by Tom Reilly
“We got it, go,” screams Papa Four.
“Copy that,” Tiger Five yells.
Mom stood at the door to Timothy’s room and startled him awake.
“Timothy, you have a phone call. It’s Cheryl. I thought you would want to talk to her.”
“Thanks, Mom. What time is it?”
“Three-thirty.”
“What? I’ve been asleep for more than seven hours,” he said.
“I know. You said you didn’t want me to wake you, but I thought for Cheryl you would take the call.”
“No, that’s fine, Mom. Thanks.”
Timothy spotted the coffee percolator light and poured a cup before picking up the phone.
“Hello?” he said.
“Well, hello to you, Mr. Sleepyhead. Your mom said you were still asleep.” Cheryl spoke melodically and rhythmically, like someone in the counseling field.
“Yeah, I guess I was more tired than I thought. God, this feels good, though.”
“Good, I was worried about you. I noticed you drifted off a couple of times during the movie and wondered how you did at work.”
“Oh, it was fine. Things were slow so I caught up on some reading. I’m even better now that I got some sleep. How’s your day?”
“Good, we had a couple of new girls come in today, and we’re getting them processed and settled.”
“Processed? Sounds like the government.”
“Oh yeah. You know the drill. Are you still going to meet Scoot later for a few beers?” she said.
“Yeah. I’m going to clean up, read a little, and meet him at Junior’s.”
“That’s the tavern around the block from your house, isn’t it?”
“Yep. I figure I’ll walk up there just in case,” Timothy said.
“Good idea, and Scoot can give you a ride home in case it’s, uh, too cold,” Cheryl laughed.
“Right, in case it’s too cold.”
“I’m glad you guys are getting together. You don’t do that enough. Women are better than men at that kind of stuff. I see my old friends every month. It’s great to stay connected.”
“I know. It seems like I’m so busy. Anyway, it’ll be fun to see him.”
“Be careful and have fun, but not too much fun,” she said.
“Always the worrywart, right?”
“Yes, and don’t forget about early dinner at my parents’ house tomorrow. Be on time so we can go to Leslie’s after that.”
“I know. Two o’clock, right?” he said.
“Yes, two, or before if Dez lets you off early.”
“No chance of that happening, but I’ll be there at two. Bye, love you,” he said.
“Love you, too, honey. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
Timothy hung up, walked back to his bedroom, and sat on the bed. God, I love that woman, and she loves me. I don’t know why she does, but I’m lucky she does.
Cheryl was a twenty-five-year-old social worker. She completed her master’s degree last May and immediately got a job with the state of Missouri. At a slim five-foot-seven with blond hair, hazel eyes, a perfect smile and a pretty face, she looked more like Miss Missouri than a social worker. She and Timothy met at a concert in Chambers Park about a year ago. Having completed her class work, she still had a practicum to go. Timothy had just returned from the Army and enrolled in school. They called their meeting “fortuitous” and “instant chemistry.” She did not know him before the war, and she loved him, warts and all. Timothy often reminded himself of this fact. It made him feel redeemable.
Time to get ready. I can read later, maybe. I’ll get to the bar early and save a stool for Scoot.
Timothy walked to Junior’s Tavern. The forty-degree weather felt invigorating. Working at the tree lot increased his tolerance for the cold.
When he opened the glass door to Junior’s, a cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke poured out. The jukebox played an old country song about a man who lost his wife and dog. It was barely audible above the bar chatter bouncing off the wood-paneled walls like ping-pong balls. Timothy could taste the heavy smoke. He looked around at the collection of businessmen, postal workers, truck drivers, and the local drunks. Two couples huddled in separate booths having romantic moments. Damn, it’s packed today.
Timothy chose a couple of stools at the bar. He preferred the table next to the wall so he could keep his eye on the exit, but the place was crowded. He nodded at Junior, the owner, whom he knew from the neighborhood. A couple of years earlier, Junior inherited the place from his father after the old man died. People knew Junior as a screw-off. He got in trouble with the local police and the judge gave him a choice—go into the military or go to jail. Junior chose the Air Force for three years. He got out in time to help his father run the bar. Now that he was in business, Junior dropped the troublemaker role. He cleaned up his act. He looked like a bar owner. Neat haircut, dark cotton pants, white shirt, and a towel over his forearm.
