by James H Bird
I continued read trying to ignore manicured man.
‘“Preliminary reports suggest that the Darnay’s car suffered a mechanical failure forcing the speeding car across the traffic. Darnay and a passenger were both held overnight at Swedish Hospital for observation. Both are expected to fully recover. Charges have yet to be filled.
“I think this is an entirely unfortunate incident” said Mackenzie, “six people are dead including Office Gregory Tanner, many are hurt and we had to destro...”’
“Say you got the time there, I don’t think, wait… Has the time changed yet has…have we switched to daylight savings time?” Manicured man said to me.
“You mean standard time.” I said.
“Yeah”
“No, not yet,” I said looking at my watch, “It’s a quarter to nine.”
“Well OK. I got an hour to kill.”
I was not pleased at all to hear this remark.
“Say that’s about that big wreck out on the turnpike ain’t it?” manicured man asked, glancing at the fuzzy front-page picture of my yesterday evening.
I drew in a long breath. “Yep, bad thing.” I paused, a patrol car passed. “I was… I was in a bus on the turnpike when it happened. I was in it”. It took all I could to muster a recant to the awfulness to my housemate the night before, getting the story out with the artificial assistance of several strong drinks. Now I was faced telling this tale to a stranger that I was sure should be hauled away on some type of public geek charge, if there was that sort of thing.
“No shit sport! Wow. My supplier said it was a couple of drunk kids out hooting it up. Ran off the road and smacked a bunch of people. You were in it huh? Wow.”
The caffeine took its first bite, I suddenly got the urge that I should roll up my paper and wop manicured man on the nose like some mongrel. The tinkling ring of his cell phone saved Manicured man from a vicious whopping.
“Hello. Yeah. Hi there babe… I…”
I turned back to the paper.
“Michael Darnay Sr., the driver's father said that his son and Anthony Timmer, the passenger, were good boys, did well in school, enlisted in the Marine Corps. “They were enlisting to serve because it was right a call to duty. I talked to Michael tonight, he said that something went wrong and the car got away from him. He's awfully upset.”
The spokesperson for Swedish, said Timmer is being held for observation and Darnay is heavily sedated. I think the driver of the car is quite a bit dazed. They found him about a hundred yards from the car in a state of shock.
Most of the injured were taken to local hospitals and released. Two in critical condition remain at Boulder County.”
Officer Tanner was killed during an altercation with prisoners whom managed to escape the wreck. He left a wife and two children. The family has asked for privacy.
“Most of the prisoners surrendered immediately. One was killed and five more injured none critically. I cannot comment further; it is still under investigation.” ‘Mackenzie said.’
There was a picture of the Officer Tanner at the left corner of the article. Manicured man broke in, “Hey! So you were in that pile up! No goddamn way. Whew, must been something on that bus.”
“No, not really. Just bounced around a bit. That’s all.” I stared at the page 28A pictures. There were five different shots. The one that caught my eye was taken from beyond the sideways Sports Vehicle, towards the bus. You could make out DENVER EXPRESS or at least part of it. On the ground, a few feet away from the front of the bus and slightly behind the Sports truck lay a lump, covered with a light blue colored blanket. I started clutching the tablecloth, seeing in my mind the gold heart, swinging slowly. A hard pang it the pit of my stomach hit like an uncooked potato.
Manicured man said, “Goddamn drunk bastards. Rotten kids. Bunch of spoiled brats. They don’t know what they got. Just out for a … sheeesh…” He was looking at his own paper now, apparently looking at the photos and reading only the captions. I looked at his too neat features. His black perfectly slicked hair, his pressed suit and bright gold watch and cuff links, and imagined his “girl” on the other end of his plastic phone. His shiny black wing tip shoes and electronic day timer, all his gear and all his spit and polish was a prop for a walking catalog of medical supplies and phony phrases. I looked across at the gas station. Some pretty, petite woman next to a large sport truck was struggling with the fuel hose. An attendant I knew was trotting out to help. I thought of Bonnie.
