The Last Man

"Come here, all of you. Sit down, children" he says to them. "I have something to tell you." The three young people sit down around the table and reach for the cigarettes. "Drink" says Smet "go on, it's good for you."

He looks at the three young faces, two of them he's recruited and trained, and the the third, the girl, he has sworn to protect with his life. Here they are, all assembled before him. His little ones, as he likes to think of them.

He takes a big drink and begins "I'm a very old man." Maria smiles, a bit giddy from the cognac. "Though still man enough to handle a young wench like you" he says. She leans back and laughs, shaking her head. 

The old man continues. "But when I was a boy, long before your parents were even thought of, we were at war. The Nazis were stomping their way through our country, and we resisted. We fought them with hunting rifles, with pitchforks, with rocks and stones and bricks, if we had to. And to no avail. We were willing to fight them to the last man or woman or child. And we often did just that.

"In one skirmish, I don't know, out in the farm country somewhere, I was the last man standing." He pauses to take a drink and light up his pipe. "So what happened" asks the girl "did they kill you?" Her sarcasm doesn't faze him.

"Yes, you could say that." He pulls back a deep wrinkle in his forehead that might have once been a scar. "They shot me here, right here. And I fell amongst the dead and the dying." He pauses again. "Go on" says the boy "then what happened."

"Well, some hours or days, I don't know which, but sometime anyway, I woke up and I was in this little fruit cellar at a farm place, one of those little hole in the ground dug outs beside the house. You lift up the wooden door and there're steps going down, a place where people would store vegetables, potatoes, that sort of thing.

"It was cold, I remember, and dark. And I was in a little dug out room that was hidden away by some wooden shelving where you'd store jars of canned fruit and the like. It had a plain white cloth on the back, like a curtain. And you couldn't see through the curtain and the shelving and the jars. And the funny thing was, there were these two little girls at this farm. I don't know, maybe they were eight years old and six years old, something like that. Sisters, I suppose.

"Anyway, I never saw anyone else there. I don't don't know how I got there, even. But these two little children, they wore those funny long dresses and heavy colored cloth scarves around their heads, like the peasant people did in those days. Maybe those were their Sunday clothes, I don't know. And there were beads that they wore around their necks, for some reason.

But these two little kids would care for me and tend to me, changing the wrapping on my head, ever so often. Bathing and cleansing me with cold water from the well, I guess. And they'd feed me yogurt from a wooden spoon and talk to me like I was some kind of doll that they played with. And "eat now, soldier boy, eat the good yogurt" they'd say to me. And "drink your milk now, drink it before it sours."

"I don't know how long this went on, several days maybe. I was in and out of consciousness in that dark little room. I hadn't the strength to get up off the straw that I was lying on." He stops and takes a big drink. "Then one day... soldiers came, I could hear... the little girls screaming and crying and running as I lay there... frozen with fear.

"There were shots, then it was quiet, all quiet. And I lay there weeping like a little baby, hidden away in that cold dark room. Then later, much later, it was dark out now, night time. I crawled out of that little place on my hands and knees. It took all my strength... and I went to each one of those soldiers. They were drunk and sleepy from the wine and foods they'd found to eat, I guess. And I went to each one with my knife and slit their throats, one after another, seven of them in all. And each time I did that, cut their throats and felt the blood run down my arms and hands, I felt stronger and stronger.

"At sunrise... I found the two little girls, I didn't even know their names, each one had been shot in the head, once, like executed. They were sitting there in the farm yard, leaned up against each other like two little dead dolls, all white and lifeless with black blood stains down the front of their faces.

"I left them there like that and went away, but I took the beads they wore. "Here" he says, lifting them out from under his sweater and shirt. "Look at them, the blood stains have long since disappeared."

(an except from the book "Princessa, a story of love and war")

Panama

I was tired, tired of being me. Tight-assed white boy with short-cropped hair. Saying all the right words to all the right people.

"Loosen your hips, Tenyente. Like this." Johnny grabs me and salsa's forward, back and again, moving to the loud music like he's born to it, in his blood. Loud Latin music pounding late into the night as carelessly as palm trees on the beach under the moonlight. 

