He asked me how I missed the flight. When he cut me off with rebuttal, everyone emphatically agreed with him even before they knew what he was going to say.
He had the authority to place me on bread and water for up to three days or put me in prison. But I had been gone for less than a week. Mercifully, he sentenced me with a small fine, placed me back on base restriction for a few weeks, and gave me probation.
But I was back again within weeks, only this time as a witness to a fistfight in the navy barracks that had resulted in severe injuries. Since the fight involved injuries, it was presumed that I had something to do with it. In truth, since fights and arguments at Bouk were no big deal, I was bored and had dozed off just before the fight exploded, was awakened by sounds of the scuffle, and only got involved enough to break it up. My testimony was just that—I sincerely had no idea what the fight had been about or how it started. But good ol’ Capt’n Fiester interrogated me from the superior pulpit, peering down over the top of his bifocals. “Back again already, Carter?”
“Yes, sir!” I snapped, standing at attention in formal full-dress uniform. Another official read aloud all the charges, the threats and penalties at the captain’s command during wartime according to the Uniform Code of Military Justice (including three days in isolation being fed only bread and water). Captain Fiester demanded that I tell him what happened.
“Capt’n, sir, I just don’t know!” I gulped.
He pounded me with encircling questions, seeking to establish inconsistencies. And then suddenly, as if to spring a trap, speaking at me but looking to his flunkies for confirmation and approval: “Surely, Carter, if you were awake and could see Bell knock the ashtray off the table, then surely you were awake during the fight!”
The room echoed with grunts and nods of approval from surrounding yes-men. He nodded in agreement with himself and mostly as if savoring a sweet enema. For a brief instant, it looked like he was about to kiss his own ass. “Carter, you are dismissed! I told you before and I mean this: don’t ever let me see you again. I’m getting too many disturbing reports with your name in my daily logbooks. You stay away from those jarheads. Next time I see you, you are mine! Do I make myself clear, son?”
“Yes, sir!” I stood tall and saluted.
“Dismissed!” barked the captain.
I executed the official military about-face, pivoted mechanically on the ball of my left foot, and exited the building. I had not perjured myself. No proof could possibly exist. And since I was not directly involved as far as I was concerned, the matter was dismissed for the time being.
December 1, 1969, my twenty-first birthday, was my second birthday in Morocco, thousands of miles away from home. Missing my second Christmas was a big thing for my family. So the postmaster had been especially good to me. The Carters had sent me a huge care package.
The large cardboard box was kind of a peace offering from back home, letting me know that they still loved me. There had been that tension between my parents and myself in the household before I left, and parts of it seemed to continue, long-distance. At this time, Dad and I had stopped writing each other, neither sure exactly why. His affection for me seemed more like high tolerance. Whereas me ’n’ Mom could talk, laugh, joke for hours, Dad seemed to speak to me only out of necessity. My humor seemed to annoy him. His last few letters had consisted of notes on local newspapers. So—presuming it didn’t matter to him, not out of spite, more like not wanting to bother him—I stopped writing him.
But the Christmas 1969 care package from home went a long way toward making things right. In fact, it contained everything—a fruitcake (that I’d never eat), candies, homemade cookies, socks, records by Lou Rawls, Wes Montgomery, Aretha Franklin, the Temptations, and James Brown. And lots of little stocking fillers, tiny snacks, knickknacks, doohickies, and whatnots. There was even a trumpet from my dad. But the main thing I loved the most was the American-made, finely woven, tannish-beige dashiki with an intricate African design on the chest.
Immediately, I put it on, sporting it all over base and all over town. “Man, that’s an Uncle Tom dashiki!” Lance Corporal Boguson, the self-appointed Black Power purist, was quick to point out. Later that night, wearing my dashiki, I got into a fight with a bouncer at a bar in Kenitra. From that night on, it seemed like I got into a fight every time I wore it.
Shortly thereafter, in the Enlisted Men’s Club, alone with my thoughts, sitting at the bar nursing a glass of rum ’n’ Coke, I heard, “Mind if I join you, Carter?” Before I could answer, USMC Captain Jones pulled up a stool and sat down beside me, offering to buy me a drink and ordering himself a shot of whiskey. Secretly I liked, admired, and respected this man and perceived that he harbored a similar involuntary regard for me, but here, in military life, ain’t nobody got time for that.
