01 March 2019, Part II

“[Jimmy Hoffa’s] mention of legal problems in New Orleans translated into his insistence that Carlos Marcello arrange another meeting with Partin, despite my warning that dealing with Partin was fruitless and dangerous.”

“He wanted me to get cracking on the interview with Partin. In June, Carlos sent word that a meeting with Partin was imminent and I should come to New Orleans. As [my wife] watched me pack in the bedroom of our Coral Gables home, she began crying, imploring me not to see Partin. She feared that it was a trap and that I would be murdered or arrested.”

Frank Ragano, J.D., attorney for Jimmy Hoffa, Carlos Marcello, and Santos Trafacante Jr., in “Lawyer for the Mob,” 1994

I walked into the bar and stood with my back to the open double doors. It was exactly as I expected. To my right, in front of the open double-wide window, a seven man band was about to begin playing; they had a stand-up bass, lead and bass guitar, congo drums, and three horns. The tables were set far apart so that groups of four to eight could have their own space. The stand-up bar would hold another eight people. It was a thin cut of living wood stained to match the tables, and oriented in line with an open kitchen, the band, and the open windows. A bartender worked the amply stocked bar, and a waiter was running to and from tables and the kitchen window. The hand-written sign I had seen from the Plaza de San Francisco said the daily special was “pulpo a la parilla con mojo,” grilled octopus with mojo sauce.

The bar had a brass rail along the bottom, like a church pew, made for resting one foot at a time, an old school nuance made for people who had ridden all day and wanted to stand up while taking a load off one foot at a time. The bar was relatively new, but nuances like the brass rail and living wood let me think the owner or builder was an aficionado of classic bars; I could imagine this bar with a swinging saloon door like in the U.S. west, allowing me to push my way in with arms full of bulky luggage from a long train ride rather than a backpack that squeezed into an airplane’s overhead compartment.

I strolled up to the bar and glanced underneath and chuckled; the owner didn’t miss a detail, and had installed purse (or backpack) hooks that looked like a drunk fighting octopus: a bulbous center with two offset phillips screwheads that made X’s for eyes, and two hooks curved up to round balls like two arms holding two boxing gloves beside the eyes. I could hear him saying: “Put ’em up!” and I knew without a doubt that I’d order the pulpo. I draped my carryon and personal bag over the boxing gloves, rested my hat on the table to mark my spot, and followed signs to the bathroom before the bartender came over.

Inside the bathroom, I could tell the bar was either new or had been remodeled. It seemed to fit an international traveler’s style of spacious privacy and a soap dispenser by both sinks rather than the austere socialist gathering halls I expected in Cuba. It was neither good nor bad, but indicative that someone was either planning on or hoping for tourist dollars, or wanted locals to glimpse at what a foreign bar would look like. The toliets flushed the same either way. I realized that no matter how much I read about Cuba and the tourists from all over the world who visited, I was still biased from a lifetime of living in America and assuming Cuba was stuck in our 1950’s.

I washed my hands and splashed copious amounts of water on my face. I rubbed my eyes and stared into the mirror. Not liking what I saw, I used soap to wash my face and rub the bags under my eyes with warm water. I looked back in the mirror. The bags were dark colored and puffy, and my eyes were bloodshot. A slick white scar under my right eye stood out more because of the dark bags.

The skin of my cheeks was heavy, and they pulled my smile into a frown. I tried to force a grin, but that made me look like I was grimacing. With a fake smile and bloodshot eyes, I looked maniacal. I splashed more water on my face and moved my jaw in a circle to stretch my mouth muscles. I still looked like shit. I moved my jaw until the muscles were loose enough that I could smile without much effort.

I rotated my head as far to the right as I could, then pulled with my hands a bit more. I stretched to the left, then back to the right. I glanced in the mirror with the corner of my eye, looking for the edge of an eight-inch scar across the back of my head. I had been doing that since I was four years old, and I knew my neck’s range of motion better than all of the VA doctors who measured it with a goniometer once a year. They told me I was down to around 70% flexibility; I could have told them that without scheduling an appointment months in advance. I hadn’t glimpsed the big scar in a decade, but usually I could see one of the smaller ones that were closer to the side of my head. Not that day, though; after the plane rides, I was probably half as flexible as I once was, and noticeably less than the 30% reduction in my records. I chastised myself for forgetting my yoga mat, splashed water on my face again, and turned to look for paper towels or a hand drier.

There were two paper towel holders and a fancy hand drier on the wall; it wasn’t a Dyson Air Blade, but it was a similar style. I waved my hands under it. Nothing happened. I pulled a brown paper towel, and waved it. Nothing. I sighed; then, surprised by my frustration and dismissing it as the end of a long day, I saturated the paper towel with my hands. I used another one, then patted my damp feeling hands on my pants, and backed out of the bathroom. That’s why I use analog dive watch, I told myself.

I joined my hat at the bar just as the bartender walked up wearing a huge smile. He was around 30 years old with relaxed eyes that focused on you. He was dressed fashionably without drawing attention to it, wearing loose cotton clothes that invited you to relax with him. His hair was brushed to show a bit of floppiness on top, with just enough extra effort with styling gel to signal that he cared. At home, he’d be a magnet for women who stopped by a bar after their office job. In Spanish, he welcomed me in and asked what I’d like.

In broken Spanish, I told him I was practicing my Spanish. He nodded and leaned in.

“Pulpo a la parilla, please,” I said, pointing at the sign. He nodded. “Water, no ice, please.” He nodded. “And I like see a master make a mojito,” I said with a big grin and arms open towards his bottles of magic. He smiled and tapped the bar spun around. He said something to the kitchen, then grabbed a bottle of white rum and a handful of fresh mint and went to work.

