by John Marco
The big man turned, and for an instant his expression softened and the pain in his eyes screamed to get out. But then his mother stood again, and the softness went away.
His father slammed the door hard. He left without looking back.
The rest of that day was a blur. I knew better than to try to make Jeremy happy. He was pretty sure he would not only never be happy again, but also that his mom was going to leave him too as punishment for whatever he had done to drive his father away. So I stood by and waited.
Jeremy waited too. He waited and hurt, but each day just became grayer and less happy than the last. His mother made the food, washed his clothes, but she never said much. She tried a few times to talk and explain what had happened to her four-year-old son, but she lost the words every time, and they just ended up crying and holding each other.
With his dad gone and his mom lost in herself, my boy began to learn to be alone. He got used to being locked inside himself. Eventually he even managed to not want or need anyone at all. The problem was that I, his trusted and ever faithful imaginary friend, was part of that earlier time. The good times just seemed to fade away, as if they belonged to some other, happy child. Finally he had learned to not need me anymore either. Every companion knows that when they are not needed anymore, it is time to go away. Generally that is a happy time because the child has become a real, almost grown-up, person. A man or woman has found enough joy in the world that they do not need an extra push from a conjured companion. This was different. Jeremy didn’t grow out or up; my boy just disappeared into himself and hid. Still, the way it is, that’s how it always is. There is no fuss when a companion goes. It is not meant to even be noticed. We just fade away. So I did.
Now I realized it had been an incredibly long fifteen years, which was forever for an imaginary friend. But somehow Jeremy not only remembered me. I felt complimentedand a little sad to say that his childhood companion was all he had to call on in his need. But in his need I was the one he turned to, and so I was back—his Thumper, the companion of his youth. Now my companion was alone and scared and wishing he were with me again under those blankets that made him feel almost safe. So, to what I suspected was real astonishment on both sides, there I was again. He was bigger, and older, but I was with my boy again.
Finally he looked up after taking a deep breath. He knew he had to do something. From the way his eyes widened, seeing me was a surprise.
“Thumper?” my boy sounded young again.
“Yep!” I tried to put on my most reassuring smile. We always smiled. “Right here.”
“What? How?” Jeremy’s voice trailed off as he looked past me at the run-down buildings of Sadr City. Seeing no one around, he stood up and then carefully looked all around, him again. Then he just stood there staring at me.
“Are you real?”
This was no time for philosophy. In this world I know I am not something solid or even part of it in any normal sense. So there was no use denying it.
“Nope,” I grinned. “Never was. I’m you’re imaginary friend, after all.” I tried to sound chipper but likely failed.
“You sound different, more grown up,” my grown boy half-accused and half-wondered. That took me a few seconds to accept myself. We were in unexplored territory here. Except in rare cases where the human was injured and became a boy again, we companions are rarely able to return.
“Because you are too,” I finally explained with my best guess.
The young soldier that had been my child took a few moments to absorb the concept. Then he smiled; it was the old smile I knew from so many happy times. I wanted to do my silly dance, but I resisted.
It felt right to be there, but I was not sure why. Maybe we both just needed closure. Jeremy seemed pretty sure he was going to die soon. I looked around at the dirty street and run-down pastel buildings and felt in him just how far from home the place was.
An automatic weapon chattered in the distance. There were more gunshots, but none close.
I knew from Jeremy that we were in a place much more distant and deadly than the Midwestern home we knew before. This was a place that was even named after a man who hates Americans. That man’s orders were to kill every foreign soldier on sight, and we were at least a mile from its edge and safety, and there were patrols of armed men roving all over. The sun was high and hot, not leaving many shadows. The air was dry and still full of grit from the gunshot dust, which was lifted by wind to twist up toward the small, closed windows high on both sides of the alley. There was no place to hide, and Jeremy knew he could not stay there, but he was afraid to move. Every corner he turned might be where he walked into an ambush or a mob.
It seems Jeremy had been on a patrol. He was in some sort of armored vehicle, and it was his job that day to ride on the top of it and man something called a “fifty.” There had been a bomb. It had been placed or thrown at the side of his vehicle. The massive, armoredbeast had been pushed aside, and Jeremy was thrown halfway out of the protected area he had been standing in. Before he could recover, the driver had gunned the engine, and the jerk this caused threw my boy off and into the street. He understood why the man had hurried away. Very often the IED, as he called the bomb, is just the first part of a bigger attack. This time it had not been, but the result was that Jeremy found himself alone, hiding in an alley deep in the middle of a very hostile place.
It was my turn to look around. I could hear the sound of an engine getting louder. Then there was a grind of gears and the sound of something heavy on the road at the end of the alley Jeremy was hiding in.