The girl smiles, smiling at me maybe. Such a pretty smile, a pretty face. But it's not her, not the same girl. Doesn't matter, not tonight. Reach for the tequila, tip it up and dance with the bottle, like I was holding her, getting the rhythm, the feel of it. She laughs and takes my hand, Hands the bottle back to Johnny. 

Then it hits me, either you are, or you aren't. There's no middle ground, never will be. That's the secret, to this place. The girl is warm and soft, arousing me with her gentle innocence. Johnny tips up the bottle and comes round behind me, grabbing my hips, making them move to the beat.

The three of us dancing at his place, like the party never has to end. He reaches around me for the girl and pulls her close against me. Feels so good. I've never done this before. Dancing with a man and his pretty young wife, after hours. Even if it isn't her, the girl I'm looking for. 

But you can do anything when your life is over. They never tell you that. It's a secret and they don't want you to know. Johnny told me when we came in, to this plain little house of his, in from the bars and the night. "It's an honor, Tenyente. Never had such a high-ranking officer in my home before."

Imagine that. You go to a school and they give you a rank. And it's more than somebody else. How is that possible, to be more than somebody else. To honor them by being in their home. Imagine that. I imagine the girl in my arms on a soft mattress, kissing her in the dark.

But it's late, and I have to go. Doesn't matter, it was the night, the night I stopped being me. Driving through the dark deserted streets, away from the black jungle, the base, and crossing the high bridge over the canal. With the ships anchored in the distance, waiting for their turn.

Take a run past the bars one more time, the red-light district, just to see. Might as well, it's on the way. A pretty girl stops me on the street, leans in through the window. Pretty face with lots of make up.

But not a girl, not at this late hour, and I have to excuse myself and leave. Tell him it doesn't interest me. Takes some doing, finally just pull away, with him standing there alone in the light with his make up and pretty dress.

I feel for him, for some reason. All of us want to be picked up and taken home. Even me, even him. Too bad it wasn't a girl. Sometimes it is, you get lucky. Is it luck, or does looking all the time increase the odds. Always looking for her.

The phone rings, midnight. I should've been at work. "My day off" I say. "No, check the calendar, should've been here at ten." Throw on my clothes, and drop the girl off, apologize for being late. The split-shift schedule, six days on, four days off. Who can tell them apart, all run together after a while. And she was the girl, I think. Maybe, never saw her again. Lisa, she said her name was.

Arriving in Panama, landing with hills and green jungle to the left in the bright morning sun. Beaches and flatland to the right, and buildings all white in between. Tropical white with their red-tiled roofs. Old, stately, and quiet, glimmering in the morning sun. 

They put me up at the Albrook Club. A room above the club and the salsa music below. You can smell the air, thick with tropical sweat, inviting. Maybe go down there, to the music, pick up a girl, bring her up to my room. My neighbor is Lenny Irving. But I never knew his last name, just Lenny, everyone calls him Lenny.

He knocks on my door. "Let's go" he says, to the 21 Club in his open-air jeep, almost cold in the night. A ten dollar cover, girls get in for a buck. Pretty good odds, you'd think. Swanky place, soft carpeting, leather sofas in the dark recesses, away from the bar and the chandeliers. Pretty people here, we stay a while and Lenny buys them drinks.

Much later in the pre-dawn fog, we end up in the dark dark alleyways. Lenny's OSI, undercover, wearing tropical khaki with the cloth belt around his jacket. Meet up with the head of secret police, an old brown-skinned man, quiet, dignified. Sentry's stand at attention and salute when the three of us walk into the whore house. Colombian girls, the whores are Colombian girls. The government owns their contracts.

Lisa was a Colombian, with her coffee and cream skin. So skinny, with Indian cheek bones, and such a smile. "Let's do it" she'd say, watching football at my place on tv. Couldn't wait til halftime, and then again when the game was over. Or at the beach, in the water, everyone around. I liked that girl.

Driving through the streets of Panama, with Lisa, stopped by the throng of marchers in the streets with protest signs. "What is it?" I ask. "They want the Americans out" she says. "They're marching for General Torrijos, to kick the Americans out."