The mojito was everything I had hoped and more. I sipped it and watched the kitchen and assumed the octopus on the counter was mine. They put a dollop of mojo on the side, and squeezed an orange slice over the sauce and added another as garnish. They put it on the counter between the kitchen and bar, and the bartender dropped it in front of me. It, too, was delicious; but, it was too tough, and the dull restaurant knife wouldn’t cut the tentacles into slices thin enough to make it seem softer. I felt a twinge of irritation at having lost my Leatherman tool at the San Diego airport, and told myself I’d look for a knife when I shopped for a yoga mat. I plopped extra mojo sauce on my next bite, and made a mental note to use orange juice instead of lemons when I made mojo sauce at home.

The bartender came over and was about to interrupt me to ask how things were. I wanted to steer the dynamic, so I spoke first.

“Thank you, master of mojito!” He beamed. I focused on the octopus in a way that prevented him from asking, and he turned to listen to the waiter and make drinks for a table. I finished the mojito faster than was healthy, but either the rum or the placebo of ordering it achieved the result I wanted. The band was playing a carribean beat I dug, and I felt my body wanting to move. Worry dripped out of me and pooled on the tile floor, then oozed along seams in the tile and out the door and into the street, where it caught a drain and made its way out to the ocean and went for a swim. I shifted to my other foot on the brass rail, and stretched my neck back and forth to see if the relaxed feeling made its way to my muscles; it hadn’t.

The bartender returned and asked if I’d like another mojito.

“I like a rum,” I said. “I do not know rum. Please give me a rum that is…” I searched my mind for a Spanish phrase similar to “bang for your buck,” but I could not think of one. I said, “… a rum you give to grandfather as gift,” I hesitated, looking for words, and added, “special, but not big expensive. And please, one more mojito. But with rum different, so I learn rum.”

He thought for a minute, nodded, tapped the bar, and his head moved back and forth across the wall of bottles like a typewriter working on a masterpiece of literature. He settled on a bottle of brown rum midway up and pulled it down. He grabbed a bottle of white rum in a fancier bottle than before, and went to work. About two minutes later, he garnished the tall thin glass of mojito with mint, and poured the brown rum a snifter. He put both in front of me, and I thanked him so profusely that I couldn’t imagine him returning to ask how it was.

“A friend join me,” I said. “Please, he no pay.” I pulled out my great Uncle Bob’s gold money clip, engraved RMD and with nothing but cash for my Cuban entrepreneurship visa requirements. I did the math and figured that $50 should cover my drinks and Tim’s for the night. I didn’t keep much more than that in the clip – no need to be flagrant – and the effect of pulling almost but not quite all of the twenties from it had what I hoped was the desired effect: I was on vacation and splurging, but no need to get ridiculous with spending. I handed the bartender three twenties and said, “He old friend and we not see in long time. We want talk private. Please, always keep mojito and water no ice for both of us. He say he pay, but please he no pay. I get bill, please.”

He seemed to get all of that, tapped the bar, and spun around to talk with the waiter again. I didn’t notice a difference in the mojito, and drank it too quickly. The rum was outstanding, and I sipped it slowly and noticed my body moving to the band. They had a brass spittoon that matched the foot rail and was, I assumed, a tip jar and not an actual spittoon. I took out a five dollar bill and folded it so that a five was clearly showing, and tucked it into the small pocket of my jeans. I’d drop it in the spittoon my way out.

Two tunes later and at the end of my rum, I saw Tim walk up to the bar, stand in the door, and glance around. He hand’t changed enough to notice, other than a bit of pudge around his belly; we’re both middle aged, and it shows. He still had close-cropped hair (though no bald spot yet), and with his posture, he looked like either someone in the military or someone who had spent a lot of time in the military. He carried a small backpack slung over one shoulder. He was wearing the same gold Rolex SubMariner, though at least he had swapped the shiny gold metal band with a clasp, the one that shouted at people to look at it, with a black corrugated rubber one with an old-school tuck-in band, like mine.

I was the only other caucasian in the restaurant, so he spotted me quickly and then smiled broadly. I stood up strait and grinned like a kid seeing Santa Claus at Christmas. He strolled up, but paused a few feet away.

He said: “Dude, you’ve aged.”

“Fuck you,” I said.

I scratched my grey beard. The crinkle echoed in my skull. A thought popped in my head that I should shave sooner than I planned; I’m vane, but at least I’m not proud of it.

“I’ll shave before diving,” I said.

We stood still for a moment, then spread our arms in unison. We stepped into each other’s embrace.

“It’s good to see you, man,” I said softly.

“You too, brother,” he said.

We gave manly pats on each other’s backs that Hemmingway would respect, then stepped back. I sat on a barstool with my left foot twisted under me and most of my weight on my straight right leg. Tim plopped in the seat and rested his feet on the footrest.

“Dude,” I said, nodding towards the bartender. “This guy’s a maestro with mojitos.”

Tim raised his hand and the bartender approached and Tim ordered two house mojitos. They arrived quickly, and we raised our glasses, and caught eye contact; to not drink without getting eye contact first was seven years of bad sex. We paused for a moment, he tapped his glass on the table but I did not, and we sipped and exhaled like it was a ritual to do so, a celebration of returning home safely.

He said, “I still can’t get used to you drinking.”

I shrugged. “A lot of my friends do. After Dana and I divorced, they seemed happier than I was, so I gave it a go.”

“Incidentally,” I said. “I learned what my grandfather meant by alcohol loosening your lips. Did I ever tell you he never drank?”

Tim nodded that no, I hadn’t.

“Never. His father was a lush and ran out on them, but that wasn’t the only reason. He saw how it made people talk mindlessly, so he never did it.”

I looked at Tim without smiling, and said, “It became a problem, probably genetic. But hiking the Himalayas got me back on track.” I smiled and raised my glass to stop him from commenting. We locked eyes, toasted, and sipped; this time there was no sound after.

“I still don’t understand how you got invited by the Dali Lama,” Tim said. “How is he, by the way? The last time I saw him, his hip was jacked and we had to help him up and down.”

