Hijinx - installment one (p.1-10)

The birds invoked the light of morning with chirps as Yeats H. Fitzgerald half-consciously dreamt of alternative realities to his life when he was awakened by the gentle wet nose-nudge of Hoboken, New Jersey. Some months before Yeats had self-diagnosed as suffering from what he referred to as “an acute case of nonchalance”, a state complicated by the realization that his ambivalent state tottered on the edge of what he more specifically termed “a Nietzsche-nihilism” that might well spiral to certain death at the least provocation and so carefully avoided wrong situations while existing in the shadow of a pondering glum of melancholy. Despite this vague veil that blocked a good bit of cheer, Yeats proceeded in life with the certain panache typical of young philosophical or artistic loafers, and he genuinely wanted to believe that there was more to life than pointless ontological despair. If this was possible he didn’t know how to get there and feared that one day, while wandering this nihilistic path of consciousness, he would trip into a Berner-Oberland sized ravine where the calls for help would be muted by the numb winds of nature.
Yeats knew as well as any the need for meaning in his life. He had read Victor Frankl as a college sophomore procrastinating final exam study. He knew at a gut level unaided by shrinks and survivors of tragedy that adversity was preferable to the malaise of listlessness. He reached over the edge of the bed for the black dog and she licked his hand. Hobo had saved his life two years before. He had found her as a puppy walking down the sidewalk in front of his apartment encumbered by an adult-sized camouflage collar too big that had wrapped itself around her left front leg leaving her to limp down the sidewalk crippled. He untangled the dog and phoned the Humane Society. They promised to call when the owner of the puppy turned up. After three weeks she was still with him and a fragile conscience forced him to take the puppy in to the veterinarian for a check-up and shots. As he sat in the waiting room the antiseptic mixed with urine smell nauseated and his neck went hot with the thought of being responsible for this biting, panting, sentient being that might well dominate his life for the next ten years or more. Rentals are always harder to find with a dog. This thought lodged uncomfortably in his mind as he was called by the receptionist to the back and the vet began to examine the animal and repeatedly referred to her as his dog and commented on the white mark on her chest approximately the shape of New Jersey.
The two went together each morning for the paper that waited in the blue plastic cubby hole marked on the inside with his first initial and last name in chalky white lettering. The paper was like a little gift, something to look forward to, an inch taken each day in the fight for meaning. Yeats had given the front page a cursory going over when the phone rang. It was his golfing friends down at the Club, half-way through their a.m. bloodies and ready to play a round. A round, they would say, was always made more colorful with Yeats and they rang every week or so, usually on short notice from their breakfast table at the Club. Yeats fumbled with an excuse before consenting to be there within the hour. He really didn't like golf and wasn't particularly good at it. Quite honestly, he despised the game and only played because he happened to have a reasonably good set of golf clubs passed down to him from his father, along with this amicable set of friends who played regularly. The game went against his convictions, but then his convictions were anything but consistent in application.
Yeats geared up the hill towards the Club in a British racing green MG Costello Roadster driven in elegy to Steve Prefontaine, a hero since his childhood days of age-group track and field. He entered through the gates of the exclusive golf club and gave a familiar wave to the security guard who probably thought of him as one of the deep-pocket members who worked a high-paying downtown job – or didn’t have to work at all. Yeats did not have money to speak of, not by middle-class standards much less upper-class, but his friends did and he had been unofficially received as a member at the Club sans dues and after a few years of playing regularly, he had his own full-length locker, number thirty-five, the interior streaky stained as an old metal gutter, kept unlocked and used only to house a bag of clubs, golf shoes, a stick of deodorant, an umbrella and the requisite collared shirt.
Yeats entered the Clubhouse through the side entrance and bumped into the course greens-keeper, Garvey McPherson. Garvey wore, as always, a diced Balmoral, frayed and sun-bleached through years of weather and a gold-linked bracelet that swung with each movement against his dark skin. Garvey had painstakingly maintained a six handicap since 1976, though his legendary status arose not from this number but from the San Francisco Club championship he had won - despite the Club policy that expressly disallowed employed staff to compete in Club tournaments. Garvey had slipped through the cracks of policy and competed at the insistence of a prominent and influential member who was running for public office at the time and thought it would be good publicity to have a black playing in the tournament, never imagining Garvey would go on to win the tournament and make headlines as the first minority champion, who also happened to be the Club’s greens-keeper. Following Garvey’s victory the non-compete policy was strictly observed. Apparently some of the blue-bloods had their noses put out of joint over the victory and did not wish for a repeat performance.