Junior walked over to Timothy. “Hey, Tim. Budweiser?”
“Yeah, unless you started serving Pabst,” Timothy said.
“Can’t do it, man. My beer wholesaler got into a pissing contest with the brewery so he can’t buy it anymore. I can get you a Stag or a Schlitz.”
“You mean Schitz. I can’t drink that stuff, and Stag? They might as well call it Gag.”
“Ah, man. Keep it down. I got a couple of regulars at the end of the bar that love that shit.” Junior looked around to see if anyone heard their conversation.
“Bud’s fine, and bring two. One for me and Scoot.”
“Scoot? Oh man. I told that cycle trash I don’t want a bunch of bikers hanging out here too much. It scares the citizens.”
“Yeah, he loves you, too.” Timothy smiled.
“Alright, two Buds.”
Junior pulled a couple of iced longnecks out of the cooler. Even though the cooler was refrigerated, Junior kept the beer in a tub of ice. He did this so he could place wet bottles in front of people. He thought it was good for business to serve ice-cold beer. He brought the beers over to Timothy and placed them on a couple of Falstaff coasters.
“Let me know when you guys need something.” Junior walked to the other end of the bar and started talking to some regulars.
Timothy took a long, slow draw from the bottle and swished it around his mouth. He took another pull from the longneck and set it down on the coaster, which already had a sweat ring on it.
“Hey, is that one for me?” Scoot said in a husky voice.
Scoot was a six-foot-three tree trunk. His soft brown eyes were a contrast to his long dark hair and beard. There was no mistaking him for a hippie; Scoot was a die-hard biker. He wore T-shirts in cold weather because he could—and because he had ink on his guns that he liked to show off.
“Damn straight, brother.” Timothy stood and offered Scoot the customary grip—not quite a handshake. More like a high five followed by a hand clasp and shoulder bump. Scoot returned the bump.
They sat at the bar and held up the bottles for a toast.
“To the fallen,” Timothy said.
“To the fallen.” They clinked bottles and took a drink.
“It’s good to see you, bro. We don’t do this enough,” Scoot said.
“I hear you. I feel the same way. School, work, family. It’s a lot,” said Timothy.
“I know. I got a business to run, remember?”
“Yeah.”
Junior pitched a couple of empty bottles in the trash and they jumped.
“Sorry, guys,” Junior said. Timothy and Scoot grinned at each other, shaking their heads.
“So, how’s your pretty lady doing?” Scoot asked.
“She’s great. Just talked to her before coming here. We went to the show last night and saw The Sting. Good flick. Did you see it?” Timothy asked.
“Naw, I don’t go to the show much. Too busy with the shop and the club.”
The club was a group of bikers Scoot rode with but not a gang
, or so he said.
“I ain’t got a steady squeeze these days, and going to the show by yourself is queer.”
“Do you want me to see if Cheryl knows someone you could meet?”
“No, that’s okay. Besides, I like my women to be a little less wholesome than Cheryl. You know what I mean.” Scoot smiled.
Timothy knew Scoot had good taste in women but preferred a type Cheryl probably didn’t know. They sat silently for a couple of minutes, enjoying the beer and the company. Someone dropped a glass, and it shattered on the floor. Timothy nearly jumped off the stool.
“You still doin’ that shit?” Scoot laughed. “Me too.”
Timothy shook his head, grinned, and took another pull on his beer.
“Do you think they ever found the body?”
“Man, not that shit again. You gotta quit going down that rathole.” Scoot took a long draw on his beer.
“I can’t, Scoot. I had that fucking dream again today. Like every other week since I left Nam. If I knew how to let go, don’t you think I would have done it already?”
“Tim, look. You keep beating yourself up for something that ain’t your fault. You gotta let go of that guilt—it’s eating you up. There was nothing you could do. You don’t walk on water, for Christ’s sake.”
“I wish I had your ability to let go,” Timothy said.
