by James Bird
El Camino es Vasto
Little T was being wheeled to the elevator by his father followed by the small entourage of his mother and siblings. He had a light, temporary cast on his out stretched left leg. As they wheeled past room 228, Little T held up his arm stopping at the threshold. Little T looked in at his friend lying there peacefully.
“Descanso mi amigo. El camino es vasto,” he whispered.
Fred Teller
Fred Teller sat on the edge of his bed. It was a dark, near midnight. He clicked to another station on the television, he had seen enough of the news. They keep repeating the same stories this time of night. Always the same stories, it never changes just the names. Two-hundred and forty-three names. He should have been one of them, number two hundred and forty four. But he ran. He was scared a kid really. But he was a Marine Damnit! Why he did he run. He tries not to ask himself this question but it keeps coming back over and over like the news. Nothing ever changes, nothing ever will. He does not like to watch the news preferring the porn channels on cable or old war movies. He found a John Wayne movie. The news just takes Fred back to Beirut and the day he ran. Fred had left some of his buddies to die. If only he had not been doing that bad thing with that foreign girl. “That whore!” he hissed. Five dollar blow job when he should have been at his station. He tried to get back but caught a piece of shrapnel in the back of the leg from the explosion. Fred Teller went home from Beirut in secret shame in 1983 and the world has not been the same ever since.
They gave him a Purple Heart. President Reagan sent him a letter. Fred kept these things. He didn’t want to but if he gave them back people might grow suspicious and find out what he had done. He gave all his Marine stuff to his sister. He put all his things in a box and mailed it to her. No letters except for the one from the president. He put his medals, uniforms, pictures and a flag. The one they put on his friend’s casket that Fred helped carry to the plane that would take him home. He had died in his sleep while Fred was getting a blow job. He had not talked to his sister in years, since Christmas 1999, from the VA hospital. That is the last time he talked to anybody. He didn’t talk much to anybody because they might find out what he did. He ran, that’s what he did because he was getting a blow job from a whore in an alley when the truck blew up.
Since that horrible day there have many bad things happen. Planes high jacked and blown out of the sky Embassies attacked. Then New York and the Pentagon and those brave ones over Pennsylvania. No would have died if he hadn’t ran on the October day in 1983. If he would have stayed and fought like Patton wanted, to keep going to Moscow in World War Two. Maybe the world would be a better place today. It’s all his fault everything because he did not stick his ground. Fred repeated the thoughts that have been haunting him, “We should have hit back hard right then. To not act out of fear of being wrong is weakness and we paid for the inaction. American became weaker and the world took advantage. Could I have stopped the ensuing madness?” I was weak.
Fred looked at the television. He did not like these moods he get when things go wrong like they did a month ago and today on the turnpike. He can’t focus disjointed thoughts and memories snaps on then flickers away. He lights a cigarette while one is still burning in the ashtray. The Marines were storming the beach led by John Wayne. Fred already new the ending, many will die but Americans will win and Japan stripped of its imperialist tendencies. He mutters to himself. “Why did I lose my nerve, why did America lose its nerve in 1983? Did the moralist got in the way and cried about Vietnam? Why didn’t we listen to Patten? Why didn’t we get them then instead they keep killing us and it’s my fault. All of it.” John Wayne waves his men forward. “Why don’t they show the blood and the body parts? It’s not like that at all.” Fred is angry, “Nobody would fight if they showed that.” Fred get a sudden urge to throw up.
He looked around his one room apartment above Anytime Cab, it was a mess, clothes from the Salvation Army, trash, liquor bottles scattered about. He could see his reflection in the cracked mirror. He hated his reflection. Old, wrinkled, gray hair and dull hazel eyes. His left led had been hurting bad and the cold is coming. Fred took another pain pill and swallowed it down with Tequila. Fred Teller lit another cigarette and watched the TV. He had seen this movie before a hundred times. Everything is the same, nothing ever changes. He turned down the volume, he did not need it. He knew which guy was going to get it next. He says “Watch it!” “Get down!” “There’s a Jap behind that tree!” It never works, they die anyway. They always do. Nothing ever changes. Fred knows why Hollywood never shows much blood. People would not watch the movies if they showed what is was really like. Blood, and body parts and the screams. The crying and grown men calling for their mother. The brave and the dead and the cowards. Commanders frozen in fear. Grizzled old sergeant saving who he could, killing as many of the attackers as he could. The noise everywhere and ground shaking, pieces of buildings falling to the ground. A news journalist shot in the head his brain turned into a pink mist like Kennedy’s in 1963, the year Fred was born. Another year when a generation died and the world became a different place. Fred put his hands to his ears, he didn’t want to hear the noise he did not want to suffer the pain. He wanted to go to a different place.