Garvey was unruffled by the storm surrounding the victory and ignored all contentious avenues. He was content in his position and didn’t have the temperament to challenge the racist inclinations that prevailed even in progressive San Francisco. Whether they would admit it or not, the members of the Club tended to hold to age old convictions that everyone has a place and ought to stay there.
After exchanging a few good natured jibes with Garvey, Yeats entered the locker-room to grab his clubs and pull on the same light blue polo with red logo that he wore every round, riddled with holes developed over years of use and launder. Legally attired and with the collar up to shield the sun, he headed for the number one tee box. Meanwhile, Teddy Chastain, Esq. and Cliff Blass, Esq., Yeats' patrons, sat on the Clubhouse deck under a blue umbrella finishing bloody number two. The two were boyhood friends and sons of legacy members. “My boy Yeats!” Teddy called out. The two got up and sauntered with drinks in hand down the deck stairs to meet Yeats en-route to the number one tee box. “You ready to hit ‘em Y?” Yeats brushed the hair from his eyes and mumbled an incomplete response. They knew him to be moody and took it in stride and each picked up his respective bag stitched with triple initials and proceeded to the tee box.
Teddy and Cliff were good humored souls who played golf for the camaraderie of it and were experts on how to swing a golf club. They both swung in round clean arcs that seemed to magically send each of their drives down the middle of the eucalyptus lined fairway, making landfall two hundred eighty odd yards out rolling to a civil stop on the billiard-table smooth grass. Humored chattiness of satisfaction followed. Yeats was stiff and intimidated in the mind as he prepared to drive. He envied the feeling of tidiness and control that went with a good golf game, the same feeling that accompanies a well-manicured garden the obedience of a well-trained pet, or a clean kitchen in the morning. He thought how he much preferred afternoon rounds where he could loosen up with a beer or two prior, not the healthiest perspective, but true. He addressed the ball by stretching the club out with a waggle and looked down the fairway. He shifted his weight from side to side as if his shoes were caught in a sticky Georgia mud and adjusted his head for level and repeated silently the mantra Garvey had given him, “swing smooth”. But he did not swing. He had stalled, like a speaker in stage fright or a deer caught in the headlights unmoved. The worst thing a golfer, diver or any other performer can do is stand idle for too long, a gummed up mind will invariably gum up the motor reflexes. Teddy and Cliff watched as Yeats fell without hope like a bird full of shot. They lost their humor and instead winced and offered sober words of advice that only made public what the hitter already knew – he didn’t have a prayer of hitting the golf ball well, and the harder he tried the worse it would be.
Yeats stepped back and took a deep breath, leaned the club against his waist line and turned his golf cap to the back and took another half-effort practice swing before stepping to the ball, this time with a resolve to hit the damn thing. Just take dead aim, he told himself, as the old Texas golf sage advised in the little red book. He took the club back and swung through with the effort of a man digging into hard soil with a spade. The ball soared but then looked as if it had been swatted by the hand of an invisible deity in the sky. It made landfall near the edge of the parking lot, unquestionably out of bounds, not twenty yards from Yeats' MG that shared the color of the morning grass crowned with beads of water.
It is always a relief to step away from the tee-box after a poorly hit shot, as the second shot can be accomplished in relative privacy out of the spotlight of the elevated tee box. By the time Yeats had reached his number 2 Slazenger, buried deep in the wet rough, he had made up his mind. He turned and waved goodbye to Teddy and Cliff, preoccupied well down the sloping fairway beyond comfortable shouting distance and Yeats’ parting wave went unacknowledged. He loaded his clubs into the back of the open-top MG and without opening the door climbed in behind the steering wheel and pulled away.
