reginald Hayes, fulfilling the role of judge. Next to him was the plaintiff, Lieutenant Alvin Prescott, with his lawyer, Captain Patricia Stokes.
At Judge Hayes’s direction, Captain Stokes presented her case, which implicated Diegert as insubordinate to his superior officer before violently assaulting him and causing bodily injury. Captain Dylan Reeves’s presentation recounted the incident and concluded with an admission of Diegert’s guilt and an apology. With nothing more from either member of counsel, Judge Hayes pronounced Diegert guilty as charged and commenced with the process of dishonorably discharging him from the US Army.
Returning to the stockade, Diegert had time to think about how much it sucked to be powerless in a system that allowed the Special Forces personnel to do what they wanted while sidelining the enlisted who spoke out, took action, or threatened to disrupt the status quo. Diegert thought about how the Army had been a new beginning where people didn’t judge him for what they heard about his family or thought about Indians. But now he was learning that it didn’t matter who or what you were if you were one of the powerless. People in power would fuck you over without even meaning to. He had no idea what he was going to do now.
Back at Fort Hood, Diegert completed the processing of his discharge by being informed of all the privileges he would not have. No GI Bill, no outplacement employment assistance, no veteran’s benefits. He was also disallowed to own a firearm, take a position teaching in a public school, and he could not become a police officer or security agent. A dishonorable discharge was almost as bad as a felony conviction. He took a bus from the base with his stuff in a duffel bag and got a room in a cheap place on the outskirts of Austin called the Single Star Motel.
In the motel room, Diegert dumped out his duffel bag, put his clothes in the dresser and closet, set his toothbrush and shaving stuff in the bathroom, and returned to the bed. Lying there were three items he had received from his mother a few years back. She had acknowledged his eighteenth birthday as his coming-of-age day, and to her it signified him becoming a man. She marked it by presenting him with three gifts that were part of the ritual for young Ojibwa men who were coming of age. A ritual Diegert had never heard of or expected.
The first gift was a leather amulet on a leather necklace. The necklace was beaded with colors that signified the seven values of the Ojibwa: wisdom, love, respect, bravery, honesty, humility, and truth. The amulet was a circular piece of leather. On the front, the top half was white and the bottom dark black. In the center, spanning both the top and the bottom halves, was the imprint of a human foot. The back contained an Ojibwa inscription, which stated: A man must travel through darkness to find the light.
The second item was a hunting knife. The knife had an antler handle, a six-inch blade, and a leather sheath. The blade had a razor-sharp edge and point. The back side of the blade had serrated teeth extending from the hilt for an inch and a half, and the rest was a sharpened edge designed for scraping and planing. Inscribed on the blade in Ojibwa was the phrase: The blade is both a tool and a weapon; let it work for you and defend you.
The final item was a woven wool blanket his mother had made for him on her loom. Its intricate pattern of stripes and diamonds were in tones of brown, yellow, and red. In the top corner of the blanket, she had embroidered an Ojibwa mother’s prayer: Your mother’s love will be with you always, covering and comforting you no matter where you journey in life.
She’d presented these gifts to him at home while his father and brother were out getting drunk at the Moose Jaw Inn. Of the three gifts, Diegert thought the knife was really cool. The amulet and blanket were nice, but he really didn’t care about them. After presenting him with the gifts, his mother had begun to tell him about Ojibwa customs for young men coming of age. She said, “David, these gifts symbolize the transition you are now making from a boy to a man. They can help you on your journey to find your purpose in life. You can find your spirit through a vision quest.” Diegert had never heard his mother speak of the Ojibwa customs before, and it freaked him out that she suggested he find meaning in life by communicating with a spirit. She continued, “Ojibwa young men let the spirit in, and it guides them to their life’s destiny. As an Anishinaabe, one of the good beings, you can let the spirit help you live a full and rewarding life.”
Diegert’s brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed, an Amish-nobby? What was she talking about? Diegert looked at his mother with a sidelong glance as he thought that maybe she had gotten into some of Jake’s drugs. His mother smiled at him as she placed a mocha maple chocolate cake on the table, his favorite. Her baking was exquisite, and Diegert’s smile returned as she cut a piece of birthday cake, saying, “I want you to have the very best life, and a vision quest seeking your Ojibwa spirit will get you there.”
“Thanks,” said Diegert as she handed him the cake.
His mother, who was always the most practical and down-to-earth person in his life, was now speaking of spirits and journeys and the meaning of life. She was also saying that happiness lay in his Ojibwa spirit. In fact, Diegert felt the Ojibwa part of him was the root of all his problems; the ostracism, the taunting, and fighting, the just plain being ignored by all the cool kids was because of being an Ojib-white.