Manicured man looked up from the pictorial section and said, “You know we outta just send all these boys off to some reform school, make them join up or something. Like they do in Israel and Europe. Teach them some respect. These little shits gotta learn that …”
“Hey” I was weary. My head was hurting a tingling ran down my left leg. “You know.” I dropped my paper, took a sip of coffee and stood. My foot was numb. I threw a dollar down on the table. Manicured man’s phone began tinkling.
“Listen” I said. “It ain’t them boy’s fault. Not really. I mean, read the story.” Gesturing towards Manicured man's paper.
“What day ya mean?” Manicured man looking up, phone at the ready for answering, mouth open, eyes quizzical.
“It’s the war”.
Generalissimo
In room 228, Michael lay quietly in the bed staring at the tiled ceiling, running his eyes along the silver strips between sections. There was a drip tube in his right arm just below the crook in his elbow. Cool oxygen flowed through a breathing tube. He became numb and weak and somehow relieved. His father was gone, the Sheriff’s deputy and the doctor finished probing and prodding his mind and body and left. Finally, the nurse after making some adjustments returned to where ever nurses hover off in the background.
Michael was unaware of the time of day, or of the day for that matter and he did not care. He listened to the whir and clicks of little machines, and sensed the presence of another lying just beyond the drawn curtain. He did not care about that either. Shadows danced and flickered from the wall-mounted television. A slight wave of nausea swept through him. He was afraid to shut his eyes. Those ghastly images those mangled cars, torn bodies. That he… he just could not bring himself to accept it. Finally, the contents of the drip tube did its work. Michael felt as though he was slowly sinking through a mud bog, his arms and legs gradually waving through the thick syrupy current. Each breath seemed to draw him deeper down, his body expanding as if it were being pumped full of air. His skin stretched tight and numb. The bed began shrinking. Deeper, darker, deadened until… Michael dreamt.
Michael was back at the field with the exotic dancing olive trees and thousands of working men. There were more now than before and Michael was among them. Banners and tent flaps rippling in the quick breeze. This time he was down in the field as one of the workers, raising a large-handled hammer high over his head bringing it down hard against the jagged white stone. His billowy pants speckled with bits of rock and sweat. There were new things Michael did not see when he was with Generalissimo the last time. In the dusty distance, he could make out a magnificent palace with golden spires jutting spectacularly up towards the sky framed by dark, cloud capped mountains off in the distance. There was a wide and thick river flowing heavily on the far side of the trees, its waters cold, dark and churning. Large ivory white crane-like birds strutted about with bright orange beaks and long graceful backward bent legs. Red Mullet jumped and swirled near the bank under overhanging branches. Young women were calling to the Red Mullet to caress and feed them. Women in flowing silk scarves, large almond eyes and wavy brown hair brought water to the singing workers.
The General was on the hill looking down at the army of holy place builders. He was looking at no one in particular, standing there, arms behind him and slowly surveying the action. He held a large rolled up paper in his clasped hands.
Michael tried to sing along with the others but it was foreign and he had trouble. At first, his rhythm was off as Michael was ei
ther too fast or too slow swinging his big hammer while trying to keep up with the others. The song was difficult so Michael hummed the melody occasionally singing a word he hoped was right. The large stones wobbled and shifted when Michael tried to break them. Many times, he would miss and his hammer would glance of the big stone and Michael would lose track of the music. Occasionally hit his foot or ankle but he did not cry out fearing he would be seen as weak. He would have to stop and start over. His hands were becoming raw and began to bleed. He looked around and marveled at the ease in which the others would swing their hammers in perfect rhythm, each blow breaking the stone into smaller pieces. Their song flowing in strong clear voices as easily as talking to an old neighbor. The perfect choreography between hammer slingers, basket bears and wheelbarrow pushers. The tampers meting out the perfect beat. He could see that the workers were people from many different places and they all shouted their names and where they lived proudly, enthusiastically. Michael picked up his hammer; counted the beat to time his stoke, and tried again, and again his hammer skipped off the rock face and thumped on the ground.