At work we fly the meaningless sorties, marking the target range with phosphorous smoke. The jets come by and hit the smoke, as if we were at war. And we are, we just don't tell anyone. Tracking the missions down country, with four-letter codes for Santiago, Rio, La Paz. The cargo planes go there for...... training I guess. Nothing else, contraband, if you've got connections, pistachio nuts, Hummel figurines, stuff like that.

Up country is different, very different. Managua, Tegucigalpa, Guat City. The choppers go there and we track them with four letter codes, xxxx. The rioters killed in Guat City, gunned down from the choppers above. They say the government fired on them to disperse the crowds.

I see my neighbors back home, all our apartments are joined together in one long row. All young officers in green, green jump suits. Pilots, young lieutenants and captains playing rugby and flag football on the weekends. And me too. I see Dave back home from his mission, knowing the Guatemalan government doesn't have any helicopters.

The major gives me a reprimand for coming in late to work. They don't like me, I don't care. I make complaints to the wrong people, say the wrong things. The colonel chews me out. Everyone coming in to the club for Commander's monthly social hour. "Everyone's gonna think you're an asshole" he yells at me. "Everyone already thinks you are" I tell him. The wrong thing to say, to the wrong person.

Watching football on tv, Sunday at work, no flying today. A captain rushes in, all frenzied. "Turn on the local news" he says "Torrijos has been killed." His plane went down in the jungle. All souls on board are dead. The rooms fills with colonels and all the high ranking brass. "Where the Squadron leader" asks the Commander. "I'm trying to raise him on the radio" I tell him. 

We watch and listen to the local news. Those who can, translate for us. Major Rodriguez, a little Latino guy, is head of search and rescue. "Send up a plane?" he asks. "Hell no" says the Commander. Finally the squadron leader arrives, back from fishing. The Commander sees him come in. "When I retire, I want to be squadron leader" he says. "Sure thing boss" he tells him.

They assemble a team to meet with Panamanian officials. See if we can help some way. Top brass, search and rescue, diplomatic liaisons, and so forth. "Should I contact CIA" I ask, trying to be helpful. The Commander looks at me with his hard-set eyes. "That'd be a damn poor idea" he says.

I don't understand, not that it matters. For days it goes on. No one can get close to the wreckage in the deep dense jungle. A reporter calls, wants to know what hotel William Casey is staying at. Tell him I don't know. Wrong thing to say. Director Casey, head of CIA isn't here, officially. Or is he.... officially not here. Either way, he was on the pax manifest, so he must be here somewhere.

Driving through the streets of Panama, with the crowds of protesters, angry that Torrijos is dead. Stopping for the crowds in the streets. Looking for Lisa in the crowd and never finding her.

 

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Interrogation

Category: Short Story Winners, Issue 2

                                                                                                            

The girl is in a small room, seated at a heavy bare table facing an opaque glass wall. A heavy-set pleasant looking man with glasses comes in and sits across from her. “Hi” he says “how you doing?” “Speak French” she says “I don’t speak English good.” “Okay” the man replies speaking French now “I just have a few questions for you, then you can go. “You killed my friend” she says “kill me.” “Just relax” he tells her “nobody’s gonna do that…you, want some coffee?” “You know who that was” she says “my cousin Jori; his father’s deputy defense minister, head of special forces.” “Nobody killed your friend” says the man “the boy’s fine; really, he’s okay. You can, go see him…when we’re done here” “When his father finds out” she continues “he’ll come here, and he’ll kill you; and your wife and your children and your parents and brothers and sisters.” “What, brings you to America?” he asks. “Are you married” she asks him “you gonna go home, tell your wife you killed a young boy and a girl, so you could pump more oil, make more money, get a promotion. Is that what you gonna tell her?”

“You’re…in our country illegally” he says “why.” “Check my passport” she says “it’s stamped.” “Who…are you here with” he asks her “and what…” “And when you kill me” she tells him “none of you will ever, ever be safe again. My people…will come here; they’ll blow up your nuclear plants, your bridges, your railways, your houses” she says, looking at the man’s face “and it’ll never end.” “We’re not…concerned with all that now” he tells her, soothingly “just, wondering, what you’re doing here, is all.” “You have a son?” she asks. “Why should your boy live, and Jori die; why not the other way around.” “If you don’t…want to talk to me” he says flatly “there’re other people who… have some questions for you…maybe not so nice, though.” “I’m talking to a dead man” she says “call your wife, tell her she’s a widow; and that she’s gonna be next; tell her that, and your kids too.”