“I didn’t spend time with him; the Tibetan University’s chancellor invited me last-minute, and I left early. But he seemed the same. He even talked about his hip in a book recently; he stopped sitting on floors because of joint pain, and seems to explain that to visitors. I had missed him a year before, too. He speaks at my university every year or two now. It turns out that Roy Kroc, the founder of McDonalds, also owned the San Diego Padres, and his widow donates heavily. She gave something like $52 Million for the center and to create a master’s of peace program.” I shrugged and made a face that implied $52 Million was nothing.

“You left early?” Tim asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “The vibe was to sit in chairs and listen, so at the first lunch break I took off and spent the rest of the week with a bookseller near the museaum and Jain temple. He’d been there for 35 years and raised four kids from his push cart. A real entrepreneur.”

“He was little dude,” I said, and put my hand out as if tapping the head of someone around five feet tall. “And after selling books to pilgrims for 35 years, he seemed to have it together better than any of the twats speaking at the conference. Or at USD and the tenured faculty that sit in ivory towers and pedal their Ponzi scheme. The peace program is more practical than the entrepreneurship program; at least faculty there admit they don’t have it figured out. They bring in speakers instead, and your boy is one of the best.”

Tim said, “I still don’t understand what you do there. Did you get your PhD?”

I shook my head and said, “No. It’s like in Sinai. We were the lowest ranking people but with more knowledge than all of the West Point twats flapping their lips. There’s one other guy I know of in a similar situation; both of us were asked to incorporate “develop empathy and embrace ambiguity” into course learning objectives, and to design a course on designing things. The universities call it ‘user-centered’ design.”

I paused and Tim shrugged. “It’s a fancy term for making shit that works for all people. Medical devices are the biggie: somewhere between 75,000 and 300,000 people die each year from healthcare mistakes in America, and something like 70% of cases boil down to human mistakes. Few people reads instruction or remember all contingencies, so we want to make designs work despite human nature. It’s nothing more than admitting you’re ignorant, and testing designs before selling them.”

I gestured towards the bathroom. “In the bathroom here,” I said, “there’s a broken hand drier. It could be a bad user design. Some use motion sensors, other use a light sensor. Last year some employees at either Facebook or Google showed that the one using light sensors didn’t work on brown or black people; the engineers who designed it were all white, and hand’t considered others or made a tentative launch date so they could learn what they didn’t know yet. Making a sensor that lasts is easy; making one that works for billions of people you haven’t met yet is hard.”

I raised my eyebrows as if what I was about to say explained it all: “Empathy and ambiguity.”

Tim was unphased. I’d have to work understanding how other people view empathy and ambiguity. That was the first problem with designing a course on design: starting with common understandings before proceeding with what to do, knowing the situation before planning a mission. Coach used to start every season by quoting Vince Lambarti, saying that even with a team full of All Americans, Lambarti would start each season by holding up a football and starting from there, saying, “Gentlemen, this is a football.” Coach would then demonstrate a stance, and season would begin. How can you measure if people learn what empathy is without clearly defining it? And how do you avoid just repeating that definition in a test and believing you learned it?

“The over-educated twats with PhD’s can’t seem to create classes for what they don’t see. It takes a unique person to spend 12 years in mandatory school, then choose to spend another ten getting a piece of paper.” I said with a ton that conveyed the depth of my distaste for pieces of paper.

“Even the dean pulled me aside and asked if his team had Aspergers or Autism or something that prevented them from empathizing or being okay with ambiguity. They make design courses based on what they’ve read, but they’ve never designed anything on the market. Kids take tests and become test givers, and that’s the Ponzi scheme. Our dean wanted someone who had done it and was unintimidated by faculty who flap their lips and make everything seem harder than it is. He’d never done it, but at least he knew that.”

Tim listened patiently, but I still felt bad complaining. I didn’t fly all the way here to gripe. I said, “I was coaching a couple of teams in my class when your boy spoke, so I missed him in San Diego. When I was invited to the Tibetan University, I jumped at the chance to see him on his home turf.”

“Well,” Time said. “What’d you learn?”

I sipped my mojito and gave a smile and nod to the bartender, who was watching the level of our glasses in his periphery. I wasn’t sure where to begin.

“I’m not sure where to begin,” I said. I knew he meant at the conference, but I hand’t digested everything yet, and didn’t want to start with how much I learned I needed to learn; I was like our dean, only just beginning to realize how little I knew and only then because I was trying to use the meaning of words I could easily recite. Anyone with a smart phone could pull up the same books every monk studied, just like any student could get the same books their faculty read and memorized.

“First of all,” I began, “it took me twice as long to hike the Annapurna trail as I had planned. I should have multiplied my time by pi.”

“At least you did it!” Tim said. He was right. It’s pretty hard.

“Yeah. A couple of Israelis on leave backed down half way up, and it was nice to keep going,” I said. “But I got really sick in a small village at around 16,000 feet. My asthma kicked into overdrive. It was during the elections, so there was no space to stay, and those Chinese-armed twats kept their machine guns pointed on us.”

I took a sip of beer, expecting Tim to comment. He sipped and waited. I set my beer down and continued. “A guy I met in Khatmandhu was there, and let me stay with his family for a week until the results were verified. There law says you must vote where you are registered, so all of the Khatmandhu dwellers went home to the countryside to vote. It was the second democratic election in his parent’s lifetime, which was neat to see; they vote differently in cities versus farmland, too. My lungs cleared up and I started out again, but I was wheezing all the way to the top. I spent a few nights at an emergency hut shivering and debating a month’s worth of decisions. I ran out of water and had to get going. By the time I summited, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “You’ll appreciate this.”

Tim stopped sipping and set his drink down and raised his eyebrows.

“At the summit, I was batshit delirious, but a lady that shouldn’t have been there had the worse altitude sickness I had seen in years. She was in shock and her body temp was low. Their group had been abandoned by a guide with a satellite phone while he tried to call rescue. I helped stabilizer her and shot the shit with their group – Germans and a Swiss, I think. It was the pass where 300 people got trapped and 50 or 60 died two years before, yet no one seemed to know that. They just paid their guide and assumed it was that easy. I scraped away snow, set up the LZ, and told the guide the angle and wind while he talked with the helicopter. It was neat to see all of memories from twenty years ago flow into my body.”

