Winged Shoes and a Shield

by Don Bajema

  Getting dressed, changing the radio’s channel, hearing the old tunes again. All of them so unbelievably sad. He believed in magic. He was ready for life.

  Looking through his drawer for socks that match, he recalls the bitter November in 1969. Mascots blowing over the border into California all night long, landing on high schools, over taco stands, affixing themselves as logos on business cards — Matadors . . . Aztecs . . . Toros.

  A long time ago. Nineteen years old, crossing into Mexico with his girlfriend Diane and her family. Heading down to the Tecate mountains to meet three other families for a weekend of desert camping, drinking, and card playing. Bouncing over dirt roads on a black moonless night. Mom and Dad in the front seat, his hand on the inside of Diane’s leg, her little brother sleeping on Eddie’s shoulder. Dad pulls over to let Mom drive because he started drinking before they left San Diego.

  He has a funny feeling about this. It started back on the paved road before they hit the switchbacks climbing the mountains behind Tijuana. The old man squealing tires on each turn, past a yellow sign that reads Peligroso. He answered her little brother’s question.

  “It means dangerous.”

  The words squashed flat in the low roof of the station wagon, disappearing with the engine noise. The air smells sweet with gin, tonic and hair spray. He cracks the window. Cold air rushes in.

  They set up camp. Gathering wood for the fire falls to Eddie.

  High desert holds time still. Crumbled granite crunches under each step further into the dark. Ghosts appear and transform him, sprinkling coats of dust from sage and manzanita. He’s becoming indigenous. He hears them breathing. The branches shake above him. Their ankle bells stamp in the dark.

  They’re praying in other words, timed with the thud of the desert’s pulse, exorcising his civilization, putting him in harmony with the moonless night and its cold November wind.

  Stumbling the armload back to camp, trying to make out the whispers around him. The desert observing the invaders, watching the bumbling strangers bustling in the shadows. He can hear their voices shaking with fear. The wind picks up and turns him back toward camp.

  There should be three more families meeting them out here. It’s too dangerous to be isolated this deep in fugitive bandit territory. There’s no sign of anyone. No bleary toasts, no hearty camper greetings, no snapping cards. One family in the middle of the mountains, just asking for it.

  Diane’s father is gently forcing another gin and tonic on his wife, domestic style.

  “Here, honey.”

  She is fighting for the focus of her husband through his Bombay and Schweppes blur. He has an office girl under his desk. She has two kids and a drunk whom she never takes her eyes from — a high school sweetheart, the one and only love of her life. Her self-definition as wife and mother, the only goals of her life, coming down around her shoulders with lying phone messages, missed meals and sexless nights. Eddie hears her pleading, “John, look at me,” in everything she does. A blanket for him, another drink, hushing the kids, laughing at his jokes, taking his mumbling bullshit seriously.

  Eddie drops the firewood and escapes toward the brush. Diane, in the later stages of Juliet, raw and combustible, intercepts him.

  It’s in her expression. She’s scared. She holds him in her arms in a grip that is not affectionate, more than sexual. It’s a need and it comes from fear. She tries to disguise it with a long kiss. When it doesn’t work, she disappears.

  The trail boss is drunk. Sloppy, tongue out of synch, “Thaaaa, thaa, thaaa.” Body weaving. He’s becoming aware that his family is alone. He needs another drink.

  Eddie thinks he hears something. His face turns up to the sky. It is cold, clear, moonless. Stars. A canopy strewn above. He revolves; the silver dots spin.

  He stops, having unconsciously determined the hour of the day in Vietnam, wondering what is happening over there. Wondering what he would do. He is fixed dead center in the draft board’s crosshairs. Appealing . . . being denied . . . appealing again . . . being denied again. First appealing as a conscientious objector. Interviewed by seven adults seated at a gleaming wooden table. The women tight-lipped, layered in makeup, beehive hair with pencils sticking out. The men in JC Penney suits and run-over shoes. Every face white and lined with suffering.