The bartender served the captain an extra-generous portion, almost a double shot.
He took a small sip. “Ya’ know, Carter, we know that you had that razzle-dazzle hand speed and footwork, but we were astonished how you were able to stick ’n’ bleed and stop Guillotine in his tracks. All those bruises haven’t gone away yet!”
Jones downed his shot and explained his thoughts. He was considering hosting a bigger boxing tournament and wanted me to be the featured attraction. Trying to hide feeling flattered, I asked a few questions, then asked for Eastridge, who had beat up Danny Hayes, as an opponent. “No, Carter, you’re too strong for him,” he said.
“How about White? He’s bigger and stronger than me.”
“No, Carter, you’re too fast for him. You’ll take him apart.”
“Reid?” He’d been mean-mugging me and trying to step up to me, begging for this ass whoopin’. (I didn’t say that aloud.) I went down the line. But the very reason Jones would not feed them to me was the very reason I asked for them. He knew that I had some scores to settle and would probably humiliate them publicly.
Late one night shortly thereafter, I was in the men’s room at a tavern in town. While I was using the urinal, the bathroom door opened. Eastridge, White, and Reid appeared in the doorway. I turned to face them, still emptying my bladder.
“Carter, I hear you asked for me.” White spoke; the others nodded and postured. I stood poised, readying to strike like a cobra, my hand in my pocket, my thumb secretly on the switchblade button. “Carter! You don’t have to ask for us. You gonna git us when the time comes.”
Still standing, penis exposed, I challenged them to bring it on, right here, right now. But they departed single file, almost as if in formation.
Weeks later, Captain Jones miraculously reappeared on the barstool next to me in the EM Club. “Carter, the corps will be hosting a bigger-better boxing tournament.” After another conversation, even more ego-inflating than the previous, he continued, “We, as Americans, invited a local boxing gym from Kenitra to compete. If we can find you a decent opponent, can we count on you to help us host them?” He took a teeny-weeny tiny sip of his drink, never taking his eyes off my face.
I took a swig, glaring at him eyeball-to-eyeball, feeling as though my manhood was being called out, challenged. Feigning indifference, I shrugged off the question, “Might as well … !”
Cloaking exuberance and a smirk, he locked me in like an attorney sealing a deal. “So, Carter, you agree to fight an opponent of my choosing yet to be determined?” Slamming down a shot of whiskey, setting the empty glass on the bar top to accentuate the drama, I looked him in the eyes and whispered, “Ain’t no big tha-ang!”
His eyelids expanded wide like a large window, then slammed shut like a cash register drawer after ringing up a sale. I blinked. His glass was still full, almost untouched, but he was gone.
T’was the night before the fight day, and all through the base, all creatures were stirring, especially the marines and the sailors. The ring was hung in mid-base with great care, in hopes that thump call soon would be there. There were balloons, vendors, barbecue pits, beer kegs, bleachers, and aligned chairs.
To fight in front of a huge audience, half naked, before all to see, was way harder, much more intense than a back-alley fight to the death. You come in baring all, with everything on the line, before friends, foes, strangers, and enemies. For spectators it is entertainment. For me it was more like prostitution. After all, as an old adage goes, “You gotta bring some ass to kick some.”
The anticipation of putting my whole self-worth before all to see was almost more than I could bear. At least if I got my ass kicked in a dark alley, I could make up an excuse or find a way to somehow save face. The anticipation of possibly being beaten, and even perhaps publicly humiliated, was unbearable.
I lay in my bunk, commanding myself to GET SOME SLEEP RIGHT NOW, DAMNIT! But nooo! The harder I tried to command myself to sleep, the wider my eyelids stayed. I went over to the EM Club and slammed a couple of shots of good-ass whiskey, which didn’t help.