A Navy CH-60 helicopter circled a rusty oil freighter on a blindingly bright day. In the open door of the helicopter with an M-12 rifle tucked into his shoulder sat E-6 Mick B. Fitzgerald speaking into his headset mic, “I’ve got a visual on a guy in a white shirt, level 0-1, near the bow. Not sure if he’s armed. Swing it around the port side, Sir.” “Roger, port side, 0-1.” The pilot replied. The suspect held an AK-47 and peered around a corner at a CH-47 helicopter also bearing down on the ship. A pair of fast-ropes writhed out of the back-end of the CH-47 and fatigue-clad commandos with short-barreled automatics slipped down as two more ropes fell to their length followed by more commandos. “Sniper, do you see a weapon?” The pilot of the CH-60 asked.
Mick looked through his scope for an answer. The seething deck of the ship bounced the cross hairs along the corner of the bulkhead where the suspect had last been seen. “Negative sir, any response from the vessel?” Mick said. “No contact from the ship yet. Treat it as hostile until you are advised further.” The pilot said. Mick coached the suspect from afar, “Don’t do it buddy. Don’t be stupid. Just give up and you’ll be smuggling oil again in a week.” The man peered from around the corner. “Sir, can you hold a hover?” Mick said. “I’m not getting a warm fuzzy, but I’ll give you a few seconds. Does he look like the target suspect?” “He’s a skinny guy with a beard if that’s what you mean.” “No shit.” The pilot said. Mick changed his tone as he addressed the radio commando on the ship, “Undertaker, this is Sniper 1, over.” The main platoon element was moving single file on an exterior passageway along the port side, M-4s held alert. The radio commando responded, “Copy Sniper. Are we clear up the port side? Over.” “Negative Undertaker. I have a possible armed Tango on 0-1 port side, over.” “Sniper, we’re moving in that direction, over.” “Copy, Undertaker. Standby, over.” Mick gripped his rifle and took a new bead on the bulkhead corner through his scope. Suddenly, the man reappeared with his AK-47 raised moving in the direction of the platoon. Mick gave a gentle squeeze and the image in the scope shattered. “Shots fired, shots fired!” The pilot yelled through the head-set as the radio chattered. The suspect lay sprawled face-up on the deck with a dark spot spreading through his midsection. Mick scanned the ship through the scope with the expression of a high-stakes poker player. Seeing nothing more he called the platoon. “Undertaker, this is Sniper One. Exterior of ship is clear over.”
In the wheel house of the ship several dark-skin and bearded men crouched on the floor and jabbered in distress back and forth. The platoon burst into the room and shouted back in like tongue, ordering for their hands to be made visible lest they each be shot dead through the head. The smugglers were zip-tied at the wrists and ankles and the freighter was steered in the direction of Andaman Island, the nearest friendly sea-port. The CH-60 crabbed away from the ship into the setting sun and Mick sat on the floor of the chopper staring blank faced towards the horizon with feet dangling from the open door high above the golden waves of the Indian Ocean.
Yeats took Nineteenth Avenue north and swung the MG around the east end of Golden Gate Park to Golden Gate Avenue and east towards the Museum of Modern Art where he often went when his state of mind had fallen into a barrow ditch of futility. He couldn't seem to keep his mind between the lines. From the crest of the hill Yeats could make out an event being staged. An obscure stream of bodies seemed to rush in one motion as sheep being driven through a narrow gate, but he could not make out where they were going or who was pushing them and he could drive no farther as white and orange reflective barriers stamped with municipal initials blocked the way.
A massive demonstration raged through the streets of downtown and sensing the milieu, Yeats parked the car and walked down towards the action. Thousands of activists shouted slogans and carried banners of protest as they swarmed over the streets. A fireman swung the water cannon of red engine thirty-nine in wide swaths that made a tumble out of the raucous crowd that scrambled from the city sanctioned hose-down as police marched shoulder to shoulder with plastic shields held high. A seasoned witness might have recalled infamous street scenes of yore. Rome '22, Santiago '73, Birmingham '63. Mussolini, Pinochet and Bull Connor may be dead, but fascists and demagogues are not. Was this a battle against the powers of injustice? Only the perspective of history could tell for certain.