The General looked down at Michael. “My friend.” His voice, monotone and steady, cutting through the din, seemed to zero straight in to Michael and no one else. His eyes, intense, black, drawing, lonely.
“Yes Generalissimo.” Michael, drawn into the General's intensity, unable to turn away, unable to blink, mesmerized by the hypnotic gaze, looked up against the sun.
“You must find the rhythm of the stone and learn the words of the song. Your thirst is great and your will is strong. You will learn, for you are no different than the others.”
“I will try Generalissimo.”
The General now unrolling the paper in front of him said without looking up, “Follow the others. They will teach you the song of freedom. Once you learn the song my friend, the stone will be soft and your hammer light and true.”
Michael lifted his hammer and began singing to the rhythm of the stone.
Fred Teller
Fred Teller sat on the edge of his bed. It was a dark, near midnight. He clicked to another station on the television, he had seen enough of the news. They keep repeating the same stories this time of night. Always the same stories, it never changes just the names. Two-hundred and forty-three names. He should have been one of them, number two hundred and forty-four. But he ran. He was scared. A kid really. But he was a Marine Damnit! Why he did he run. He tries not to ask himself this question but it keeps coming back over and over like the news. Nothing ever changes, nothing ever will. He does not like to watch the news preferring the porn channels on cable or old war movies. He found a John Wayne movie. The news just takes Fred back to Beirut and the day he ran. Fred had left some of his buddies to die. If only he had not been doing that bad thing with that foreign girl. “That whore!” he hissed. Five-dollar blow job when he should have been at his station. He tried to get back but caught a piece of shrapnel in the back of the leg from the explosion. Fred Teller went home from Beirut in secret shame in 1983 and the world has not been the same ever since.
They gave him a Purple Heart. President Reagan sent him a letter. Fred kept these things. He didn’t want to but if he gave them back people might grow suspicious and find out what he had done. He gave all his Marine stuff to his sister. He put all his things in a box and mailed it to her. No letters except for the one from the president. He put his medals, uniforms, pictures and a flag. The one they put on his friend’s casket that Fred helped carry to the plane that would take him home. He had died in his sleep while Fred was getting a blow job. He had not talked to his sister in years, since Christmas 1999, from the VA hospital. That is the last time he talked to anybody. He didn’t talk much to anybody because they might find out what he did. He ran, that’s what he did because he was getting a blow job from a whore in an alley when the truck blew up.
Since that horrible day there have many bad things happen. Planes hi-jacked and blown out of the sky Embassies attacked. Then New York and the Pentagon and those brave ones over Pennsylvania. No would have died if he hadn’t ran on the October day in 1983. If he would have stayed and fought like Patton wanted, to keep going to Moscow in World War II. Maybe the world would be a better place today. It’s all his fault everything because he did not stick his ground. Fred repeated the thoughts that have been haunting him, “We should have hit back hard right then. To not act out of fear of being wrong is weakness and we paid for the inaction. American became weaker and the world took advantage. Could I have stopped the ensuing madness?” I was weak.
Fred looked at the television. He did not like these moods he gets when things go wrong like they did a month ago and today on the turnpike. He can’t focus disjointed thoughts and memories snaps on then flickers away. He lights a cigarette while one is still burning in the ashtray. The Marines were storming the beach led by John Wayne. Fred already knew the ending, many will die but Americans will win and Japan stripped of its imperialist tendencies. He mutters to himself. “Why did I lose my nerve, why did America lose its nerve in 1983? Did the moralist got in the way and cried about Vietnam? Why didn’t we listen to Patten? Why didn’t we get them then instead they keep killing us and it’s my fault. All of it.” John Wayne waves his men forward. “Why don’t they show the blood and the body parts? It’s not like that at all.” Fred is angry, “Nobody would fight if they showed that.” Fred gets a sudden urge to throw up.