But day came, and it was the scorching sweltering brightest hottest day ever on the planet. At this location, just north of the Sahara Desert, you could almost get a suntan in the shade. Preserving energy, I leaned back on a folding chair under a tree, deep inside myself, my body immobile, mind a screeching skyrocket, watching the citizens lazily meander into the base. Moroccan boxers, family, friends, and invited guests gleefully disembarked from a bus, adorned in their finest go-to-meeting garb, with jewels, beads, and jalavas. A group of pretty ladies I had invited a few nights earlier had arrived, waving and shouting to me from across a grassy knoll. I watched anxiously as the boxers exited the bus, awaiting my next victim.
Half the passengers were still on the bus, and my opponent had not yet appeared. Suddenly there was commotion. An entourage exited the bus surrounding the last passenger. It was clear that this was my guy. The good news was that this was to be perhaps my first fight ever with another man my size, but I was clearly outclassed. His presence was that of businesslike hit man, astute in boxing etiquette and demeanor, and he wore a matching wardrobe—robe, trunks, shirt, and shoes with tassels. It mattered that he was in his mid-twenties and I was barely twenty-one. The man carried himself with a certain majesty, respectful yet condescending. His game face was slightly war hammered, complete with smashed-in pug nose.
As I watched him with great interest, momentarily I myself was memorizing him, admiring the way he moved. Hey, wait a minute! He already had a fan club of over a dozen people following him around, snapping photos, responding to his every movement. An informal hush seemed to fall when he began to warm up.
At various intervals, a hand appeared from the circle around him and poured water down his throat. A set of hands followed him around massaging his neck and shoulders. A towel wiped his brow. I didn’t know what they were saying—I was out of earshot. But when he spoke, everyone seemed incredibly interested. He made a statement that I presumed was some kind of joke, as he cracked a partial smile and everyone laughed.
Then suddenly he was encased in a shroud of intensity. He abruptly gave the cue that it was time to be serious. I sat watching him with extreme interest. The fact that he had absolutely no interest in me seemed to tell me something. But I watched him, studied him. His technique impeccable, his movements poetic, his rhythm that of a dragonfly. I was mesmerized, unable to help admiring his sophistication. This guy is smooth!
I handed my lil’ ol’ tiny cheap camera to Quinn, a fellow sailor. “If either of us goes down, snap a photo!”
Corporal Woods, my cornerman, methodically wrapped my knuckles up and down each hand with gauze and tape. “How does that feel?” he asked, carefully inspecting his workmanship for tightness. Finally, I put on the gloves. He laced each on tight. The die was cast; there was no turning back. He held the pads for me to snap some left jabs and right crosses, suggesting that I warm up a little better. But I was always warmed up and ready to fight, especially in this extreme heat. He climbed up to ringside and held the ropes for me to get in.
“Ladies and gentlemen! And now, the time for that main event you’ve all been waiting for. From Kenitra Boxing Gym, Ahmed Hassaaaan! And from Bouknadel, hailing from St. Paul, Minnesota, our own Meeeeeel Shuugaaa’ Caaaine Cart—uuur!”
Captain Jones, the officiating referee, brought us nose-to-nose, eyeball-to-eyeball, in mid-ring. My seasoned opponent glared into the bottomless abyss of about-to-be-released rage. I postured, as menacing and as threatening as possible, but he was unmoved, as if withholding a huge hippo yawn. My advantage was having watched him warm up, memorizing his moves. In terms of skill, technique, and sophistication, I was clearly in over my head. But never in life had I met any man who was anywhere near my size who could match me strength for strength, nor anyone who could match my hand speed. I presumed his ability to match my strength to be improbable.
He came to box. I came to fight! But this was a boxing match.
The ref ordered us to have a good clean fight with no rabbit punches (whatever they were), to obey his commands, and to protect ourselves at all times. “In the event of a knockdown, go to a neutral corner … and may the best man win!”
My opponent went to his corner. Facing east, he, his cut man, and his trainer held a moment of prayer. Yeah, you’d better say your prayers! Because I’m sure sayin’ mine! I thought.
Scorching rays baked down on two glistening Black bodies, bringing brilliance but draining energy. This sweltering day, at the edge of the Sahara Desert, the sizzling sun would hold the definitive say.
