The Rhythm of the Stone

by James H Bird

  I could write for a Pentagon contractor as my way of serving. A thought I had been toying with recently. I had jobs with the government in the past and still had contacts. They had survived the attacks. I dropped the idea though, the Pentagon needs guns, the pens have run out of ink.

  The road became a smooth rolling band of concrete, the sun settling low just over the tops of the Flatirons. Lumpy clouds with gray bellies hovered over the horizon. The sunset will be colorful. It may rain tonight always a good time to write when it rains. I was thick with weariness. I leaned back, breathed out the accumulation of the day in a long slow hiss.

  I tried to read but gave in, closing my eyes, burrowing deeper into that place in my mind where images and words meander. Rocking to the drone and parlay of highway and diesel engine. Shadowy flashes and reverse images painted pictures in a kaleidoscopic dance inviting a dream to chase away the involuntary twitch of tired body.

  I was going to meet Michael and Anthony soon. Later, I would talk to both of them at length. Let me tell you what I know about them and what they (and I) went through on that awful day.

  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’s a hard thing to argue with,” Michael said.

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

  Michael and Little T were going to sign up. Join the Marines after they finished their final year of high school this coming spring 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 is a shock to the mind. The boys exhibited pride when they told others they were going to kill the murders. The ones responsible for bring down those buildings in New York. 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, compact and sinewy with smooth brown skin, sharp angular features and large dark chocolate eyes like pools of Cajun roux. He was lion-headed, coal black with a persistent lock that that reached for his right eye. 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 cruel European conquest over the indigenous population.

  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 discounted, 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 deal 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 descent. 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 had shaggy brown hair that was always a month overdue for a trip to a barber. He had a handsome open face with intelligent brown eyes that, in polar opposite to his demeanor, were constantly searching as if he were an explorer sizing up the next mountain. He moved slow, deliberate 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 posture “Sit straight! Don’t slouch!” She would say. He projected an air of laziness and of being slow, none of which were 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, was rumored to be sweet on Michael, unbeknownst to Michael. The hallway fight, which, in the annuals of great conflicts, amounted to little more than an energetic 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 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-like 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. Makin
g 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,” the unmistakable sound of Ms. Vinegar’s pantyhose rubbing together loomed upon the convicts.

  “Quiet Beans! Here she comes.”

  “Mierda!”

  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 winter 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 seem 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. Michael did not want to advertise his imminent soldiership endeavor. He was still a bit uncertain.

  “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.

  The Rhythm of the Stone

  That night, Michael dreamt of a foreig
n field, vast and dusty, lined by exotic trees dancing in shimmering heat waves. Tens of thousands of shirtless brown men toiling on a rocky field with trenches and mounds like a massive archeological dig. They wore baggy flowing pants, thick white headbands, their sweaty skin gleaming under the high intense sun in a cloudless sky. Many were slinging large-handled hammers, breaking harsh jagged white stones. Many still were pushing over-burdened wheelbarrows or hauling stones in double baskets with sticks bending to the break point over their shoulders. Large teams of men pulled huge rollers to flatten the lumpy oatmeal colored ground. A smaller group was spreading sand and pounding with heavy tamps to make crude single-lane roads for carts and wheelbarrows. The scene looked as if it were a medieval battlefield with the many silk banners rippling in a constant breeze and a smattering of black and white stripped tents. These tents provided food, water, and shelter. A patchy cloud of gray-yellow dust rose steadily upwards and away. Michael stood on a hill, transfixed, looking down on the busy field. He connected to the urgent work on the rocks. The men were singing while they swung their hammers. Next to him stood a high-ranking officer who resembled Genghis Khan in modern military garb. He stood tall and erect, looking out over the filed. Michael recognized the man but he could not remember from where.

  “Generalissimo,” Michael asks, “what do the men sing?”

  In a low pedantic voice, the man said, “The workers sing of freedom, of making large stones into smaller stones, of building a great and holy place, of honest work in their beautiful country. The men sing of making love to their wives, and of cool wine to drink. They sing of a giant bird that will come to free them from the tortures of their enemy. They sing of truly free men, who own nothing at all, who owe to no man. The men sing of conquest over evil and the holy places. Is this not what all men should sing my friend?” The man who resembled Genghis Khan said this without turning to face Michael.