  Appeal denied in the mail. Report for induction the next week. Appeal the appeal. Same seven criminals hardened in the last few weeks by statistics of casualties, enraged by Life Magazine’s page after page of soldiers killed in one week’s issue. Schoolboys in helmets, pointing their fingers.

  “Son, no one wants war . . . least of all us.”

  Stated clearly that he will not carry a weapon, will not shoot anyone. Will be a medic. The seven jumped in their chairs. Saying he understands that under Geneva’s rules, aid can be given to the men, women and children of the farming class in Vietnam, which the government seems to see as the enemy.

  The second appeal is now a shouting match. Eddie hot, pounding the table. The chairs flying back as the men take to their feet. The women shocked. Security summoned.

  “Bullshit. You’ll be inducted. You will serve in the U.S. Army and you will do whatever they demand of you.”

  “I’ll punch the first guy who gives me an order and keep punching. . . .”

  “Your way to prison.”

  Quiet.

  “Listen here, son. When you fuck with the Army, you ain’t with a virgin.”

  She says this coughing as she lights up another cigarette, which by the time she says “virgin,” is lit and bouncing between her lips.

  “Put you in a Negro barracks and you’ll be the best soldier in Fort Ord. Or you’ll be the most pathetic little doggie you ever saw.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Appeal denied.

  Stumbling over a root and staggering to keep his balance with his armload of branches, Eddie thinks of his friends in boot camp and shudders.

  A new vision in the dark — the smell of shining silver coyote, the snap of a branch with the percussive pop under his boot. Land mines, schoolmates, shrapnel. Another world, where there is war. Where there are people, there are wars. Not here, not now. Arguing with himself in the dark. The prelude to prayer.

  Moving into the light of camp. Dropping the firewood. Going to the station wagon, waving off the voices saying, “Finally.” Turning off the headlights, starting the car. Answering “Nowhere” when Dad slurs an inquiry about where the hell ya been. Watching his face, his eyes beyond focus. Leaving the engine running. Back to the pile of firewood, the little boy placing hardwood from home over the brush. As you douse the pile with lighter fluid, you apologize to those elements who watch you out there. Whoosh. Warmth coming soon, sparks flying already, flickering light over shadows. Animation of imagined giants and specters standing on the edge of firelight and fifty miles of desert. Deadly silence.

  “Don’t waste gas.”

  He’s falling into a chair he has dragged too close to the fire. “Sorry.”

  You turn off the engine. Hoping the generator recharged the battery enough to start the wagon again.

  Coming back to the fire, watching faces staring into flames. Diane sharing her parka with her brother, rocking back and forth in a crouch before it. Her mother turning to rub her round ass over the flames. Hands cupping bottom for an instant, curving up and over, down and cupping again, more pressure. Unconscious shift widening her stance. Peligroso.

  A truck gears down in the black valley, about the point where the asphalt road turns to dirt. Diane’s head turns down toward the valley. Her mother steps back from the fire.

  “Must be the Reynolds coming.”

  Relief in her voice. The release of tension drops the drunk deeper into his chair. Something tells Eddie the muffler is too loud.

  Knotting his f
orehead in a series of fleshy question marks, his eyes bugged in disbelief. One eyebrow climbing, he signals Diane to follow him. She does. She tries to speak. His finger presses her lips. They listen in silence. The muffler is too loud.

  “Diane, go back to camp. That’s not the Reynolds down there, it’s someone else. I think . . . We . . . Diane, listen to me.”

  His arms unwrap hers from around his chest, his tone becomes firm, absolutely condescending. A movie cowboy telling the little lady to get in the wagon. There seems to be no other way to communicate but through these ridiculously inadequate means. This is no time to struggle with the new vocabulary they’ve tried to teach each other.

  “Diane, I said go back to camp. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  She gives Eddie a look that chips a part of what they hope for away. She takes his patronizing culture with her back to camp, strides stamping, pounding out her fear of not quite knowing why she is so offended.