“Look, man, I still hurt too, but I don’t like picking scabs. They can’t heal then. Sometimes I hurt boo-coo. We left a lot of loose ends over there, man. Too many. I thought we were winning that fuckin’ war when we left.” Scoot paused. “Look, I don’t know if we’ll ever get over any of that shit, but I know we have to get past it.”
“How? That’s my question,” Timothy said.
“I don’t know. You’re the fuckin’ psychologist. I figure if you keep movin’ forward, sooner or later you’ll get tired of draggin’ that wagon.”
Timothy nodded and drained his beer.
“You boys want another brew?” Junior said.
“Hey, Junior. How’s it going?” Scoot said. “Biz good?”
“Could be better,” Junior said.
“It would be if you let me and my boys hold our monthly club meeting here. They’re a thirsty group, you know.”
“Yeah, and they break shit, too,” Junior said. “Besides they scare the other customers.”
Timothy sat there and watched these two go at it. He had seen this kind of back-and-forth before.
“C’mon, man, it was only a pool stick and a chair, and we paid for both, right?” said Scoot.
“Yeah, but it still caused a ruckus with the citizens. I’ll get your beers,” said Junior.
“Did your guys really do that, Scoot?” Timothy asked.
“Yeah, but it was no big deal. No one got hurt, and he sold a lot of beer that night. Besides, I like to give him shit. Back to the dream . . .”
“Same dream every time. We do a quick insertion into a hot LZ, take off, and catch an RPG in the gut. The gunner and copilot die. I shoot a gook with my .45. You and I make it out.” He stopped and took a drink of beer.
“Pretty much how I remember it,” Scoot said.
“Then, Bobby returned to the LZ, and you know . . .”
“I know. Look, it ain’t your fault. You’d done the same for him, right?” Scoot said.
“Yeah,” said Timothy.
“Personally, I’m just glad we made it home. You didn’t ask for that RPG in the gut, and beatin’ yourself up over Bobby ain’t gonna bring him home. All it does is keep you stuck in Nam. And if you’re stuck in that shithole, how you gonna finish school and marry that girl?”
Timothy nodded.
“You know what I say to the Nam? Xin loi, motherfucker. I’m gone.”
Timothy laughed.
“Let’s drink to making it home.” Scoot held up his bottle and Timothy returned the salute. “So tell me about this flick you guys saw last night.”
Timothy admired the way Scoot could shift gears. Timothy couldn’t; he clenched his memories like a baby gripping a rattle. He couldn’t figure out whether the memories had a grip on him or the other way around.
They sat for another hour and a couple more beers.
“Time to didi mau,” Scoot said. He had to get back to the shop.
“Yep, I hear you,” Timothy said.
Timothy wanted to go home, read a little, and get some sleep. Thanksgiving would be a busy day for him. They said their goodbyes and promised to do this again soon. Timothy walked home and thought about Scoot’s comments. It’s not my fault—I wish I believed that. Scoot’s right, though. I am tired of draggin’ that wagon. I just wish I knew how to let go of the handle.
CHAPTER SIX
TIMOTHY SLEPT WELL Wednesday night. The beers with Scoot and his irregular work schedule had zapped him. Thursday morning’s uneventful drive to Schoen’s suited Timothy fine. His car started on the first attempt—a good omen. Light traffic—another good omen. The short line at the service station for gas was unusual because of the Arab oil embargo. Three good omens on the way to work. This is going to be a good day.
The Chinese called 1973 the Year of the Ox—a year of hard work, strength, loyalty, dependability, and honesty. This described Timothy’s life perfectly. He worked two part-time jobs, attended college full time, wrestled with memories of the war, and felt responsible for his mother. If Timothy were completely honest with himself, he would admit he didn’t feel so strong in the year of strength.
As he opened his car door, the smell of pine trees from the lot, smoke from the fire barrel, and the morning chill welcomed him to the workday. Kenny stood at the fire barrel warming his hands. Kenny wore a torn sock cap, fingerless derby gloves, tan Dickies overalls, and an insulated flannel shirt. The Parodi hung from his lips.
“Where you been, GI Joe?” Kenny said.
