Collateral Damage

by James Bird

Froggy and Beans

  Thereafter the two boys’ friendship solidified. They shared many things over the next several years’ baseball, football, girls and cars. Especially cars. After their sophomore year, Michael’s father bought a beat up, fifteen-year old sky blue Pontiac Firebird from Little T’s father. It hardly ran at all and when it did, the thing went through gasoline quicker than a dog could lick a dish. They spent a greasy, knuckle busting summer making the old wreck roadworthy.

  It was after the last high school football game that Little T decided on the Marines. The following summer he convinced his old friend to take the tour with him. The reluctant Michael had planned to attend classes at Metro State to prepare for the Computer Science Program at the University. He had a girlfriend in Denver and a part-time job waiting tables at a swank restaurant in Lodo, near the baseball stadium. Everything seemed laid out. Nevertheless, the acute restlessness in Michael prevailed and Little T’s lure was too strong. Michael had grown up in the shadow of the Great Rocky Mountains with their brooding reminder of something bigger always on the horizon. Ms. Vinegar had sensed this. Stopping the two boys in the hallway on the day before graduation, the English teacher congratulated them on their accomplishment.

  “Well boys, looks as if you have made it. So, Mr. Timmer, it is the Army for you then?”

  “Marines Ma’am.” Vinegar crinkled her nose a bit, displayed the obligatory hamsteresque smile, harrumphed and said, “very well” She turned and faced Michael.

  “And you Mr. Darnay. At one time you confided in me your wish to become a writer.”

  Michael bristled at this and it momentarily hung him up. He had never made this known to anyone else except Ms. Vinegar, in a moment of weakness to his formidable English teacher. In part to butter her up for a better grade and in part, well, in part, because it was true. Although he could never grasp why, other than to him it was romantic. He glanced sideways at his friend but Little T did not seemed to be listening.

  “To write, Mr. Darnay, one must observe. To write well, one must listen. Observe and listen Mr. Darnay. Those traits will never fail you. To observe you must live, experience things. To listen, you must be patient and wise. Also, avoid the passive, use commas wisely and most importantly do not end on a preposition!” the irascible English teacher cautioned.

  “This, I shall not do that …” said Michael pausing, smirking. Vinegar’s eyes squinting slightly, she straightened up to peer down at her student.

  “...Ms. Vinegar”. Michael finished, smiling broadly. Continuing, “But I'll probably do something with computers,” his voice trailing off.

  “Well, good luck gentlemen”, the dourness of the English department said. “I wish you well in the world.”

  “Sssst, sssst, sssst.”

  The two watched their old English teacher and nemesis for a moment as she disappeared around the corner. Michael felt nostalgic towards the old woman. Her words still fresh. “To observe you must live, experience things. To listen, you must be patient and wise.” That encounter got Michael thinking about life outside the cubicle.

  Along with the itchy feet, he owed something to his friend, to his father and, in a way he never thought possible, to his country. He inherited this patriotic lust. His grandfather had joined the underground resistance during the Second World War. For over three years he fought the Nazis and the authoritarian and collaborationist Vichy government, proudly, wearing the Cross of Loraine of the Fighting French. He fought with General LeClerc in Tripoli and was in the Syrian campaign and finally the liberation of France and the subsequent invasion of Germany. General Charles de Gaulle decorated him. As the stories and legends grew around his mysterious grandfather, he knew he had a certain equivalence. Family members often remarked how Michael was the reincarnation of his father’s father.

  Michael related the story of his grandfather to Little T while driving back from the junkyard in Erie. He puzzled why he never thought to bring up his lineage to a different kind of conquistador to his friend.

  “See man, it’s your predestinado, your fate man. You gotta go in with me. We're warriors’ man.” Little T was as serious as Michael had ever seen him, and for once quiet.

  “I got to do something first, but yeah let’s do it,” Michael said. They drove the rest of the way in silence.