My strategy was to unleash the fullest brunt of suppressed rage on his ass. To release pure raw ghetto fury that would force him to fight and not allow him to turn this into a boxing lesson. To nullify all his skill, experience, and technique by launching an all-out offensive attack, turning this into a toe-to-toe slugfest. After all, the best defense is a good offense.
Ding! I raced out, bringing it straight to him, side-stepped his left, countering with a devastating right cross. His body launched backward, crashing hard, end over end, across the canvas. The ref raced to him and began the countdown with one hand, pushing and holding me back with the other. Carried away with fight adrenaline, I had rushed over, attempting to stomp on his face. The ref interrupted the countdown to hold me back and order me to a neutral corner.
The act of smashing a skilled warrior to the canvas with one punch is an indescribable adrenaline rush, not to mention an egotistic power trip. And now, as I did with most opponents, I had gained entry inside his head. In every previous case, this had established my dominance.
But never before had I been evicted from the mind of an opponent so swiftly, so effectively.
The fight with the Moroccan Olympic boxer, Captain Jones officiating. “Carter scores crashing knockdown of Moroccan champ.”
I realized that I was now in the ring with a different animal, a different beast. I had awakened the sleeping giant. His strategy had been to allow me to explode, allow the heat from the sun to drench me and sap my power and my strength, to cause me to punch myself out. The boxing gloves were suddenly heavy, like two bowling balls. I could barely hold up my dukes.
He sprang to his feet and commenced to whippin’ my ass. The crowd sprang to its feet, cheering against me. “Yay! Kill him! Stop his heart!” Even my special guests—Mee-Mee, Maimmie, Nay-Nay, and them—chanted loudly for their fellow countryman.
Ding! The bell mercifully ended the eternity. My cornermen rushed to center ring and dragged me, almost carrying me, back to my corner. Sitting on my stool, I rocked, reeled, squirmed in agony, gagging for breath. “Stop it!” my corner people commanded. “You’re showing him weakness, giving him strength. Look over there at him!” He sat tall, firm and intense, glaring at me with new affirmed indignation. Now he was inside my head.
Between rounds, Captain Jones moseyed over to my corner. “By the way, Carter, this guy is the Welterweight Champion of Morocco, just back from the 1968 Olympics!”
The bell rang. He launched vicious combinations to my body, striking me almost at will. Had this been Fatso’s bas
ement, I’d have quit long ago. I backpedaled and ran, all but turning my back and fleeing. About mid-round, an accidental blow landed just below my beltline. I covered my crotch, pretending it had hit my scrotum, complained and acted as though it were incapacitating. The ref stopped the action, deducted a point from him, and allowed the fight to continue.
This break in action gave me time to barely rejuvenate. It allowed me to bring up my hands to block incoming punches, although my arms were still flimsy. For the second half of the second round, I was dominated but able to get my arms and hands back, as well as my legs.
The third round was relatively even. Ding! He and I had dished out our best and absorbed each other’s worst, and both were still standing at the end of the round. The decision went to the judge’s scorecard. The ref brought us out mid-ring, standing between us and holding us both by the wrist. “And the winner is …”—brief pause—“A DRAW!”
Most boxers want to win, but I was satisfied that I had given a good account of myself, had fought the world to a standstill. The showdown, the draw with the international world and military, for me was the greatest, sweetest, most definitive and validating conquest. Perhaps I’ll never need to do this again. Perhaps?
Although it was less than my best performance, Captain Jones—deeply moved, almost compassionate—could not contain his astonishment. “Carter, you scored a knockdown on the champion of this country! That must have felt good!” Maybe he was feeling a little guilt as well.
But I was satisfied. Went back to the barracks, slammed aspirins, and spent the rest of the evening in bed. Later that night, I got up for a stroll around the base and followed the sounds of shouting at the guard shack way out in the field where Nesbitt was standing guard duty. I overheard about a dozen guys in a heated debate, analyzing my fighting skills and unorthodox technique. Half argued that I had no skill at all, just miles and miles of heart. Others argued that I was extremely skillful but had no heart. Either way validated and even flattered me.
Diesel Heart Page 14