  Every breeze, the cold of the night, the scratch of the brush, the crunch under his boots, the dryness of his lips — all combine to alarm him. Fear engulfs Eddie whole. An isolated family in the Tecate mountains, a drunken father, a dependent wife, two children snared in the convention of family hierarchy, and an outsider boyfriend as a wild card. And something looming. Something real bad. His spine jumps as though he’s fallen in ice. His heart pounds, wondering if the fear that is coming is really that far out of his up-to-now known experience. If this is the first wave, then shit, this is more than I can handle. I’ll fall apart. The ground opens under his feet. He feels like he is doing a very slow back flip. His head is jabbering; the voice inside is screaming.

  “Hide. They’ll never find you. But they’ll find Diane and the rest of them.”

  Recon. That’s what you’ve heard it called. See them before they see you. Who? How many? Other campers coincidentally out here in the high desert mountains late on a November night? Not likely. Say the word. Go ahead. Bandidos.

  War coming here? Violence is a living, breathing being stalking the world, bearing down on those in the path and tearing them to pieces. Eddie’s best friend is on the other side of the world, coming in from the jungle. His letter is in Eddie’s pocket. Five Hueys in, two Hueys out the first day in Vietnam. Three helicopters of teenagers in uniform blown to splatters and flames before they had time enough to . . . do what? Says there are things you do that you know you’ll never forgive. Feels like everything he does is part of a ritual. One that keeps playing out in different places with different languages all over the world. A black mass casting magic on everything. And it must, because it creeps in through the skin as far away as these lonely mountains in Mexico.

  Eddie swings from bush to bush, grabbing branches, slowing his descent. Fear rising in unpredictable waves, engulfing him, stealing his breath. The distance from the known, the familiar and the recognizable is immense. A sense of the convergence with faceless powers turning the corner, planning to take his life. The sense of what it is to be, and what it is we have by just being alive. Win or die. The last, most horrible and intimate human encounter. Dying at the hands of another. The final disgrace.

  The muffler is silent. Eddie hears more in the next seconds than he has heard in his life. The wind, branches snagging his jacket, rustling in the distance, and voices — males speaking Spanish . . . coming this way. He turns and runs uphill silently.

  Is this what makes you whole? Is this how you reach your entirety? Are you alive now?

  Layers of fatigue bring new layers of pain, ushering in new levels of himself in the ascent to camp. Balance requires additional strength; noise will bring disaster. Control the breathing, gasps that whisper. Stop at the sight of the campfire. Breathe deeply. Do not make them panic. They’re still moving in pretend comfort, still acting what they each hope passes for normal.

  Diane’s mother’s face is shocked. Eddie demands that she keep her control. One look combined with a silent flick of Eddie’s fingers is all it takes. Her eyes lock on him for the next move. He heads for the station wagon, his eyes searching for the shotgun. She moves toward the door, opens it as he crosses the camp. Diane’s brother is asking an innocent question about scorpions and winter and sleeping bags.

  “Not in winter, under rocks.”

  He reaches the open door. Her fingers shake as she points to the blanket she has yanked aside, the cloth case. It weighs nothing as the zipper is yanked down and all eyes in camp look up. The barrel slides into view. Eddie’s hand pats down the case looking.

  “Julie, where are the shells?”

  Never used her name before.

  “Glove compartment. What is it?”

  “Nothing I hope. A truck stopped down the hill. Men are coming this way.”

  Her mouth opens and closes, her eyes see something grim. “John, I. . . . ”

  Her voice is hard, demanding. She looks over at the man in the chair balancing a weaving glass toward his lips, eyes half shut.

  “John, we have to start packing. . . .” Her eyes look to Diane, who has frozen, hearing the sound in her voice and watching Eddie load the shotgun.