“A helicopter that high?”

“Exactly! That’s what I thought you’d appreciate. It was a private ‘copter, about the size of a Huey, and the pilot was an old SAS dude.”

“SAS,” Tim said. “In Nepal?”

“Yes. I was surprised at how many British expats are in Nepal. They even have their own Scotch blended with Himalayan water. The guy landed as hard as you’d expect at 20,000 feet, but kept his cool. He had enough room for the three people and their guide, and it took a while to load them up. We were moving through molasses.”

“But here’s the thing,” I said. “Do you remember Tanzi?

Tim’s face lit up, and he asked, “From Somalia?

I nodded. “The SAS dude told me he opened a cafe on the downhill side of the trail.”

“Holy crap!” Tim said. “How’s he doing?”

The bartender came over and offered to replenish our empty glasses, and Tim ordered another round of the same, saying it was on him. The bartender smiled and nodded, tapped the counter, and went to work.

“Still funny,” I said. “But business took a hit when they built that road. Most hikers take the fast route and skip his cafe. There are hot springs nearby, so I parked there for a week and hung out with him. Man! He can cook! He always could whip something up with whatever market we stumbled upon.”

My eyebrows shot up; this was the first time I spoke with someone who knew Tanzi since I returned. “He still had that Gurkha,” I said. “His father’s.”

Tim grinned and asked, “Did you ask to see if he really could chop the head off a water buffalo in one swipe?”

“Ha! No,” I said. “But I wouldn’t doubt it. I borrowed one and helped him harvest some buckwheat. It’s really a nice blade. My only regret from the trip is not bringing one home.”

My head cocked sideways, and I stared at Tim for a moment. He looked back, wondering what I was thinking. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to bring it up. But the booze was loosening my tongue.

“Before I hiked down to Tanzi’s,” I said. “I spent a week in Mustang.”

“How’d you get that visa?” Tim asked.

“I didn’t,” I said. “The civil war stopped the few tourists they had, so they temporarily opened the border. Technically, it was closed again when I got there, but I went anyway. About three days into the hike, I was stopped by a wall of snow, but that was far enough to see a road being dynamited through the mountains from China. They were blowing up old Buddhist cave monasteries to clear a path. A fleet of land-moving bulldozers and trucks were making the road wide enough for 18 wheelers. They were parked there, probably waiting for spring. There were so many that the drivers probably outnumber people in the towns they pass.”

I paused to let that digest. “It’s probably two or three years from reaching the road from Anapurna to central Nepal; that’ll be an overland route connecting 1 out of 3 people on Earth. And the year before, in Sri Lanka, I saw a few deep water ports funded by the Chinese; and they’re also channeling through Nicaragra to bypass the Panama Canal. That’s a lot of easier trade routes with China than anything America has. Are y’all looking into that?”

Tim slowly nodded his head no, which for him means he doesn’t know as opposed to telling me no, they were not looking into it.”

“I don’t know, J. That’s no longer my department. I’m sure those guys are looking into to, but I’ll ask around. I don’t know who’s peering into the crystal ball now.”

“It’s not about the future,” I said. “The people I met couldn’t point to anything western other than tourists. They weren’t thinking further away than that winter’s food supply, and they grateful to the Chinese today. Sri Lanka was the same. That’s what I’m talking about. Maybe someone could slip those tidbits to your boy.”

Our drinks arrived and we repeated our toast. A thought popped in my mind, and I burst into laugher and put a hand to my nose to stop mojito from flying out.

“Dude!” I said. “A buddy back in San Diego is one of the funniest people you’ve ever met. Usually quiet, but a sniper with his jokes. I told him about seven years of bad sex,” I said, holding up the glass in my right hand, “and he did this:” I rotated my head and used my left hand to block my sight from anyone’s eyes. I looked back at Tim and he cocked his head.

“He said: ‘since having the third kid, we’re not having sex so even years of bad sex sounds better than none at all!”

We guffawed, and Tim pulled out his phone.

“Here’s who I’m seeing,” he said, handing it to me.

She was a gorgeous Latina. I looked up and made a questioning look and spread my fingers apart. He nodded and I zoomed in. She had a subtle Adam’s apple. Tim slept with anything willing. In his youth, when he was just a secret service guy, and after a few beers, he’d tell us tales of sleeping with half the daughters and more than a few sons of senators and dignitaries. He stopped, or at least slowed down and stopped telling us about his exploits, when he realized his mom would have been ashamed.

I handed the phone back, kept my mouth shut, and cocked my head a bit, as if offering an ear.

“I like her,” he said. “She’s funny and a great cook. I’ll miss her when I leave.”

“When’s that?” I asked.

“In a few weeks. Your trip’s good timing.”

“You should be retiring soon,” I said as a way of asking.

“Exactly. I won’t be coming back down. I was thinking of becoming one of the consultants who helps the new guys.”

“Pension?” I asked.

Tim nodded yes. “About $140,00 a year.”

“Holy shit! Y’all are overpaid.”

“Boston’s expensive,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, “So’s San Diego, and a ton of people are happy on minimum wage in both. Why don’t you travel for fun or write a book or something?”

Tim shrugged the way I do when we don’t want to talk about something.

“That reminds me,” I said. I reached into my backpack, pulled out Frank Sheenan’s book, and handed it to Tim. He glanced at the cover and said he had heard about the new Scorcesse film but hand’t read it; he rotated it and read the back, then flipped through and stopped at some of my notes. I noticed he stopped on the quote I underlined about Hoffa telling Frank to ensure my grandfather remained alive.

“The actor who plays my grandfather called and asked how to portray him,” I said.

Tim looked up and raised his eyebrows.

“That’s part of my trip,” I said. “I don’t know how to do it. I mean, I know him, but I didn’t know how to tell someone to behave like him. I’m not sure you could fake it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Charisma,” I said. “Charm. That ineffable thing that makes people trust you or gravitate toward you.”

“We all want to emulate someone,” Tim offered.