The rodent-faced man in the expensive suit is Culver Hayden, the undersecretary; he’s watching the girl from the other side of the glass window, and he’s had enough “oh Jesus, get in there Patterson; we’re not running some fucking debate society here; go get some answers.” The door opens to the little room and a great large young man with short hair walks in. His face is all red and beat up from the fight on the ferry boat. He motions with his head and the other man leaves. “So” says the girl “you gonna rape me now, or what?” The big man comes over and spins her chair around to face him, then he grabs the neck of her sweat shirt and tee shirt and rips them open from top to bottom with his huge hands. She kicks at him hard as she can, catching him in the throat, and he drops back and sits on the floor, clutching at his neck. The force of the kick throws her off the chair onto her back and she looks at the man and then quickly crawls under the table. The big man grabs ahold of the heavy table and throws it again the opposite wall, his face all red from trying to get his breath back.

Then Hayden walks in “Patterson! out” he says “now.” “I’ll kill that little bitch” says the big man, wheezing as he leaves. “Yeah, if you still have a job” the other man says. He turns to leave and then looks at the girl, huddled into a corner, clutching at her torn clothing and shaking. Good, he says to himself, not bad for an initial interview.

Posted by Mikael Covey on 05/23 at 12:00 AM | Permalink

Friday, March 09, 2007

The Boy With No Candy - a children’s story

Category: Issue 6, Short Story Winners

In the land of beautiful children there was much merriment and play. All the children would hold hands and dance around the beautiful flowers. And they would sing songs and play games. And they would eat the fruits and nuts from the never-ending bowl, and they would all bring candy to share with one another as a treat. They dressed in beautiful colorful clothing, and they all wore new shoes.

One day a new boy came to watch them play. But his clothes were all raggedy and torn and dirty; and he was not good-looking like all the other little children were. They saw him as they danced and played their games, but no one said anything. They could tell that he was different, not like them; and that was a surprise to them, to see someone who was different, not beautiful or wearing pretty clothes. They seemed unsure of what to do, but they thought if they just ignored him and didn’t look at him or his dirty clothes then maybe he’d go away. After a while the new boy went away.

But the next day he came back and watched the beautiful children playing again. The children all saw him there standing quietly by himself, and then one of them said “do you want to join us?” “Yes” he replied. Then another child spoke up. “Did you bring candy?” she asked. Her name was Morita, and she wasn’t as smart as some of the others, but she made up for it by carefully memorizing all the rules. That way if someone forgot or didn’t follow one of the rules, Morita would quickly remind them; and that made her feel like she was just as smart as the others.

“I have no candy” said the new boy. “Then you can’t play” replied Morita “those are the rules.” The new boy watched them for a while and then went away again. Some of the other children were not so sure of how Morita had handled this, but they didn’t say anything because she was the one who always reminded everyone of the rules. And no one wanted to challenge her, because then she might find some rule that they had broken. So it was best to leave her alone.

The next day the beautiful children were all playing again, all dancing and singing around the beautiful flowers. And again the new boy came to watch them, quietly standing by himself a short distance away. And as the children saw him there again, they were no longer surprised by his presence or by his ugly tattered clothes or even by his homely appearance. They stopped singing and playing for a moment and looked at him. They were uncertain of what they should do. But finally one of them said “why don’t you bring some candy? Then you could play with us.”

“I don’t have any” replied the new boy. “Why not?” asked another of the beautiful children. This seemed to interest all the children, and they walked toward the new boy, trying to find a way to understand him. “Why do you wear such ugly clothes?” asked one of the beautiful children as they came nearer. “Yeah” said another child “and why are you so…” then she stopped herself in mid-sentence and blushed but hastily added “why don’t you get some candy from your mother?” “Or your father?” asked another child. “Or bring some from home” said another.

As they surrounded the new boy they were surprised now to find out that not only was he not a good-looking child, and that his clothes were even uglier and dirtier than they had appeared in the distance, but also he didn’t smell good. In fact he smelled bad, and this was something very strange to the beautiful children. They had never known a child to smell bad, and all they could think of was that it was somehow like the garbage that people threw out. That was what the new boy smelled like to them. The beautiful children didn’t know what to make of this, but one of them asked “why don’t your parents take better care of you?”

