Tim and The Things They Carried

“[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

Tim stood in the door, glancing around. He hand’t changed enough to notice, other than a bit of pudge around his usual portly belly; it’s not flab, his form is shaped by genetics like my smile is shaped my grandfather’s cheeks. In pre-Ranger physical testing, his reviewer counted the bare minimum of 70 setups in two minutes; to this day, Tim sounds like that same 23 year old kid insecure about his belly, and reminds me I told him that if I were his reviewer, I would have given him fifty, at most, and he would have failed. It doesn’t matter that I ended up never going to Ranger school and Tim was one fewer than 5,000 candidates to not only graduate, but to do so in only eight weeks without being recycled for injuries.When I was combining old army buddies into characters, I tried to group similar physical characteristics and ways of talking: Tim is Tim. He was tuff, but he had the belly of a creampuff. He still had close-cropped hair (all of it, I noticed with probably the same self-consciousness he carried about his belly). With his hair – which had no grey at all, the lucky twat – and his posture, he radiated either someone in the military or someone who had spent a lot of time in the military. He stuck out like a neon thumb tip on Muhammed Ali. And he was still wearing that gaudy Rolex Sub-Mariner; though at least he had swapped the shiny metal band, which always caught light like a neon sign advertising wealth and special forces, with one more like mine, corrugated rubber to circulate air, and an old-school, pull-through band instead of that awkward to open clasp on the metal one. He was tanned; he had been focused on Latin America for at least five years, which was the last time I had seen him; he was focused on Southeast Asia then, and I hadn’t chatted with him about my trip to India yet.

He quickly noticed me – I was the only other caucasian in the restaurant – and he smiled broadly. I stood straight up, and unsuccessfully tried to tame my smile; my cheeks quivered with the sheer ridiculousness of having friends for thirty years and meeting one of them in a Havana bar for no reason other than it was fun.

Tim strolled up and paused a few feet away, and said: “Dude, you’ve aged.”

“Fuck you,” I said. I scratched my grey beard and heard the crinkle above my tinitus, and I think I felt how Tim felt when I pointed out his belly.

“I’ll shave before diving,” I added.

Our bodies relaxed, our arms spread, and we each took a step forward. I was the first to speak.

“It’s good to see you, man,” I said.

“You too, brother,” he said.

We gave manly pats on the back and 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, caught eye contact (to not do so was seven years of bad sex), he tapped his on the table, and we sipped.

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

I shrugged. “A lot of my friends do. It became a problem, but hiking the Himalayas got me back on track.”

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

“He’s the same. He even wrote about it in a book recently. I didn’t meet him, though. The Tibetan University chancellor invited me last-minute.”

Tim shook his head and said he didn’t know how I did it. I stroked my beard and told him it was because I looked more mature and stately than he did.

“Well,” he 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. “First of all, 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.

“I got really sick in a small village at around 16,000 feet,” I said. “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. A guy I met in Khatmandhu was there and let me stay with his family. They got me back going uphill in a week or so, but I was weezing all the way to the top, and went so slow I spent a few nights at an emergency hut shivering and wheezing. I ran out of water and had to get going.”

“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 bad altitude sickness, and 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 – and when the guide returned Air Assault popped into my mind!”

Tim didn’t get it.

“I remembered everything!” I said. “I scraped away snow, set up the LZ, and told the guide the angle and wind while he talked with the helicopter.”

“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.”

“No shit,” Tim said. “There?”

“Exactly! He 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, and I couldn’t stop weezing.”

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

Tim’s face lit up and he said of course.

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

“No shit!”

“No shit! They took off, and I mustered the strength to keep walking. About a week later I ran into him. Same dude. He took his money and bought some land and still makes that curry.”

“How’s he doing?” Tim asked.

“Like you’d expect,” I said. “But business took a hit when they built that road. Most hikers take the fast route and skip his cafe. It’s low and out of the snow, so I parked there for a week and caught my breath. Man! He can cook!”

We sipped our mojitos silently, both tasting curry from long ago. The bartender came over and offered to replenish our empty glasses, and Tim ordered another round of the same, saying it was on him.

“He still had that Gurkha,” I said. “His father’s.”

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. A sniper. 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, not getting it yet; he wouldn’t.

“He said, ‘since having kids, we’re not having sex at all: seven years of bad sex sounds better!”

We guffawed and Tim pulled out his phone.

“Here’s who I’m seeing now,” he said, handing me the phone.

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; his taste hadn’t changed. Tim fucked any willing thing with a pulse and nowhere to be for a few minutes. If I every recounted all of his tales, about half of America’s senators would  probably have him killed for what he did to their daughters, a couple of sons, and a few that were ambiguous. Given the opportunity, he probably would have mounted Scruffy the White House pet.

I handed the phone back and cocked my head a bit to show I’d listen.

“I like her,” he said. “I’ll miss her when I leave.”

“When’s that?” I asked.

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

Another round of mojitos arrived. We toasted and chatted. 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 practiced his Miranda rights. 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 kept going on about Blackhawk Down and the Ranger’s creed.”

I looked down and took a few breaths. The bar was spinning; I had drank too much. 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 checked out his watch. I never got into Rolexes; I have one that I inherited from my Uncle Bob, and when that thought popped in my mind I thought about Wendy again: talking about Mike had gotten me thinking.

“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. A lot of anger.”

“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. He and I talked a lot about my trip to India. What it means to have a self – or not to. If we’re all a collected conscious or God’s children, then no man left behind meant, ‘what is it that made us human?'”

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. It wasn’t the right moment.