“Yes,” I said, “but that part’s easy: he was big and handsome, strong and successful, and women loved him.”

I paused and stared into my drink, looking for the next sentence.

I looked back up and said, “But there’s more. I don’t think you and I ever met someone like him.”

“Anyway,” I said. “That call got me thinking. I bet anyone who met him would remember him. I never verified the rumors that he was in Cuba, so that’s part of my trip. Have you heard of an old hotel called the Havana Cabana?”

Tim shook his head and asked, “How old?”

“Early 1960’s, after the embargo and just before the Bay of Pigs. There’s nothing online except a Havana Cabana Hotel in Miami, and a book about the mafia in Havana – Havana Confidential or Nocturnal or something like that – doesn’t list it. I thought maybe an old-school guy would remember it, and I could see if he remembered my grandfather.”

Tim shook his head again and said, “I don’t know any of those guys still around. I’ll ask, though.”

I thanked him, and then another round of mojitos arrived. We toasted and chatted about things. He was three years older than I was, but started wanting kids. His mom had eight with his dad; his dad had another seven with his second wife. Having kids didn’t seem to stop Tim’s dad from having sex. Tim was retiring soon and would be home more. We slipped into talking about old friends, and my words were beginning to slur. We turned to old times, and old friends. My jaw tightened and my frown quivered. Tim and I avoided gazes and found something interesting in the bottom of our almost empty glasses. He raised his glass and spoke first.

“To Mike,” he said.

“To Mike,” I said; but instead of toasting, the glass hit the counter and I looked down and sobbed. Tim put his hand on my shoulder and waited.

“I’m sorry,” I slurred. I looked up and held up the glass and apologized: “Alcohol’s a depressant,” I said.

Tim sat silently and waited. I held his gaze and said, “I tried Tim. I went and saw him and I tried.”

Tim squeezed my shoulder.

“I even got drunk with him. He said it, too, that it was hard to see me drink. I was laughing and thought that’s what he needed. He kept going on about Blackhawk Down and the Ranger’s creed. Fuck! I hate that thing; conditioning so deep I can still recite it. ‘Cutting edge of battle’ my ass. ‘Keep myself morally straight’ so I can kill people. But it meant more to him.”

I looked down and took a few breaths. “I wasn’t listening,” I said.

“I failed my comrade,” I mumbled.

The bar was spinning. I looked back up and saw that the bartender was watching us, perplexed. I smiled and he came over. I asked for a round of pulpo papilla, and waters. Tim ordered another mojito. We toasted, and to keep my head straight I looked at his watch and the second hand ticking with a subtle jerky motion that belied the quartz crystal inside; my Uncle Bob’s perpetual motion Rolex moved in a seamless motion. I should splurge and have it repaired, I thought. It was more O.G. than any watch you could find nowadays; all it did was tell time.

“He was on to something,” I said, sipping my water. “About ‘leave no man behind.’ He kept saying no one knew what that meant. Hollywood did more harm than good. He had a lot of anger. We were laughing about it, but he was angry.”

“There was nothing he could have done,” Time said.

I shook my head no. “That’s not the point,” I said. “It was big picture. The lessons learned. The film didn’t capture the aftermath.”

I sighed and said, “He and I talked a lot about my trip to India. what it means to have a self or not to have a self. If we’re all a collected conscious, or all God’s children, then no man left behind meant, ‘what makes us human?’ He was having an existential crisis. He wanted that to be in the film. Instead, it was more glory to the U.S. military.”

I took a deep breath and stared into Tim’s eyes and said, “Who do we help?”

“What do you mean?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. But I felt the point more than understood what he meant. If we’re all born the same, what makes one person worth saving and another not worth saving.” I paused for effect and said, “Or killing.”

Tim was about to say something, but I held up my hand.

He changed his mind and said, “You’re right. We’re lucky. We can choose. That’s what we learned from you.”

I cocked my head. I didn’t know if I was being slow from booze, or I had heard Tim say he learned something from me.

“What do you mean?” I asked

“Dude,” Tim said. “We all had it easy. Iraq. The bodies. That girl. You never stopped smiling.” He rushed his speech, as if blurting out a secret, and said. “I tell the young guys in training about you, Not by name, but that you stuck to your guns. Rank and orders never matter. Be true to yourself and everything will work out. Just smile, and don’t get distracted.”

“I’m still and asshole,” I said. I was caught off guard by Tim’s compliment and reverted to old jokes to keep silences from becoming awkward. But an idea popped in my head, and I said, “That’s my definition of an entrepreneur: a focused asshole, someone who never wants a boss or to be surrounded by people who follow a boss blindly.”

The pulpo arrived and the bartender filled our waters. We dived in, and a bowl of chips and salsa magically appeared when we were almost done.

“Anyway,” I said. “Mike didn’t get it either. But it got him on killing vs. murder again.”

“Achmed was right,” Tim said. “It’s all about definitions and who teaches you.”

“Exactly. No man left behind. The Buddha said it well: there’s no sin, only ignorance. Most people are ignorant and can’t see humanity.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ignorant, or humanity?”

“Either.”

“Ignorant of our humanity. Stop fighting and realize we’re all aboard Spaceship Earth.”

“It’s not that easy,” Tim said.

“How does your mom feel about that?” I asked.

“Dude,” Tim said. “Sometimes you have to clear a room.”

“You know that’s not true, Tim.” I held my gaze. He looked down and tapped his glass.

I asked, “Did I ever tell you that Buckmeinister Fueller’s first geodesic dome was in Baton Rouge?”

“Really? “Baton Rouge?” Tim’s from Boston, and assumes everything novel happens in the northeast.

“Yeah. It was the airport storage shed for lawn mowers and stuff. Architecture students from all over the country flew there to see it. It was a good chance to talk about Spaceship Earth, but the airport tore it down and built a big boring square one.”

Tim was about to comment, but the bartender approached and I made the universal gesture for “check, please.” He nodded, tapped the table, and was about to begin calculating when someone ordered from the bar. He rushed down there to get their order. Tim looked up and glanced at his watch and nodded that it was a good time to go home, but without a sense of urgency.