“I don’t have any” replied the new boy. “Where’s your father?” asked one of the boys. “I don’t have a father” said the new boy. “Why not?” they asked. “I never did” he said, unable to explain it to them. “Well then, what about your mother?” asked one of the girls. “She’s in prison” said the new boy. It seemed to the beautiful children that the new boy was nothing but problems and troubles, but being children, they persisted, trying to find the bright side to things. “So who do you live with” they asked him “where is your home.” “I don’t have one” he said. “I used to live with relatives, after my mom went away; but the occupational army killed them and then bulldozed our house.”

The beautiful children were not familiar with geo-political issues, but they were an optimistic bunch of kids. “You can come and stay with us” said one boy. “Yeah” said a little girl “and my mom can be your mom.” “And my dad can be your dad” said another. “And you can take a bath” they told him “and get some clean clothes.” “And bring some candy” said Morita. The new boy was amazed by their responses. “You are all so good” he told them “so generous and kind; but you must understand, no one could ever give back all that has been taken away from me.”

Why Government?

If we ask ourselves, what is the purpose of Government? the ready answer is - to serve the people. But that isn't it. A government that serves the people would need to provide jobs for people, ensure they have adequate housing and wages and healthcare and education and toilet paper. But that isn't the function of government.

The Founders wrestled with these ideas and came up with a purpose for establishing a government. They wrote it into the Preamble of the Constitution. The purpose is - union justice tranquility defense welfare liberty. That is, a unified country, a just legal system, peace & harmony, safety & security, the well-being of citizens, and continuous personal freedom.

Nowhere did the Founders mention providing jobs, housing, wages, healthcare, or education. We can assume these things from "promote the general welfare" but we could assume that means anything we want it to. It could just as easily mean "see that river - catch fish, cook 'em & eat 'em, and you won't be hungry no more." So we can't just assume that the Founders meant for government to take care of people like a foster parent. Likely they didn't intend any of that.

Likely, they meant a unified country where people would take care of their own needs; while government would provide legal justice, law & order, and defense from foreign attack. As die-hard Republicans say "build roads, secure the borders, and leave us alone."

So which is it? A government that takes care of our needs; or just provides basic minimums so people can take care of themselves? Well, before ratifying the Constitution, the Founders had to come up with a Bill of Rights to clarify what government could & couldn't do. But mostly it aims limit to government overreach. Which tells us that government intervention should be minimal rather than inclusive.

So what changed? Obviously, in an elected government, vote seekers promise all sorts of new benefits if people vote for them. This is an obvious flaw of elected governance, but so it is. Hardly anyone is smart enough to turn down free stuff in the belief that it'll just make you lazy or dependent on gift-givers. But the more free stuff we get, the lazier and more dependent we become. And if we do that for any length of time, we convince ourselves that free stuff is actually a right that government owes us.

Hence any free stuff we got, quickly becomes "hey, you owed us that because it was our right to have it" followed by "now we want more, because that's also our right." So anything we don't have is considered something the stingy government is depriving us of because all they'd have to do is tax the rich and give stuff to everybody else - in short, the platform of Progressive politics.

So what would a happy medium be? Well, theoretically, there'd be no medium - we'd simply adhere to the minimalist governance of the Founders. But theory isn't practice. When the government asks its men and heads of families to fight & die in wars, or send their sons to do that - then people are going to want compensation for that. At the very least, they'll want free college education and subsidized loans to buy houses. Which is clearly a small price for government to pay for the soldiers who fought in global wars.

But the next round of demands is even steeper. Enlightened thinkers will insist that "we aren't going to risk our lives to fight in your wars, but we still want more and more benefits." And enlightened vote seekers will run on those issues, disguising them as "the people's rights." Otherwise known as the welfare state. Which benefits everyone in the short term, and no one in the long run.

Todd Among the Nightingales

Todd meanders down the street, scrawny, pot-bellied; I see he’s lost most of his hair now. Comes over to the guys outside the halfway house with a big smile on his face. They’re sitting there smoking cigarettes watching the grass grow, whatever. Friends of his, I guess.

