Collateral Damage

by James Bird

Conquistadors and Freedom Fighters

  “Dude come on, it’ll be cool. You and me going all over the world”, said Little T. “Besides”, he went on “With everything that’s going on, it’s something I gotta do. Comprendo amigo?” That is a hard thing to argue with, Michael thought.

  “I gotta’ do it anyway Frogy, I need the dinero for school.” Little T said with a shrug.

  Michael and Little T were going to sign up. Join the Marines. This is not an easy decision, one of those life-altering moments that set in motion a chain of events that define everything from the day they took the oath. The unknown destiny from the current way of life a shock to the mind. The boys exhibited pride when they told others they were going to kill the murders. This gave them celebrity status. It took Michael a few days to cave in to Little T’s persuasiveness. Michael’s mother and girlfriend cried, his dad, although perplexed because he was paying his tuition at Metro State, supported him.

  Christened Anthony Timmer, his uncle gave him the nickname Little T when he was small. Anthony had been born to a white father and half-Mexican mother. Medium sized and sinewy with smooth brown skin, sharp angular features and large dark chocolate eyes like pools of Cajun roux. By the end of the summer, he had a tan of saddle leather. Little T was constantly moving, talking, gesturing, and competing. He was proud of his slight Mexican heritage, occasionally using Spanish equivalents to English. He liked to say he descended from Hernando de Soto the Conquistador. Ultimately he dropped that boyish bravado after learning the cruel lesson of that European conquest.

  His father, while stationed at Fort Carson, meet and married his mother. He had been in charge of the Motor Pool for twelve years and knew everything about engines, transmissions, drive trains and bodywork. From the duce and half troop transports to the squirrelly jeeps. When Sergeant Timmer left the Army his friends called him Mr. T from the television show. He opened a small auto repair shop near Erie in Boulder County. At first he worked manly on cars of friends and friends of friends, old army buddies and their wives or girlfriends. Sometimes for very little, sometimes free except for parts but word spread—a good mechanic is hard to find. Five years later, the day Little T was born; Sargent Timmer won the contract to maintain the fleet of Anytime Boulder Cab Company. The lucrative contract provided steady business and his reputation as a first rate mechanic meant the Timmer’s were living comfortably. As time went by, Little T had a brother and three sisters. They all helped with the business in some way. They all learned to work honestly.

  Sam Manual, the owner of Anytime Boulder Cab, was not an easy person to like. Manual was a little man barely 5’ 5” and he treated his drivers rudely. Nobody cared much for Manual, some say not even his wife, but everyone who ever worked for him was first rate. No matter how hard Mr. T worked to ensure he attended to every detail, Mr. Manual would find fault and adjust the bill accordingly. This made Mr. T bitter at times but kept his growing staff sharp. This policy forced Mr. T to meticulously choose mechanics and fire those not of superior ability. By the time Little T was twelve he too, like his father, knew everything about cars and motors. A whiz with numbers, Anthony helped his mother keep the books.

  Michael was born to parents of English and French decent. His father, Michael Darnay, a Supervising Engineer and University of Colorado made a good living. He studied mechanical engineering at Illinois University where he met Michael’s mother. After a few jobs in places like Omaha, Tulsa and Pueblo, Mr. Darnay began working at CU in the early 80s. Michael Jr., their only child was born about this time.

  Michael tall, long and angular; everything about him seemed to end on an edge or point. He moved slow and with ease but was capable of tremendous bursts of energy. He never seemed comfortable just standing or sitting; he did not appear right unless he was leaning on something. His mother pestered him about poster “Sit straight! Don’t slouch!” She would say. He projected an air of laziness and of being slow, none of which was true. Perceptions being what they are, he would surprise teachers, coaches and friends with feats of strength, speed, endurance and intelligence.

  Michael and Anthony had known of each other since the eighth grade when Little T tried to beat the hell out of Michael over a girl. A girl that Little T had amorous interests in, she, however, rumored to be sweet on Michael, unbeknownst to Michael. The hallway fight, which, in the annuals of great conflicts, amounted to little more than a tumbling exercise. It landed the two in the assistant principal’s office and subsequently in detention. By the end of the long hot afternoon, the two boys cemented a fast friendship bonded by the mutual malice towards a certain Ms. Martha Vinegar, a fierce herald of justice mythical in proportion. Detention Hall her court, over which she presided, while inflicting written wrath upon her student’s papers and exams. Michael and Little T were her only convicts on this day.