“Hey, Kenny, how’s it going?”
“Good. The ol’ kike hired a geezer to help us out.”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
“Wonder of wonders. I knew he was thinking about it,” Timothy said.
“He’s over there with Dez. Wanna meet ’im?” Kenny said, pointing to the two men talking.
“Sure.”
As they walked from the fire barrel to where Dez and Hoffen stood, Timothy thought about Dez hiring someone else. This is out of character for Dez.
“Did your mama send those cookies?” Kenny asked.
“Not yet, but I know she’ll be on it soon.”
“Okay, but ya gotta remember.”
“I will, Kenny. What’s his name?”
“Who?”
“The old man,” Timothy said.
“Oh, you mean the guy Dez hired? Huffin’ or something like that.”
“That’s an odd name,” Timothy said.
“Yeah, don’t know nothin’ about it. Hey, Huffin’, come here.”
Hoffen turned from talking to Dez and approached them, limping with age. Timothy favored his bad leg.
“Well, if that ain’t a pathetic sight—a gimp and a limp,” Dez mocked them.
Dez cackled at his own joke, and Kenny coughed up cigar phlegm. Timothy extended his hand. Hoffen grabbed it.
Bright eyes, a warm smile, and a strong grip made Hoffen look to be in good shape in spite of his limp. Hoffen stood eye-to-eye with Timothy. The piercing depth of Hoffen’s eye contact caught Timothy’s attention, showing confidence without being competitive the way some men liked to stare each other down. Timothy sensed these eyes had seen a lot of life. Hoffen had a good spirit about him. Timothy instantly liked this man.
“Hi, I’m Tim.”
“Nice to meet you, Tim. I’m Hoffen.”
“Hoffen. First or last?” Timothy said.
“Neither. Just Hoffen.”
Timothy nodded. “Okay.”
“Hoffen, tell him your ideas to sell more trees,” Dez said. “This old goat may not be dead in the head yet.”
Hoffen grinned, and Timoth
y noticed it. He’s got a sense of humor, and that helps if he’s going to work for Dez.
“Sure. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dez.”
Hoffen impressed Timothy with the way he handled Dez’s insults.
“I told Dez if we separated the trees by type and size, it would make it easier for the customers to choose their tree,” Hoffen said.
“Good idea, Hoffen,” Timothy said.
“Tell ’im what else . . . the rest of your ideas,” Dez said excitedly.
“I also suggested we play Christmas music over the PA system and give the children peppermint canes.”
“Hey, I like those things. They take away the taste of my Parodis,” Kenny said.
“Kenny, I told you a million times. The only thing that gets rid of the taste of those shit sticks is if you brush your teeth with Borax after you smoke ’em,” Dez said.
“Hah, that’s a good one, Dez,” Kenny said.
Timothy and Hoffen laughed.
“Those are great ideas, Dez. Are you going to do it?” Timothy said.
“If it helps me sell trees, I’ll do it.”
“Why not have a Santa Claus here for the kids to visit?” Timothy joked, but Dez jumped on it.
“Good idea. If it brings in the suckers and makes ’em buy trees, I’ll dress up in the suit myself,” Dez said.
“Hah, Dez. You can’t be Santa Claus. You’re an old kike,” Kenny said.
“Shut up, Kenny. What do you know? You ain’t no smarter than those pine trees,” Dez said.
Timothy shook his head. Though accustomed to this banter, Timothy tired of it. Hoffen didn’t react either way—laugh or frown.
“They’re always like this. I think they actually like each other, and that’s how they show it,” Timothy said to Hoffen.
“Could be. That’s a great idea, Dez, dressing up like Santa Claus. I bet you’ve done this before,” Hoffen said.
“I don’t know, maybe. I’ve been at this a long time. I got to get inside. The ol’ lady needs her ten o’clock bathroom break. Hoffen, tell these guys about the different trees we got so they have a story for the suckers when they come in.” Dez turned and walked to the shop.
“Okay, Dez,” Hoffen said.
“What’s he mean about a story? I don’t know no stories about Christmas trees. The only story I know is about a three-legged chicken,” Kenny said.