“Hey Tim,” I said. “I was hoping you could help me with my Spanish.”

“Of course,” he said, “Anything specific?”

“I want to make a pun,” I said. “Hold on…”

I shifted my hips, reached in my pocket. My face must have grimaced.

“Dude, what’s wrong?”

I shook my head no, and said I was sore from the flight.

“Bullshit. I don’t like seeing my friends in pain. What’s going on?”

“A lot of arthritis,” I said. “My spine is like gnarly old vines wrapped around my spinal cord.” I made my fingers look like a gnarly old vine wrapped around something. “If I don’t move, it binds up and I wince.”

“Do you know what the labrum is?” I asked. He didn’t. “It’s like a gasket around your hip and shoulder joints that keeps synovial fluid in. It’s a tough piece of cartilage without blood supply, so when it breaks there’s no repair. We didn’t have a way to image it until recently; some influential orthopedic surgeon started doing injected MRI’s, and estimated that 35% of hip replacements were pain and stickiness form torn labrums. All of mine are shredded.”

Tim’s face scrunched up, as if to show he understood. He asked, so I continued, “There are cysts around all of my joints, and the muscles by the cysts are atrophying. Constant moderate motion helps everything.”

“I’m sorry, J.”

I brushed away his condolences. “It’s a consequence of a hard life. It sucks, but so do a lot of things for a lot of people. A billion people in India would trade places with me in a heartbeat. And I have what the VA calls fibromalaysia.”

“Muscle pain?”

“Yes,” I said, “but more than that. Tight nodes, stickiness between muscles. Some people say it’s facia. The VA says it’s a symptom of Desert Storm syndrome, and there’s an automatic combat-related disablity for it. But it’s common in the public. It’s probably just an effect of aging for a lot of us. My grandmother even had it her final ten years or so; for her, I think it was muscle tension from listening to people talk about my grandfather or Hoffa but keeping her mouth shut.”

Tim started to say something, but I cut him off. “Anyway,” I said with mischievous grin. “I didn’t come here to pontificate on our aging bodies. I could use your help with colloquial Cuban Spanish.”

I opened my hand and showed him the thumb tip and small red silk handkerchief crammed inside.

“Holy shit!” Tim said. “You still carry those?”

I grinned and nodded vigorously; out of habit, I held up my left hand with a gap between the fingers, as if wishing Tim to live long and prosper. I rotated my hand palm up, and placed the thumb tip and silk on it; a long time ago, I learned to make the gap in my fingers obvious before doing anything, to get the oddity of it out of the way so people could focus on what was in my hand rather than the hand itself.

“How’s Frank?” Tim asked.

“He passed a few years ago,” I said. Tim mumbled an apology; sometimes, it’s best to not ask questions about old friends, but Tim, like me, probably didn’t realize how many years had passed since we were at Fort Bragg together. “I spoke with the new owners and they remembered him well. They dropped the magic shop, but kept the name ‘Dragon’s Lair” and advertise it as the oldest comic book shop in North Carolina.”

I paused and looked up thoughtfully. “You know,” I said, “They said they still keep folders of comic subscriptions for deployed soldiers. I didn’t think much of it when I was a kid, but it made me sad to think of kids with comic books fighting wars for people our age.”

Tim said I think too much. I felt the urge to tell him he doesn’t think enough, but instead I said, “I want to leave a tip,” I smirked and said, “Just the tip.” That got a chuckle.

I said, “And have them get the joke. ‘Thumb’ doesn’t work; is there any slang you can think of that would get the point across?”

He nodded his head no, and said he couldn’t think of anything. I asked if it would matter if I dropped the tip into their palm, if that was a play on words. I held out my palm as if I wanted him to, and he mimicked me. I dropped the tip on it and it looked like a small penis tip. Tim made a joke about that, but it was nothing I could use in Spanish to help loosen lips when I talked with people: I was looking for a classic, clean joke that the person could take home and teach his kid, a tip that kept on giving.

Nothing.

As asked if a plopping sound was something colloquial that I could work with. I took his other hand by the wrist and plopped it on top of the tip, seeing if the sound would trigger his funny bone. Nothing again. I picked up the tip and put it back in my pocket and said it was worth a shot.

The bartender came over and told us the tab was covered. I smiled and thanked him; Tim complained and made me promise to let him pay next time.

“When’s that going to be?” He asked.

“I’d like a couple days to recover,” I said. “Can I text you in two to three days?”

He said of course, we hugged, I gathered my bags, and we walked out and parted ways.

I limped down the street, trying not to. It wasn’t just the alcohol – it had been a long two days. But it was more than that. It had taken me almost five years to make carrying reading glasses part of my routine; I’d have to add a walking stick one day, too. It wasn’t vanity that prevented me from carrying glasses and a cane, it was simply attachment to old routines, and limited room in carryon bags.

I met the casa particulars family, and they were delightful. The room was better than expected: bright and airy, with double doors like my French doors, but that opened into a small courtyard, more like the Spanish style of homes. I knew I had drank too much, so I drank extra water, swallowed an 800 mg ibuprofen proactively, took a hot shower, and used the second towel as a yoga mat.

After a half hour of yoga, I didn’t want to lie down. My mind was still racing. Wendy was on my mind again, probably because Tim and I talked about Mike. Instead of resisting, I opened my e-reader and re-read an old letter from Mamma Jean. She had begun a hand-written letter to us in 1996, a year after Walter Sheridan died, that would have probably evolved into a memoir; Mamma Jean’s memory and attention to detail would have impressed all book editors, even Sol Stein and guys that focused on particularity. I scanned it to .pdf, typos and all, and uploaded it to my e-reader so I could search for key words.¹

I wondered if something in Frank’s book would trigger seeing something new in her letter. It didn’t. But, I did notice something for the first time: Mamma Jean’s address on the letter was 504, the same as my first duty assignment, the 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment. I was surprised I had never noticed; then again, that’s why I reread old records with older eyes. I stared at Mamma Jean’s letter without reading it, and contemplated what keywords I could search for in the JFK Assassination Report, or in any one of the books on my e-reader. I was too tired to read and stumble across new things, and my head hurt too much to think about what to search for. I turned off the e-reader, and changed gears.