He looked at his mother. “Thanks for the cake and the presents, I really like the knife, but an Ojibwa spirit quest, I don’t think so. Why are you dumping all this on me now?” Denise Diegert slid the fork out of her mouth and began to chew a bite of cake. She placed her gaze directly on the eyes of her son, who continued speaking. “Having Ojibwa blood in me is the worst part of my life. People in town, kids in school, and even the Indians on the reservation all hate me and you for being half-breeds. I hate the Ojibwa part of me, and I’m certainly not going to seek out any Indian spirits to guide me. I want them to stay the hell away from me.”
Swallowing her cake, Denise began, “You’re young, and you need time to real
ize the importance of accepting who you are and embracing those things which make you unique.”
Scoffing, Diegert said, “Did you memorize that from a lousy self-help book, because it sounds like psychobabble bullshit. I don’t need a spirit to guide me, and I’m sure not impressed with where the spirit led you. So if this is the best an Indian quest can do for me, you can fucking forget it.”
Diegert never swore at his mother, but the sudden infusion of Ojibwa culture and the lifelong pent-up frustration at the bigotry and prejudice he lived with brought out feelings he had long suppressed.
His mother replied, “I’m sorry you feel that way, but if you don’t seek the spirit with respect, it will find you in your darkest hour, where you will then be compelled to face the spirit’s wrath.”
“Oh yeah, right. Now the spirit is a great big threat.” Diegert grabbed the knife off the table. “If the spirit is going to come get me, I’m not going to be unarmed.” With his new weapon in his hand, Diegert walked out of the house and into the night.
Recalling all this discourse with his mom, Diegert found his motel room a claustrophobic cell. He caught a bus for downtown. Austin was a city alive with diverse young people, techies, bikers, college students, musicians, artists, and especially weirdos who kept the city as it wanted to be. Whoever you were, there was a bar for you in Austin. Diegert entered the Dark Horse feeling like the name reflected his place in life. The ten-dollar cover got you all the honky-tonk music you needed from the band at the back of the bar. The bouncer was huge, six eight, and had to weigh over three hundred pounds. The big man smiled and told Diegert to have a good time. At the bar, Diegert took a stool, spun around, and leaned against the bar, looking at all the country western people. Guys were wearing Stetsons, Wrangler jeans, and Frye boots. Diegert wondered if the bar had a stable out back for their horses. The women did the big-hair thing with the tight, checkered blouses, and several of them had barely enough denim to cover their asses. Having not seen any women while in Afghanistan, Diegert literally couldn’t avert his eyes from the feminine beauty on display at the Dark Horse.
“Hey.”
He nearly fell off his stool when a female voice startled him out of his staring. She spoke as he turned his head.
“The ten dollars covers the band. If you want a titty show, you’re going to have to go down the street to one of the strip clubs.”
Diegert spun his stool around, placing his forearms on the bar. She was cute and feisty, and since it was still early, she was energetic and ready for a busy night of tending bar.
“You want a Star?”
Diegert looked at her like she was a third-grade teacher handing out stickers.
Realizing he didn’t comprehend, she asked, “You want a Lone Star beer?”
Chuckling at his foolishness, Diegert replied, “Sure, thanks.”
Placing the tall brown bottle on the bar, she said, “I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I’ve never been here.”
“You don’t seem like a cowboy. What kind of pickup do you drive?”
“I don’t have a truck.”
“You’re definitely the only guy in here who’ll say that.”
Diegert tilted his head and smiled at the precocious brunette who held his eye contact with confidence. “What’s your name?” he asked her.
“I’m working, and I’m not here to flirt.”
“Of course not, I just asked for your name?”
“Taurus…like the bull.”
“That’s your last name?” Diegert asked hesitantly.
“Uh-huh,” she said with a nod to the obvious.
“Well, what’s your first name?”
“Collette,” she said.
“Collette Taurus.” The instant he said the name, she burst out laughing, and several patrons at the bar started cracking up at the guy using such an intimate term in such a public place. Diegert, realizing he had just been played for a fool, retorted, “My name’s Mike.”
The bartender replied, “Well, I wasn’t asking, but if you’re going to tell me that your last name is ‘Hunt,’ then you really are a cunt, and that makes me especially disinterested in you.”
The embarrassing rejection was abruptly interrupted when furniture and bodies crashed to the floor at the entrance of the bar. All attention turned to the fracas between the bouncer and some rowdies at the front door.