One man, grabbed by his Jah-waiting Rastifari dreads was dragged hair-first across the pavement by the hands of those whose job it is to serve and protect. German Shepherds snarled and lunged at the end of short leashes. One of the dogs released ran a man down as if he were a squirrel without a tree and Edward Abbey’s voice could be faintly heard as a whisper in the foggy breeze, “Sentiment without action is the ruin of the soul." A young man climbed into a squad car amidst the frenzied chaos of the protest and drove away without notice. This was his sentiment with action at the moment.
Yeats Fitzgerald smiled at himself in the rear view mirror and sang along to Electric Avenue keeping beat bopping the ceiling of the squad car with his fist as he made for the hills of Marin County as the lights of the city emerged against the brilliant sunset to the west. The evening glow silhouetted a string of blinking red and blue police lights on the treeless ridge in pursuit of the escaped cruiser that was carving wide evasion arcs up the incline. Yeats' face turned from smile to surprise as a pursuing cruiser tagged his rear bumper sending him sideways into the barrow ditch. He climbed from the tilted cruiser and turned to meet his pursuers with hands held high. Mag lights and pistols were drawn from behind squad car doors, illuminating Yeats and a t-shirt that invoked with exclamation Joseph Heller's Catch-22 slogan of insurrection. A witticism certainly lost on these peace officers in blue, entrusted to wield authority well beyond their wisdom and erudition, entrusted as instruments of power, not instruments of finesse and precision with a nimble respect of the citizenry - but trained to use intimidation and coercion in defense of the state. To do otherwise is to be fodder for the vultures and hyenas in the cycle of life. Simple Darwinian logic, or so it is believed by public officials who draw pensions in old age, proud descendents of Romans who taught us much about governance and social order, and perhaps imparted our love for stadium sport as well. The line between human and beast blur.
An officer tackled Yeats blindly from behind with the form and intensity of a man pining to play under Friday-night lights again. Yeats went limp in classic passive-arrestee posture facedown in the bushy ditch, pinned by a knee at neck's nape, chin and lips buried in the crusted dirt. The officer flex-cuffed his hands and jerked him to his feet, parroting the Miranda recitation followed by the possible charges: suspicion of grand auto-theft, malicious mischief, theft of government property. The officer led Yeats to a waiting cruiser and stuffed him into the backseat saying, "Yossarian lives, huh, what are you some kind of terrorist sympathizer?"
Three weeks and a world away from combat, Mick stood under the florescent light of the jail lobby and waited for his brother who was somewhere on the other side of the counter. A chubby cop came through the doorway with a cardboard box under his arm. “Mick Fitzgerald,” he said and scanned the room for response. “Yeah,” Mick said with laconic pace and a face to match. The cop spun around with the delivery indicating the contents were Yeats' personal affects at the time of arrest. The officer read from a list taped to the plastic box, "Cell phone, necklace, pair of blue converse sneakers, set of keys on a beaded fob, sunglasses, fabric wallet containing seven dollars forty two cents, California drivers license, expired Cal-Berkeley student i.d., public library card, expired CPR card, Bonfils blood-type card, Visa card, Museum of Modern Art membership card, one photograph and a slip of paper with writing that looks like poetry titled River of Nine Sorrows. I am required by law to inform you that this writing has been photocopied for investigative purposes."