“Damn it. Why,” He said rubbing his templates. A commercial came on about A Few Good Men. The Few, The Brave, The Marines.
“Because I told you Fred.”
“What? What was that?
“It is me Fred. The one that died in 1983. You know Fred. Don’t you Fred.”
“Who are you?!” Fred ached with deep anxiety like a knot of hot electricity buzzing in his stomach. Churning so hard his ears began to ring. He turned the volume up so he could listen the sounds of the war and John Wayne.
“I’m there Fred. I will always be there Fred. I have been with you since 1983 Fred.”
“No! They told me about you! They warned me you would comeback. Go away!”
“No Fred, not this time Fred. I’m here to stay you know that do you not Fred.”
Fred rubbed his neck there was nothing there but he knew it was there. All ways has been. The hyena, gnawing at his neck, laughing at him, mocking him, calling him a coward. He poured himself another drink. “Maybe I can sleep tonight,” he said softly.
“None of this would’ve happened if you didn’t run a way in 1983 Fred.”
“I know that! Stop reminding me!” Fred hissed and swallowed the whiskey in one gulp. He poured another.
Twenty years after Kennedy a new generation was born. All the other bombings those people jumping out of those buildings. Everything was different now.
“If I would have stayed and fought. I can’t change that.”
“That is a good boy Fred. Now you understand. We knew you would see it our way.”
Fred Teller wanted change once and for all. Once and for all, he wanted silence.
“Be a good Marine Fred. John Wayne will be proud. Show us what you got Fred. Go to sleep Marine.”
The waitress from the Irish pub was walking to the group house a few blocks away. She was tired and her feet hurt. She still needed to study for tomorrows examine in criminal psychology. She had heard about the accident and saw reposts on the television above the bar. Everyone was talking about it. The Colorado Buffaloes Football were pretty good this year but were relegated to minor conversations. They were playing Texas A&M at home. They had beat Kansas State last weekend were nationally ranked for the first time. Sports has a way of healing a hurt nation and bring together communities in commonality. She hoped that the guy that always comes in wasn’t hurt. She liked it when he stuck around. He was nice and handsome. If she were older she would like to have been his girlfriend. He seemed smart and funny. Something about his hands and the crooked smile.
There was no moon and this part of town did not have as many street lights. She never worried about that. She had mace in case. The air was getting cold as she rounded the corner the wind braced her. She bundled up a
nd put her head down and quickened her pace to get home, two blocks away. Tomorrow will be cold she thought. She hoped it will snow not cold miserable rain. She crossed the last street before the group house when she heard a shot.
Letters
By the time I got home from the café I was over my disgust with manicured man. Mostly I realized he was not much different than everyone else. They believe everything. I like to find out things from accumulation of known facts. I sat at my desk and gave the article one more read and looked up stories on line. Something bugged me about the whole tragedy. I was there, I know that probably has something to do with it but I have distrusted news for a long time and since I was there, I wanted to know more.
I wrote down the names Michael Darnay and Anthony Timmer. Terrorism was on everybody’s mind but I ruled that out. That left me with a joy ride—why? I called the homes of numbers I found in the phone book. No answer or a machine. I called the hospital. Anthony had been release and Michael was in an induced coma. I called the Sherriff’s Department and got the same story. Then I, on the internet, read the story of Fred Teller.
It wasn’t much, a few paragraphs. The story didn’t link him to the accident and how he stepped in to help. He took Bonnie to the hospital. I was going to find out more of this man. Thinking of Bonnie made my stomach jump.