I thought about the next time I’d see Tim. He didn’t seem impressed with my thumb tip trick, but he would soon. When I put it in his hands and asked his help, I stole his watch.

It was on the nightstand next to mine, next to a thumb tip stuffed with a red handkerchief. I didn’t really need to have him hold it, but doing so distracted him enough for me to unhitch his watch and palm it only a foot and a half from his nose. I used Francis Carlye’s technique from the 1950’s Stars of Magic series; he did a coin trick in the spectator’s hands to focus their attention, but the technique was the same: hold their wrists with your finger on the band, and when you rotate their hands you pull the strap through the clasp and cup the watch in your hand. My long fingers and big hands make it easier for me than most people, and because I kept going back and forth with a handkerchief, Tim didn’t notice that I stuck his watch in my back pocket.

An old lesson I taught Tim and our team back at Bragg was that when the mind’s distracted, you don’t notice things that would otherwise be blatantly obvious. In other words, being centered doesn’t mean blocking everything out, it means allowing everything in; when you’re clearing a room, don’t think of death, or you’ll be distracted away from your core.

My analogy back in the day was a continuation of what Coach quoting Vince Lambarti’s: Fatigue will make a coward out of anyone. I saw the metaphor a long time ago, and I used to challenge myself by staying a step or two ahead of our team, catching them off guard the way a Zen master whacks the back of the head of someone who’s supposed to be alert while meditating. Fatigue, to me, means you’ll do things you know are not right, or not do things you know are right; what is or is not right is next to your core, and your core is left when your mind can no longer access memories or make plans. But, just because I could quote Buddhists texts and mindfulness methods did not mean I was an expert. I was just like the tenured faculty twats who spread a Ponzi scheme. If they practiced what they preached, they’d be donating their money instead of bragging how much other people donated. If I practiced what I preached, I would be a happier person who didn’t have as many drinks as I had that night; or, in hindsight, I would have flown home to see Wendy.

I started thinking about how to set up Tim next time. Planning a few steps in advance kept my thoughts away from focusing on back pain, missing Mike, or worrying about Wendy. It’s a useful trick to keep in mind.

Go to The Table of Contents

Footnotes:

1. 504 9th N.E.
   Springhill, LA 71075
   Aug. 17, 1996
   
   My dear children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren,
   I don’t know how to begin this. I should have written this when you were small, while it was fresh on my mind, also while your daddy was living. After someone dies, you seem to forget all the bad things and remember only the good in them. That is the way it is with my memories of Ed.
   
   He was so charming when I met him. As Jimmy Hoffa wrote in his book, “Ed Partin could charm a snake off a rock.” It was Aug. 1949 and I was living with my sister, Mildred and her husband, Percy Cobb in Natchez, Mississippi. International Paper Company was building a mill and Percy was superintendent of construction. Ed was steward over the Teamsters, Union (I.B.T.C. and W.). He came to the house one afternoon to talk to Percy concerning the Teamsters, and that is how I met him. I was 18 years old and he was 26. I thought he was the most handsome man I had ever seen. He had blond hair, blue eyes and teeth like pearls. Keith, he looked just like you, except he was 6’2”. He didn’t smoke or drink, not even beer, and I believed every word he said. He loved to come over to Mildred’s when I babysat James Paul. I thought he would make a good father. After six weeks we were married in Fayette, Mississippi, Sept. 27, 1949.
   
   Cynthia, I guess it was good thing I waited three years for you. Ed had not told me about his debts. He owed for three cars and we didn’t even have one. He had sold them before we married, spent the money but had not paid for the cars. He also had to spend three months in jail in Woodville, Mississippi, from October 10, 1949 until January 1, 1950. He wouldn’t tell me why; just that he was innocent. I wrote the judge a letter and he let him out. It was not until March 1964 that I found out why he was in jail.
   
   He made about $75.00 every two weeks, which was pretty good in 1950. We moved to Pascagoula, Mississippi in the spring of 1950. The Electricians went on a strike the first week we were there. Ed drew his unemployment, $20.00 a week. We paid $8.00 per week for our rented room and shared a kitchen. It was nice, we had no responsibilities so we would go to the beach everyday and cook hotdogs or hamburgers. We started going to church and were baptized June 17, 1950. The strike lasted three months. By that time, International Paper Company, had started an addition to the mill in Natchez and we moved back there, to the Pharsalia Apartments, which were brand new and real nice, two bedrooms, kitchen, living room and bath, no air conditioning in those days. That is when we bought furniture, the old mahogany bedroom suite, sofa, chairs and tables for the living room and a red Formica top, chrome kitchen table and chairs.
   
   By this time Ed had let me start handling the money and I had him out of debt by the time you cam, Cynthia. You were the answer to my prayers. Ed was real disappointed that you were a girl. Your grandmas Foster always said she was so glad you were a girl because “Son,” (that’s what all his family called him) didn’t get his way for the first time in his life. You were so pretty and you soon won his heart because you cried after him every time he went to work.
   
   Janice came a year later. I didn’t mind because Maurice was pregnant with Susan and we had the best time together. You and Susan were a week apart. I was going to help Maurice when she came from the hospital and then she was going to help me with Janice. I was not due until the first of August, but you came early so we had to call Mildred to come to our rescue. She was always so good to come stay with me when the first three of you were born. She stayed two weeks the next year when I had Edward. Ed was real good to go to church, he even went to Men’s training class when we lived in Natchez.
   
   The construction ended with I.P. Company so we moved to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, September 1, 1953. He got a job with a construction company driving a truck, and then in March 1954, he was elected business agent and Secretary and Treasurer for the Teamsters of Local #5. He made $75.00 a week.
   