The officer extended the clip-board and requested a signature from Mick who dug through the box to confirm the contents. He picked up the carved Maori bone pendant on the leather cord and remembered his brother returning home from his world adventures with all kinds of strange finds. He laughed under his breath and shook his head with a smile in wonderment of his zealous brother. “It’s his. Where do I pick him up?” “He’ll be out in a minute. And tell him to knock-off the joyrides, huh?” The officer’s blue eyes floated in watery-blood-shot sockets. His tone carried condescension as if he alone were the dispenser of right action. Mick saw and heard ignorance and handed the pen back. “Cool and I guess you’ll stop arresting people for peaceful assembly and redressing the government?” “They were impeding traffic with their little protest.” The policeman retorted as if he were forever above reproach. Mick turned to sit down with a parting comment, “Yeah, can’t interfere with the precious traffic over something like war.” "Your brother stole a squad car from the State of California Mr. Fitzgerald. I suggest you reflect on the serious implications of that offense. In my opinion he is fortunate to get out at all." The chubby policeman emphasized stole with exasperated dismay as if Yeats' actions were akin to a heinous sacrilegious crime. He turned to go back through the door and muttered to himself about the lack of respect given to uniformed officers and the general dilapidation of society from the days when people knew their place and minded their manners. The good old days. The same days that black men hung lynched from magnolia trees and women lacked the right to vote. Though he didn't know it, he was the sort of man that adored the concept ignorance is bliss.
Mick bided his time by leafing through the limp pages of a magazine until he caught the face of his brother framed in the glass square of the door. He rose from the couch and waited for his brother to come through. Yeats strode out still wearing his white jail-house plastic flip-flops. The two paused to consider one another, reunited after several years apart. Mick stood a good bit taller and broader than his younger brother, their physical dimensions seemed to have shaped their lives and disposition. Like so many brothers, one of the pair seemed to have lost the genetic lottery. They continued to look at one another without word until Mick shook his head slightly and leaned in with a whisper, "Making off in a patrol car?" "I thought I'd practice a little conflict resolution by drawing some of the players out of the fray. Besides, I understand I’m not the only one doing a little joy-riding lately.” Yeats said. Mick’s expression shifted. "Let's go," he said and pushed through the door into the dimly lit parking garage.
The two climbed into Mick’s 1974 faded orange Ford Bronco. The carbureted engine roared to life and belched forth a thin grey cloud of exhaust and exited the low-ceiling garage onto the lit boulevard and into evening traffic towards the Bay Bridge. “How long you been back?” Yeats asked over the radio blare. “Last night. Want to get some road sodas?” “Was George W. a male cheerleader?” Yeats said.
Mick drove crouched over the steering wheel and bemoaned the woeful options: T.G.I. Friday’s, Chili’s, Applebee’s, passing what seemed like an endless display of concept restaurants and bars. “Let’s just stop somewhere man.” Yeats said. “Fuck that noise.” Mick said. “There’s gotta be an actual bar along here.” His agitation grew with each block. “We’ve been driving forever dude. I’m starved. I traded my lunch for a newspaper.” Yeats said. Mick conceded to his brother's plea and they found themselves in a crowded restaurant-bar waiting to be seated. Mick sat uncomfortably holding an intermittent flashing restaurant pager in his lap. The hostess rewarded their wait with two oversized menus at a small, chest-high, circular table, surrounded by kitschy faux décor that hung from the walls as if a small-town museum. Mick harbored a sour look and took a long pull from his long-neck Bud and read the menu, commenting on the items he found absurdly named such as the Geronimo enchilada.
A sorority cute waitress approached the table and immediately began reciting the specials. Yeats ordered the enchilada. Mick ordered another beer. “She kind of looks like Danielle, huh?" Yeats said. Mick didn’t answer. “Doesn’t she a little?” “Yeah, I guess.” Mick responded with a shrug, took another long drink and looked around for the waitress and anything other than Danielle to talk about. “You talk to her anymore?” Yeats said. The waitress walked near and Mick tried to get her attention by waving the empty bottle above his head. She failed to notice. “Gawdamn it.” Mick said and slapped the bottle down. “We’re leaving.” “I didn’t get my food yet and I’m hungry as ten Taliban on the run.” Yeats's protest met with deaf ears as he followed Mick out of the restaurant. “Fuck the Geronimo enchilada,” Mick said over his shoulder, “I know a good bar.” “Where?” Yeats said. “Nevada.” "Nevada! We can't go to Nevada. I've got responsibilities." "Like what?" Mick said. "School. Hobo. My fish tank." "Hasn't your neighbor friend been looking after Hoboken since your arrest?" Yeats offered a slew of yeah buts to counter his brother's reasoning as they climbed into the Bronco and Mick promptly ran the first stop light in a hasty escape to the desert. Over the next few hundred miles Yeats emptied every thought that arrived in his mind and Mick stared straight ahead with few replies and the speedometer needle buried. Nearing dawn, Police lights emerged behind the Bronco.