I’m making a delivery, dropping off a package. “He was one of the Chicago Seven” I tell ‘em. Todd smiles, starts recounting the names “Abby Hoffman, Jerry Rubin...” Yeah, and Todd Obermeyer.  

We used to talk about it, back when I was his caseworker, as if that’s all there was. Paging through the high school yearbook, pictures in black and white. Pretty girls in pep club outfits, Pierpoint Rustlerettes 1967.

Todd looks at the pictures objectively, distantly; tells me how shy and dysfunctional he was in school; even though his folks had money. A scrawny little mouse with droopy eyes and big ears, short hair cut. Like none of that ever mattered anyway. “I’m forty-eight years old y’know.”

Then in college, somehow in a fraternity, in with the bright young going somewhere crowd. The cusp of future leaders. Chicago ’68, when he had the breakdown. They brought him back from Canada, put him in the hospital for twenty years. Ten more after that on the outside, still that’s all there ever was.

Lives alone in a spotlessly clean apartment, government funded. Everything neat and orderly, very nice. “I got no food” he says, objectively, not that it matters. Just something to talk about, making conversation. We have to meet, we have to talk. What else is there to say.

First of the month his check comes in. The vultures swoop down and take it away. Tougher needier mental patients who prey on the weaker ones. Borrow things, like your money. “They talk me into it” he says “what can I do? He says he’ll pay me back, and he never does. Next time I’m gonna just tell him no.”

Aint gonna happen. I’d like to see Todd get really angry about it, just to see how far he’d go before he’d back down. Like a couple of Pomeranians fighting each other. Or maybe that’s how we all are when you think about it.

Take him to the food pantry where people donate food so that others who don’t have any can come get some. Todd’s very picky. “Do you have...” this, that, the other, like we’re at the supermarket, anything you want. I’m embarrassed. This is free food Todd, just take what the lady gives you, okay? Asks if he can come back every month, his problems would be solved.

I like Todd, he’s so different from what you’d think a schizophrenic would be. So quiet calm peaceful. That slight smile, like things are amusing to him, or beyond his control. Always so friendly, gentle, dignified in his own way. A pleasure to visit with him, to escape from the constant tension and stress of the job. Just to sit here in this spotlessly clean apartment, reminisce about old days.

When I get to know him better, he confides in me a bit. The color coded signals God uses to tell him things. He saw a man on tv wearing a blue suit. Blue means royalty, that was a good man. Something yellow in a magazine would be a warning. Don’t go out today. Orange is even more dangerous.

That was years ago. I’m surprised he’s made it this far. But I like Todd, I’m happy to see him. Later run across him meandering down the street, big fleshy bulge on the side of his neck. “Todd, how you doing?” “Well...I got cancer. Of the lymph nodes, I guess. They’re giving me chemo... I’m fifty-eight years old, y’know.”

 After the Nam 

Everybody changes and gets somewhere. Everybody grows, but not me. I'm inverting, like a child now. Movies make me cry, the Olympics make me cry. 

I'm over at Five Points with Cap'n and Deke, and then Cap'n goes home. We'll catch a ride later, we say, after some more pool, a few more beers, but we don't.

And what the hell, nice night, all starry and wide open sky, a little cold in the fall, so what. We got Jack in the Bottle, and that's warm. We choose: the dirt road sees a car not very often this late; the tracks cut angle across to Sutterville. We take the tracks, what the hell, seven miles, Jack in the Bottle, what the hell. We talk, old friends, old dreams, all of them broken.

Deke wanted to join the Army, shoots straight and true at rabbits, at pool, at targets at the fair, ever since he's a kid. Deke, a big heavy guy. They won't take him now - he's overweight and there's no war, no need. He tells me his sad life story like it's over, like can't I feel his pain, his quaking voice, this great big man with hands like turtle shells.

I take a drink and speak of that little Russian girl who won gold in gymnastics; such a cute little kid, so proud and tough and alone. It makes me want to cry, so happy it worked out right for her, so fretful it would not. Deke drinks and yells at the black of the sky, and agrees. He saw that too. He felt that too. She won, and almost our victory with her. And that's all we ever won.