He changed his mind and said, “He’s right. We know that. We’re lucky. 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. Your story. Your grandfather. Iraq. That girl. You never stopped smiling.”

Tim rushed his speech. “I tell the young guys in training about you,” he said. “Not by name, but that you stuck to your guns. Rank and orders never matter.”

“I’m still and asshole,” I said. “That’s my definition of an entrepreneur: someone who never wants a boss.”

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.

“I told Mike I was thinking about using SERE school as a vessel to tell my grandfather’s story. And to blend it with magic. Survival is easy, knowing my dad; so’s evasion. For Resistance, I’d talk about my wrestling coach,” I said.  I paused for the punchline, and said, “and as for escape, I would play it off as nothing for someone who read books by Houdini and learned from The Amazing Randi, and who’s grandfather taught him how to break out of jails.”

Tim made a face as if he had bitten dipped a chip in the salsa and pulled out a bug. He shook his head and told me that sounded lame.

“I know,” I said. “But I need a sandwich to carry the ketchup. I thought military stuff would interest people, and I could make side comments to explain discrepancies in media.”

“For example,” I said (I was still drunk and rambling a bit). “The bit about the watch. When Big Daddy was in the marines. Hoffa said he stole it, Walter said he punched a commanding officer.”

“Ok,” Tim said. “But that’s just a record.”

“That’s my point. It’s nowhere to be found. Even his court marshal was purged; that’s why no one could find it and verity the difference. And the stories I know connect the dots – a linchpin between Hoffa’s camp and Bobby’s. I remember the story: he punched his commanding officer, then pulled the watch off his unconscious body.”

“So?” Tim asked as a friend: that’s the way he says he doesn’t see it.

“Well, it tells a lot about my grandfather at 17,” I said. “He and my uncle Doug got arrested for stealing all the guns in Woodville. Big Daddy ripped open hole in the roof of Sears and Robuck, tied a rope around Doug’s waist – he was 12 – and lowered him down. He’d walk around like a crawfish on a fishing line and collect all the hunting rifles, shotguns, and pistols. Big Daddy pulled him up, fist over fist,”

I mimicked pulling a 12 year old kid with both arms filled with guns up, fist over fist.

“When they were done, they sold the guns to Marcello’s men in New Orleans and bought a couple of motorcycles.”

I grinned and made a motion like gunning a motorcycle. “Doug said it was the best time of his life! Riding around with his big brother, finally happy after Grandpa Grady left them. When they were caught by the Woodville sheriff, Doug was let free but Big Daddy was given a choice of go to jail or join the Marines. It was the middle of World War II, and they needed men. Big Daddy read the contract,”

I leaned forward and said, “and this is important: he instantly saw a plan. He joined, and two weeks later punched out his commanding officer, knowing he’d be dishonorably discharged.”

Tim stared and shrugged.

“He signed a contract saying he had to join the marines, not stay in,” I said. “At 17 he saw loopholes like the were items on a menu. He joined, was discharged, and returned to Woodville with more street cred than ever.”

“He began negotiating contracts for workers at the sawmill. They all looked up to him – in more ways than one. They remembered what a deadbeat Grandpa was, and admired someone who stood up and took care of his family, not matter how he did it. He came home: none of the fathers who left did.”

“By the time he raped that girl, no one in town would testify. Doug says one juror blatantly said: ‘Ain’t no white man need to go to jail for anything he did to a black girl.”(Doug used another word for black.) 

That’s when he took over the truckers who were hauling lumber from the sawmill. A few years later, he was running both unions, getting paid when they Brough in trees, again when they cut them, and again when they hauled away lumber. When the trucking manager wanted to hire cheaper labor from local African Americans – this wasn’t long after slavery, by the way – he and Doug and a bunch of guys cut down a tree  so it blocked their trucks. When they stopped, they killed all the truckers and left the trucks there. A few days later, Big Daddy strolled into the trucker manager’s office and said he heard there were job openings for his guys. By the time he got to Baton Rouge Hoffa had already heard of him. The rest is history.”

“So?”

I sighed. I didn’t have anything to say.

“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. Cause and effect.”

“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. The room wasn’t spinning, my tentitus was silent, and a flood of memories poured from my eyes. Tim dropped his gaze.

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. 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. The bartender was busy, but at least we were beginning the process. Only a few years ago, we would have seen the sun rise without glancing at our watches. We were older, and I still wanted to stay up late, but the alcohol had made me sleepy. As Shakespeare said, drink provokes the desire, but takes away from the performance.

“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, and pulled out a thumb tip with a small ed silk handkerchief crammed inside.

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

I grinned and nodded vigorously.

“I want to leave a tip,” I said. 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 few days to recover,” I said. “Can I text you in about two?”

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, and I was fatigued.

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 turned off all my electronics, took a hot shower, and used the second towel as a yoga mat. Unfortunately, I had gone too long vertical or sitting, and my spine had compressed and the nerves were screaming at me. I laid down and tried to relax while my discs soaked up nutrients and puffed up again. Each day it took a bit longer, less elasticity and more placidity, and my mind went there. The Buddha was right: old age and sickness are inevitable. So’s death.

Killing is a choice, I said to myself. 

To pass time, I reflected on memories of Tim. He didn’t seem impressed with my story, but he would soon. When I was moving his hands around, I stole his watch. It was on the nightstand next to mine. When the mind’s distracted, it doesn’t notice things you’d think were blatantly obvious.

I saw the metaphor a long time ago, and I kept thinking about setting up Tim next time. That’s what kept my mind off my back. And Mike. And Wendy. It’s a useful trick.

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