He looked around his one room apartment above Anytime Cab. It was a mess, clothes from the Salvation Army, trash, liquor bottles scattered about. He could see his reflection in the cracked mirror. He hated his reflection. Old, wrinkled, gray hair and dull hazel eyes. His left leg had been hurting bad and the cold is coming. Fred took another pain pill and swallowed it down with Tequila. Fred Teller lit another cigarette and watched the TV. He had seen this movie before a hundred times. Everything is the same, nothing ever changes. He turned down the volume, he did not need it. He knew which guy was going to get it next. He says “Watch it!” “Get down!” “There’s a Jap behind that tree!”
It never works, they die anyway. They always do. Nothing ever changes. Fred knows why Hollywood never shows much blood. People would not watch the movies if they showed what is was really like. Blood, and body parts and the screams. The crying and grown men calling for their mother. The brave and the dead and the cowards. Commanders frozen in fear. Grizzled old sergeants saving who he could, killing as many of the attackers as he could. The noise everywhere and ground shaking pieces of builds falling to the ground. A news journalist shot in the head his brain turned into a pink mist like Kennedy’s in 1963, the year Fred was born. Another year when a generation died and the world became a different place. Fred put his hands to his ears, he didn’t want to hear the noise he did not want to suffer the pain.
“Damn it. Why?” He said rubbing his templates. A commercial came on about A Few Good Men. The Few, The Brave, The Marines.
“Because I told you Fred.”
“What? What was that?
“It is me Fred. The one that died in 1983. You know Fred. Don’t you Fred.”
“Who are you?!” Fred ached with deep anxiety like a knot of hot electricity buzzing in his stomach. Churning so hard his ears began to buzz. He turned the volume up so he could listen the sounds of the war and John Wayne.
“I’m there Fred. I will always be there Fred. I have been with you since 1983 Fred.”
“No! They told me about you! They warned me you would comeback. Go away!”
“No Fred, not this time Fred. I’m here to stay you know that do you not Fred? Do you not know I will always be with you?”
Fred rubbed his neck. There was nothing there but he knew it was there. Always has been. The hyena, gnawing at his neck, laughing at him, mocking him, calling him a coward. He poured himself another drink. “Maybe I can sleep tonight,” he said softly.
“None of this would’ve happened if you didn’t run a way in 1983 Fred.”
“I know that! Stop reminding me!” Fred hissed and swallowed the whiskey in one gulp. He poured another.
Twenty years after Kennedy a new generation was born. All the other bombings those people jumping out of those buildings. Everything was different now.
“If I would have stayed and fought. I can’t change that.”
“That is a good boy Fred. Now you understand. We knew you would see it our way.”
Fred Teller wanted change once and for all. Once and for all, he wanted silence.
“Be a good Marine Fred. John Wayne will be proud. Show us what you got Fred. Go to sleep Marine.”
The waitress from the Irish pub was walking to the group house a few blocks away. She was tired and her feet hurt. She still needed to study for tomorrows examine in criminal psychology. She had heard about the accident and saw reposts on the television above the bar. Everyone was talking about it. The Colorado Buffaloes Football were pretty good this year but were relegated to minor conversations. They were playing Texas A&M at home. They had beat Kansas State last weekend were nationally ranked for the first time. Sports has a way of healing a hurt nation and bring together communities in commonality. She hoped that the guy that always comes in wasn’t hurt. She liked it when he stuck around. He was nice and handsome. If she were older she would like to have been his girlfriend. He seemed smart and funny. Something about his hands and the crooked smile.
There was no moon and this part of town did not have as many street lights. She never worried about that. She had mace in case. The air was getting cold as she rounded the corner the wind braced her. She bundled up and put her head down and quickened her pace to get home, two blocks away. Tomorrow will be cold she thought. She hoped it will snow not cold miserable rain. She crossed the last street before the group house when she heard a shot.
Letters