“Son-of-a-bitch, how’d they find me?” Yeats said, still rattled by his recent incarceration.
“Take it easy Carlos, I was going ninety.” Mick pulled onto the shoulder still driving fast with the State Trooper following closely.
“This cat looks like he’s tail-gaiting a bit much. Unsafe driving, especially for an officer of the peace.” Mick smashed the brake pedal to the floor. The front end of the cruiser smashed into the Bronco's tail-end. Mick laughed and came to a stop anticipating what the mashed in grill and hood would arouse from the highway patrolman. Mick found few likable who aspired to positions of power and the invariable intoxication that went with it, often especially worse in those of low rank with little power outside of their small domain. The trooper skipped the usual pause for vehicle identification and stormed out of his car and up to the driver side window with his gun drawn and he gave two solid raps on the glass with a proud oversized ring. Mick rolled the window down and waited to look over as if he didn’t have the time of day and the agitation poured through. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get outta’ the vehicle!” Mick turned his head and stared back unalarmed and unmoved. “Get out of the vehicle!” The trooper shouted again, his eyes flamed and bulged with every word. Mick stepped out with ginger care as if sore and looked the officer square in the eye inches away. “Have you been drinking?” The trooper asked. Mick blew a thin stream of breath toward the officer. “No sir, I’m sober as a Baptist snake charmer.” The trooper’s face was taut with offense. “Well it sure the hell doesn’t look like it. What do you mean stopping like that?” “The brakes are a little sticky but that’d be nitpicking. I think you might have been following a little too closely though. Don’t they always say that in a rear-end situation the vehicle from behind is at fault? I think they say that.” “Jus what are you trying to pull here? I clocked you going ninety god damn miles per hour. That’s reckless driving.” “So is rear ending my Bronco.”
The trooper demanded license and registration ignoring Mick’s refute.
“Sure,” Mick replied, “and can I have your information?” The trooper looked up stunned. Mick explained to the speechless face that while she didn’t look like much, she was a classic and 1974 was a good year. And, on top of the quality of the vehicle the incident was going to raise his rates and he couldn’t afford that. “If you know the number of the local police station that’d be fantastic.” Mick said matter of fact. “What the hell for?” The trooper snapped. “So I can get an officer here to fill out an accident report.” A string of expletives poured from the trooper as he stalked back to his cruiser, pausing long enough to inspect the damaged grill before pulling away, the tires squealing with vengeance and kicking pebbles and sand. Mick rejoined Yeats. “You’re in luck. He was looking for al-Zawahiri.” Mick said with a smile as he slid in behind the wheel. Yeats respected his older brother, probably some of his attitude had rubbed off. They came from a family who had walked the Oregon Trail and it was in their blood to loathe those who came telling what was yours and what was theirs and what you could and couldn't do.
The speedometer climbed back to ninety within moments of being back on the road. Yeats’ one-sided conversation resumed as Mick's thoughts again swam with Danielle. He remembered sitting at a hamburger stand on the outskirts of a strange rural town south of Provo, strange in a way only small Utah towns can be with a disproportionate number of worn out station wagons driven by aging males accompanied by young women in the passenger seat, often pregnant and holding an infant with several kids piled in the back with kool-aid grins, grimy hands and inbred languid looks. But it didn’t matter where he was because he was with Dani. Beautiful, sensible, compassionate, clever, Dani. An A-class woman who at once made him feel safe, yet exhilarated, spoiled but challenged, with looks that’d make a guy gawk and hit a lamp-post. Assertive, but wholesome, as if she’d been raised well and knew she was loved. He remembered how she wolfed down her burger before he’d finished half his. How she had reached for one of his fries and how he’d smacked her hand without looking up. The movie played in his mind. “Ow jerko! I want some fries.” “Get your own. These are my fries.” Mick said. Dani gave a sweet, manipulative look trying to soften Mick. She reached again for a fry. Again, Mick smacked her hand.