   Baton Rouge was booming. Houses to rent were scarce. We rented a small two bedroom, kitchen, bath and living room on Ellerslie Drive, behind Memorial Stadium. By this time I was pregnant with Edward.
   We were doing better financially. We bought a brand new 1954 Ford. Edward was born July 1, 1954, finally a boy. You were so precious. You had the most beautiful brown eyes and dark brown hair.
   
   Ed began to find excuses not to go to church with us. He had union meetings on Sunday morning, so sometimes he would have them at the house and he would keep Edward while we went.
   
   He organized Louisiana Creamery, Holsum and Sunbean Bakeries, and the Refineries that were being built between Baton Rouge and New Orleans. I really think he was honest during this time.
   
   We bought a lot on Prescott Road and in 1956 we built a house. I drew the plans and selected everything in it. Ed was very cooperative. It was just what I wanted, 2,586 square feet and a double carport. We moved in December 15, 1956. By this time we had two cars. The Teamsters had bought our 1954 Ford for Ed and we bought me a 1955 red and white Oldsmobile. I suppose that was the happiest time of my life. I really wanted another baby, now that I had this big, pretty house with two bathrooms. I was thrilled when I had you, Teresa. Especially to have one with blue eyes.
   
   Ed bought a truck stop and restaurant on Airline Highway, in April 1959, called the J and L Truck Stop. He also bought and old house with fifty acres out in the country close to Greensburg, Louisiana. He made a garden and mad repairs on the old house. He wanted us to move in it an sell the one on Prescott. I wouldn’t agree to it. I’m sure glad I didn’t. This is when our problems started. He was gone most of the time. Always Union Business or at the Truck Stop Restaurant. Mildred Kelly was a waitress there. I began to have suspicions of her and Ed having an affair. It would make him mad and deny it when I confronted him about it.
   
   I am so thankful you all don’t remember how abusive he was to me. Cynthia, you probably remember some. I might could have tolerated his “other women,” if he had been good to me, but the only good thing about him was his generosity with is money. He thought money could buy anything. He never cared how much money I spent and he never objected of us going to church. He wouldn’t go with us but he was good to help me get you all dress. I am thankful for that. He was continuously buying me things what I called “a peace offering.” He bought me a 1959 Impala Chevrolet and the transmission went out on it with only 80 miles on it. He wanted to have it fixed but I told him I didn’t want it, that I would keep my Oldsmobile. I later found out he had given it to Mildred Kelly. He also started my silver with a place setting and all the serving pieces. He could never save money. He thought it was made to spend. He lavished you all with toys. Edward you had a gun and that lovely knife by the time you were five years old. I guess it’s a good thing I was conservative and learned how to handle money, because by the time we separated I knew how far a dollar would go.
   
   He seemed to blame me for everything, even the fusses you all would have. He insisted I get a maid so I hired Olivia, remember her? She worked for me until we separated.
   
   It was in January 1960 that I knew he was having the affair with Mildred Kelly. He had to go to Washington, DC on union business. He had driven and called me on his way back to tell me he was snow bound right outside of Atlanta, Georgia and would be home when he could. I knew she was with him but when he came home he denied it. I guess he thought if I had another baby that I wouldn’t leave him, so Keith, you were on the way soon after this.
   
   By the summer of 1960, I knew Ed was doing things that were dishonest. He had to go to Atlanta and while he was gone, C.J. Brown, a Baton Rouge realtor, called and told me that the grass needed cutting at the house we had rented on Sevenoaks Drive. I quickly asked what was the house number and he told me. This was a shock to me, so that night I went over there. Ed came to the door but he turned out all the lights and wouldn’t let me in. The next day he told me that he was hiding dynamite for Jimmy Hoffa in that house. He also told me he was on some kind of drugs. I had called your Aunt Mil to come help me decide what to do. She came and I went home with her to Pine Bluff. Ed called everyday, begging me to come home. I was gone about two weeks, but we did go back. When I got home, I realized there was something wrong with him. He tried to keep it from me, but he finally showed me where he had been stabbed, the lowest part of his stomach, a horizontal cut about six inches long. It was always a mystery as to who did it. It needed stitches but he wouldn’t go to the doctor. He had been stabbed on his shoulder about four or five months before this. He wouldn’t tell me who did it either, but wouldn’t go to the doctor. When he left in January, the cut on his stomach had still not healed. In later years, Mrs. Rankin, one of my lawyers, said he probably was bringing in some kind of drugs in the wound. It sounded horrible to me, but I never knew.
   
   Keith, I didn’t think you would ever get here. All the rest of you had been three or four weeks early, so by November 1, I was ready, but you didn’t get here until November the 17th. I worried about you while I was in the hospital, not knowing if Ed would be home, but I had Olivia and she took real good care of you.
   
   Keith was nine days old when Ed told me he had to go to Havana, Cuba to see Fidel Castro. I didn’t believe him, but he gave me a number at the Havana Cabana Hotel for me to call. I called and talked to him, so he was there. This was another mystery. I never knew why he went. When President Kennedy was assassinated, and Lee Harvey Oswald arrested, I really thought Ed was going to be involved, but I don’t suppose there was any connection. When he got back from Cuba, there was some argument we had every day. Marge and Orlan were so good to me, helping me decide what to do. He advised me for one and a half years to stay with him. He would talk with Ed and Ed making promises not to see Mildred Kelly anymore, but finally said that she was blackmailing him. I tried to believe him, but there was always something disturbing and a mystery.
   
   One nite I was giving Keith a bottle. Ed was asleep. I looked down, there under the bed were his shoes with a lot of money in them. I counted it quickly, I would guess about $20,000. I put it in the drawer and the next a.m. he asked where it was. I asked him where he got it. He said it wasn’t his, that he was to pass it on to someone that was to meet him at the Palms Motel. I never knew.
   
   He had made several trips to Chicago, he said, and then
   
   <That’s where Mamma Jean ended her letter. She never finished her story. She passed away from breast cancer a few years later. – Love, Janice>
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