  Monstrous Hamster

  Ms. Martha Vinegar taught English to juniors and seniors at the high school across the street. This alone made her something of an enigma to the middle-school students, a harbinger of things to come, a glimpse into the bleak and terrifying future that lurks in the highest reaches of public education. This mutual antagonist would bind the two troublemakers in an allegiance as steady and remaining as Gibraltar. The formidable Ms. Vinegar’s hard glare through black, horn-rimmed glasses it was enough to bring the most brutish of young fiends to their knees. Her raspy voice would freeze the blood of a polar bear. This was no normal woman. To begin with, she was huge, full six feet with a girth of an offensive lineman. When she walked, her massive bosom and ample rear end seemed to be heading in opposite directions. Her corduroy-like panty hose would rub together while walking, making a stuttering snake sound. She had tiny hands attached to unnaturally short arms that swung in exaggerated arcs to counter balance her unsteady momentum. On top of this mass sat an undersized disproportionate head with scanty and irregular brown hair, ferrety eyes, round nose, small mouth and high cheekbones. When confronted by her demeaning reprimands, one got the impression that a monstrous hamster, in the league of a cheap Godzilla movie was chastising them. Before the abolition of capital punishment, Vinegar’s whooping’s were legendary. Yelps from the offending youth could be heard as far away as the gymnasium as they paid their debt to society. In the post-paddle era, her detention hall inquisition evolved into psychological torment. Making her charges write detailed essays about their crimes. She would read them aloud to the other villains with condescending humiliating criticality on points of grammar, spelling and penmanship. Ms. Vinegar’s detention hall was Hard Time.

  At first the two boys sat quietly, crafting their misdeeds in the best prose they could muster. Each with heads down, pencils scrawling along ruled lines, tongues seeking points that would affect the greatest wisdom. They squirmed when confronted with problems of putting events in words. Their hands holding heads fingers spread through their hair. The boys wrote pleadings and treatises on consequences of aggressive behavior and detailed exposition on questions of morality and proper social behavior. A tough thesis for any middle-school student.

  “Psst, yo dude. How do ya spell regrettable?” Anthony asked under his breath.

  “R-E-G-R-E”

  “No talking gentlemen!” Ms. Vinegar cackled. Many believed she could hear people’s thoughts.

  The boys snapped their heads down, assuming the proper position of learned men of letters. Minutes dragged on, a clock on the wall ticked penetrating the otherwise museum-like quietness. Mercifully, the phone rang, jerking the boys into attentiveness. The irascible Martha Vinegar was to be called away. Briefly mind you, for she left detailed instructions, warnings and commands in vivid and unquestionable detail. Her absence was to be momentary and her imminent return was to be greeted with completed essays. Failure to fulfill this expectation was unacceptable. The door shut with a solid kalump and click.

  “Whew! Man she’s a perra. I've heard about her, bad things,” Anthony said starring at the closed door. “Hey. What kind of name is
Darnay anyway?” looking at Michael now. The two had been properly introduced during the formal inquiry meted out by the assistant principal.

  “It’s French, my grandfather was from France.”

  “You’re a frog then huh? Ha! I’m descendant from the Spanish Conquistadors,” Little T emphasized this last word. “I am nobility!” Anthony smiled, head back. His bone white teeth framed by a wide smile.

  Michael mulled the frog remark. He never considered himself French, his grandfather who he only met through sepia colored wartime photographs was his only connection. He looked at the beaming Anthony. “Conquistadors! Your name is Timmer! That don’t sound Spanish to me. You don’t even look Spanish, at least not much.”

  “My mother is Mexican, or part Mexican. Anyway, she says we have a Conquistador in our blood.” A now defiant Anthony explained. He went on for several minutes about his grand Spanish heritage.

  “That makes you a beaner then …since I’m a frog.” Michael cautiously said, smiling, “I’ll call you Beans,” laughing. Looking Little T straight in the eye, and holding his breath. He could have used a more derogatory designation but thought beaner was as harmless as the frog label. In addition, the image of him and Anthony rolling on the floor in mortal combat to welcome the return of Ms. Vinegar crossed his mind. That would unquestionably fall short of fulfilling Vinegar's departing instructions and bring about an extension of their sentences.

  “Hey! You can’t call me that! You…it ain’t… Why I outta…” Anthony started to rise, stopped, looked quizzically at his detention mate and slowly, thoughtfully, started to snicker, then broke into a hard quick laugh. “Si froggy, si”.

  “Sssst, sssst, sssst”

  “Quiet Beans! Here she comes.”

  “Mierda!”