“Hey!” Danielle protested. “Dani, you’re beautiful, you’re intelligent, you’re a very charming girl and I cherish you.” Mick said. “Aw.” Dani said as if she might be getting somewhere. “And all that goes a long way. You know I’d do anything for you. You have sovereign hold over my heart, but the fries, they’re off limits. A man’s got to draw the line.” “We can go to third base tonight if you give me the rest of those.” Dani said.
Mick promptly dumped the basket of fries onto her plate. “Deal. Fries for sex. Third base is a verbal and binding contract. I had no idea you were this easy Olson. Elder Olson and Mrs. Olson would be mortified.” Mick said with a smirk. “Actually, I don’t think third base is allowed. Maybe short stop though.” Dani said, working her way through the remaining fries. “Indian giver!” “It’s not my decision.” Dani said with a smile that Mick always hated. He called it her Jim Jones smile. “Sure it is.” Mick said. “It’s my faith.” “Actually it’s not your faith. It’s your religion, and there’s a difference. You’ve given up free-will and the ability to make your own choices to a religion that a guy made up in his backyard.” Mick had gotten serious and felt the fire in his gut. “Asshole.” Dani lobbed back. She was angry and looked silently into the distance. Mick regretted his words but couldn’t bring himself to apologize.
The Bronco hurtled down the highway lit pink and gold by the breaking rays of morning on the horizon line. Yeats’ mouth had been wordless for five minutes and began to pour like a spillway too full. “So I took Steve’s sister out on a date. Kind of looks like Steve, but a girl. A babe of a girl. She wears these sun dresses and looks so nice I want to punch myself in the face and set my hair on fire. We went to a potluck that this guy Newton was having. We got a little drunk and fooled around in a back bedroom. The only weird thing was, the whole thing made me, you know, sort of attracted to Steve. Not really you know, but in the way that I have to take another look at him, you know. Whenever I look him in the eyes I see his sister.” Yeats looked to Mick for response but he was cordoned pensively by his thoughts, preoccupied retracing old paths in his mind of the days when he and Dani were in a ragged and wretched condition together. They were sitting side by side on the couch. Dani wore a silk scarf in her silky blonde hair and looked blankly across the room at a Navajo blanket that hung on the wall. She traced the patterns of the rugs invisibly with her eyes that looked hopeless, eyes that were the source of her tear streaked cheeks. Mick ran frustrated fingers through his hair and suddenly stood. They had reached an impasse that was at a silent climax of confusion, as if frustrated without the solution to a strange puzzle. “I’m going Dani. I can’t live like this anymore. I’m pouring concrete in Provo so I can be near you. You live in an apartment that prohibits alcohol for Christ’s sake. I dunno, how’d all this happen?” “Happen? Mick, it’s part of who I am, a significant part. It’s where I come from. Nothing happened. You’ve just never been able to accept who I am.” “I’ve never been able to accept! Bullshit. I’ve bent over backwards to accept, understand, accommodate and it’s like quicksand. I keep sinking deeper into this strange fucking world where blonde-hair, blue-eyed, future gods of planets robotically go about their lives and - it’s not you Dani. You’ve thought through, we’ve thought through these things and now you’re clinging back to the baseline of it all. I just don’t understand. You can still have your faith – but like this? By mindlessly following along? Is it security from the unknown – the uncontrollable realities of the cosmos? What?” “Maybe the same reason you are hell-bent on joining the Navy SEALS. That’s what you want to be right? A lot of latitude there for free-thinking.” A vein down the middle of Dani’s forehead pulsed. Mick left the room and returned with a duffel-bag stuffed full. He paused at the couch and looked down at Danielle and said with a quiet breath, “yeah," and continued to the door without word. Dani ripped the scarf from her hair and threw it at Mick who stood at the open door. He made the catch. “You can have it. See how it floats.” Dani said bitterly. Neither of them wanted to walk-away from the other, but a pressure needed released and this was seemingly the only valve to be opened. Mick gave a sad nod and one more long-look before turning and closing the door behind him. Danielle collapsed on the couch and sobbed.