  Diane is immediately by her brother’s side. He’s aware that his child’s body is unprepared for what may be coming — what is coming. Eddie’s body grows rigid in determination, his shoulders square, his feet are no longer touching the ground. He clears his throat.

  “John. . . .”

  His name.

  “John. . . .” His voice is changed. “We better get out of here.” Eddie slides another shell into the chamber.

  “John, please.”

  Julie’s voice hits an upper register near panic. She cuts herself off and freezes her face into place. Her heart drops down down down, spiraling down in one more utterance.

  “Dammit John!”

  Diane and her brother are moving toward the car. John is beginning to sense something and gathers his balance for the effort to get to his feet. The moment stops.

  “Buenas noches.”

  Eddie is addressing the ghosts at the edge of the camp light.

  A man walks into the flickering light. His rifle glints in the red flame. Dusty boots, baggy pants. Down jacket. Cowboy hat. Eyes deep in burned brown face.

  “Buenas noches.”

  His words signal the steps into light of two companions — one probably a brother, with missing fingers on one hand, the other much smaller, with a belt buckle catching light. They’re drunk.

  Eddie steps away from the family. The shotgun in his hands points exactly to the middle of the distance between him and the man who spoke. The man smiles a mirthless grin. His eyes have scanned everything. He sees nothing to stop him. His companions fan out into a semicircle taking control of half of the camp. Three rifles. Three men. One shotgun. One boy. One man drunk in a chair, jumping to his feet, catching his balance and walking toward Eddie, his hand out for the gun.

  They’ll probably open fire when he hands it to him. “Eddie, give me the gun.”

  “Qué quieres?”

  Eddie stares at the man who’s watching Diane and running his eyes over Julie. The companions move three easy steps closer. John’s voice is snarling.

  “Give me the gun.”

  Eddie pumps the action. The sound is answered by the cocking of the rifles.

  “Qué pasa?” demands the voice across the fire.

  “Nada, pero no quiero. . . .”

  In the exchange of these words is the last chance to give the gun to John before he tries to grab it.

  John has the gun. Eddie is disarmed. The men are nearly laughing in his face. There is nothing to do but to try to act as though this situation is no cause for alarm. An attempt at normalcy. Disarm the situation, make the world around him consistent with his own helplessness under the guns.

  Eddie walks to the beer
cooler.

  “Quién quiere una cerveza?”

  There is a light chuckle from the man furthest to his right. He steps forward. During his strides, his rifle points at Eddie’s balls. As he reaches him, it slowly lowers to the space between his feet. He knows Eddie felt the threat. Eddie hands him a beer.

  “Gracias.” Big smile.

  Diane and her brother are beside the station wagon. The man cracking the beer watches her with something going on in his head. She will suck his dick. The boy will suck his dick. The boy will take it up the ass. She will suck her brother’s dick. The mother will scream and cry. Nobody will hear her. Their drunken father will go out of his mind. His smile rests on Eddie’s face. His eyebrow raises wondering what Eddie will do. He turns away, ahead of Eddie. He’s been there before. He can almost see the twisted bodies. He sees strangers finding them days later.

  The circle has closed; the men can almost touch each other. The companions never remain completely still. The first man reaches out for the shotgun, gesturing with his own rifle that he would like to trade them.

  John hesitates. The thought races through his mind that he can parlay this into some sort of male ritual. His companion walks to the cooler and takes two beers, stuffs one into a jacket pocket. He sucks the other one down in three long gulps. John is offended. He wants to assert himself. He weighs his pride against his fear; the scales tip. He loses what is left of his confidence. He notices a powerful need for a drink press in on his throat.

  David’s voice is barely out before Diane has slapped her hand over his mouth.

  “Dad, don’t give him the gun.”

  John comes to his senses. He begins to think about shooting his way out. The barrel moves half an inch toward the man who stands grinning, his own rifle held away from him, his hand on the barrel half a foot from the trigger. John is giving his thoughts away. The man scowls hard. John shakes. His face reddens to a lobster, veins pound over his forehead.