The big man, who had been so friendly to Diegert, had pushed one of a group of four guys to the floor, knocking over a table and chairs. Two of the others were punching and kicking the giant with each blow to the face producing a spray of blood. The bouncer went down, the guy who was pushed was helped up, and the four leather-clad men entered the bar led by the tallest man, who wore a sleeveless black leather vest over a white T-shirt. The leader sported a gray Van Dyke around his mouth and chin. Like the others, he looked a little too old for such delinquent behavior.
The commotion brought the manager from an office behind the bar. A thin man with wide eyes and a nervous look surveyed the scene and muttered, “Not again.” Diegert watched as the uptight man struggled to help the bleeding bouncer to the kitchen.
People were filing into the bar without being checked or paying the cover. The four rowdies took a table in the back corner of the bar, and the feisty bartender was now playing cocktail waitress and taking their orders. When she returned behind the bar, Diegert said to her, “I bet you wouldn’t have come to get my order if I sat over there.”
“Damn right, you’re not Igor Dimitrov…Russian mobster,” she said while mixing the drinks and opening the beer bottles on her tray.
Diegert gazed over, observing the muscular silver-haired man, dressed up as a biker with his gang of goons, and remarked, “You’d think he owns this place.”
“Better than that, he owns the loan that got this place started.” The bartender, whose name Diegert still didn’t know, hefted the tray to her shoulder and left to deliver the Russians their drinks.
Through the kitchen door came the nervous manager. He smoothed his shirt and adjusted his glasses as he stepped toward the bar. Diegert called out to him.
“Excuse me.”
The manager stepped over to Diegert.
“I know things are happening fast here tonight, but it looks like you could use a man at the door.”
They both turned to see a crowd of confused people entering the door while not paying a cover charge. Diegert turned to the manager and offered his hand.
“David Diegert.”
Taking his hand, the manager introduced himself.
“Terry Buscetti. Do you have any experience?”
“Yup.”
“If you steal any of the cover money, I’ll have those guys who roughed up the other guy beat the shit out of you.”
Diegert didn’t avert his eyes as he said, “I won’t steal from you, but you’ve got to pay me thirty dollars an hour to sit at that door.”
“That’s a lot.”
“What happened to that other guy will never happen to me. That door will be secure.”
“Come on back, and I’ll give you a shirt, and you can get started.”
Back in the kitchen, the big guy’s facial wounds were still bleeding. Buscetti said, “His ride is on its way.”
The manager pulled a black polo shirt from a hanger with the bar’s horsehead logo. “Put this on and remember its ten dollars per person.”
As he was leaving the kitchen, Diegert stepped over to the injured man and patted him on the shoulder. “Those are some nasty wounds.”
“That fucker had brass knuckles.”
They looked at each other as they searched for words they could not find. Diegert gently slapped him on the shoulder again before he left the kitchen.
At the door, Diegert did the job and collected the money without incident. At one point, the bartender, on her way to the Russian table, swung by the door to say, “You’ve got to be brain damaged to be taking this job.”
Dieg
ert just smiled and thought she was probably right, but he needed a job, and this one would do. For the next two weeks, he was at the door every night and eventually learned that the bartender’s name was Tracy Vandersmith. She was a pre-med student at UT and never lingered when her shift was done. She gave Diegert a ride home one rainy night, and when she saw he was living in a cheap motel, she shouted at him out the car window, “We work together, that’s it. That’s all it will ever be. You got that?”
Diegert’s legs were soaked by the spray off her tires as she pulled away.
8
The High Note Drifters commanded a fifteen-dollar cover charge at the Dark Horse. Igor Dimitrov and three guys from his entourage were not charged as Diegert cleared the way for them to enter the bar. As Dimitrov passed, he stopped and told Diegert, “Uri Pestonach was supposed to meet us here. You know which one he is, right?” Drawing his finger across his forehead, Dimitrov continued, “The guy has just one eyebrow.” Diegert nodded. “Since he’s late, I do not want you to let him in.”
Diegert’s gaze centered on the big Russian’s eyes. Dimitrov produced a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to Diegert, repeating, “Don’t let Uri in.”
Diegert signaled his compliance, accepting the hundred.
Thirty minutes later, Uri Pestonach arrived, pushed his way through the line, and proceeded to enter. Diegert had to place his hand on the guy’s chest to impede his entrance. The furrowed forehead and narrowed eyelids were overshadowed by his unibrow, but they projected the man’s displeasure with being handled. Standing in front of Uri, Diegert tried to explain.
“Sorry, man, you can’t come in tonight.”
“What the fuck is this?” bellowed the insolent Russian.
“Tonight you are not allowed in. Perhaps another night would be better for you.”