The two went their separate ways. Mick departed for the Navy training center on the Great Lakes near Chicago on a rainy morning in September and Dani stayed in Provo and pressed into the life of a BYU co-ed. It wasn't long before their lives, once intertwined, were diverged thousands of miles apart and even further in the circumstances that defined them. Mick, against all odds managed to not only make the cut for the SEALS team, but also qualify as a language specialist and the elite sniper school. Danielle played the part of college girl, going to all the right parties and meeting all the right friends. She devolved rapidly into the realm of the gorgeous people of the USA, of which BYU had its own exclusive chapter, most of whom can be seen at LaVelle Edwards Stadium that bobs each fall with the cleanest living fans in the NCAA. On one of these Saturdays late in the fourth quarter, the game already determined, a pass went up into the glaring lights and hurtled many yards down-field to the streaking receiver Chad Kinderhook who made the catch going untouched over the end-zone line and was swamped by a sea of white numbered royal blue jerseys. Dani stood amidst the throng of cheering fans and wore a broad straight-tooth red-lipped smile with a number eighty-two booster-button pinned to her lapel.
The public address boomed, “Cougar faithful that is number eighty-two – Chad Kinderhook. With this touchdown reception Chad sets a new B.Y.U. school record with forty-two T.D. receptions.” The crowd exploded in cheers as Kinder-Mart advertisements dotted the stadium screens congratulating the superstar receiver who was making the superstar Kinderhook family proud.
Yeats brought Mick out of his remembrance coma shouting for him to rejoin the road trip. “Jesus man, you gotta get Danielle out of your head or win her back, one. You’re spaced. I love her, but maybe she was born for one destiny. Same destiny all hot, smart, Mormon women are made for: to marry an investment banker, drive a luxury four-wheel drive with a fold-down TV in the back-seat so the kids can play video games. Like kids today aren’t wussy enough with their meds and coddling. Now they have to be around a TV 24/7?” “Wah, wah, wah,” Mick chided. “All I’m saying is: Dani is the embodiment of the grand unfortunate dilemma of beautiful women.” “Which is what?” “They’re sell-outs.” “Nice. Are you normally given to such broad-stroke generalities? You’re a pretty shitty excuse for a free-thinking hippie.”
Following the exchange, a long silence rode down the highway between Mick and Yeats. Each sat within his own thoughts. Yeats picked up one of several books stashed at his feet and began to read a thin and faded paperback as Mick stared expressionless into the desert distance recalling his days at the war and drinking into the wee hours at a Bahraini club filled with Allied soldiers along with ex-pats and fabulously wealthy young Arab men who were finding it tough to persuade Western flight attendants to leave with them. He remembered swooning out the doors of a night club along with a couple of Navy buddies. Muster was a few short hours away as they spilled onto the sidewalk. A white Mercedes pulled up to the curb and a well appointed local Sheik got out of the car and ducked in through the club doorway while the three sailors stood at the entrance fuzzy over what to do next. “Hey, does anybody have any money left? I’m fuckin’ broke.” Said one. “You had a wad of dinar that could’ve choked a dinosaur an hour ago.” Said the other. “I drank it all and traded my watch for two whiskey sours. Mick, you got cab fare?” “Don’t think so.” Mick said, distracted as he circled to the driver’s side of the Mercedes and inspected the interior of the car. “But our friend here was nice enough to leave the keys.” “Shit, you’re not serious. That’s bad news man. That’s trouble. C’mon it’s only a few miles to base. Let’s get going, we only have a few hours to make muster. Plus, there’s Bahraini cops and MPs all over the place.” The broke sailors pled with Mick who they knew had it in him to jack the car, not with malicious intention but out of convenience. “Not in the desert there aren’t.” Mick said and gave a smile his fellow soldiers knew well.
Moments later Mick was at the wheel of the Mercedes careening over dunes and chasing wild camels spooked out of their midnight slumber. The Iraqi pop song Orange blared from the car stereo and Mick and company sang along with enthusiasm until the sand gave way and with the suddenness of an I.E.D. the Mercedes rolled down the hill and came to repose upside down, the tires spinning as if a bug on its back clawing for traction. Muster would go on without them.