He ducked, and I started to and then had to laugh. Only my own, personal child, with one exception I was not certainly not ready for yet, could ever see me.
The vehicle turned out to be an old British-made flatbed whose back was packed with men on benches wearing turbans and carrying rifles. It spewed soot from its exhaust while the men filled the air with anger. A few seconds after passing us, the truck turned at the next corner, and the sound and stench faded. Jeremy had just started to stand up when one of the high windows right over his head opened.
I stood frozen, and my soldier had to throw himself against the wall below the window to avoid being seen. Something flew out of the window, and Jeremy thought grenade so hard that even I dived for cover, but then the empty can clanked in the waste bin, and we both just stood there.
“If I stay, someone is going to see me or the curfew ends. Either way I’m dead,” Jeremy explained in a whisper, more to himself than to me.
I saw him reach down and pull out his only weapon, one of the squared-off automatic handguns that the army gives its tank personnel. He checked it and put a round into the chamber before returning it to the covered holster. His actions were very professional, and suddenly the child I knew seemed far away. With a look of grim determination the young soldier straightened and turned toward the empty street visible a dozen steps away.
“Let me check the road,” I offered, hurrying ahead of him. I was still learning about this war stuff and had just realized that being invisible to everyone but him meant I could do so safely. We don’t see our kids grown up. This whole thing was still new to me, and I suspect it would be to imaginary friends in general. We normally only give emotional support to our child. There were no rules on what to do when in the middle of a war zone.
You could see down the street for a few blocks in either direction. The street wasn’t really straight, more gently rambling and winding around the buildings as if it was not planned but just happened. No one at all was in sight. I wondered at that for a second, and then the answer was in Jeremy’s knowledge. Both the US and the local militia had declared an all-day curfew. To venture out into the street, or even look out your window, was asking to be shot.
This was good in that otherwise he would have had no chance of sneaking through the crowded streets of a ghetto packed with two million hostile Shiites. But it also meant that by being out he would instantly become everyone’s pr
iority target. The words “friendly fire” sounded very unfriendly in his thoughts.
“Clear, come on out,” I yelled. I had been almost whispering, but I realized that was silly as only Jeremy could hear me. And then I knew what I could do. “Come on, I’ll scout ahead and warn you at every corner.”
For a moment Jeremy just stood there looking at me. It had to be a strange sight, me standing there and trying to look reassuring while my faux, spangle-covered Washington uniform stood in contrast to those tan and gray buildings. The yellow and white tricorn may be what finally did it. I doffed it and gestured for him to follow.
“Let’s get home,” my soldier agreed and almost, but not quite, smiled.
We made it two blocks before anything happened. I was watching everywhere while walking down the middle of the empty road, and Jeremy kept dashing from cover to hiding place along behind me. Twice we had to stop when I saw movement that turned out to be stray dogs. But once another truck of armed militia roared past going very fast. Jeremy dived behind a closed merchant stand just in time after I yelled, and he wasn’t spotted. I just stood there as the old Ford pickup with a machine gun bolted to the cab’s roof drove right through me. As it passed, I could feel more frustration than anger from the men in it. Those were some seriously unhappy dudes, and they desperately needed imaginary friends too. I wonder if they had companions like me in this part of the world?
We made it another quarter mile before things almost got really bad. The dry wind was picking up, and the air was filled with dust and litter, and Jeremy’s eyes were watering. I was some distance ahead, and we were just passing by what appeared to be a small mosque. Jeremy was on the same side and just approaching the ornately carved double doors in a crouch. He was preparing to creep past them when one door began to open. The handgun had been drawn since the second truck had passed, and he raised it and gripped it with both hands.
The door was opening toward Jeremy. All he could see was a slab of carved wood moving just a few feet ahead of him. What I could see was that the door was being opened by a young girl all covered in those strange, black robes.
My soldier had his pistol ready, and I could sense the pressure of his finger on the trigger. To him mosques were a threat. The enemy often hid in them or stored their weapons there. He was ready to shoot at the first glimpse of a target.
“Don’t,” I yelled with all the force I could summon. “Don’t shoot.”
He didn’t. At the last moment he raised the weapon above his head and ducked between the opening door and the wall.
The little girl took two steps out and looked through me down the street. She was young, barely taller then my chest, and had lovely brown eyes.
Then there was a frantic woman’s cry from inside the mosque. The girl turned, and the one woman’s pleas were joined by a chorus of feminine admonitions for the girl to get back inside. Frightened, she turned and dashed back inside. The door drifted closed behind her.
I could see Jeremy again. He must have gotten a glimpse of the young child he had almost shot. He was just leaning there, staring at his pistol and looking slightly ill.
“You have to keep moving,” I admonished more to distract him than from any need for haste. “It’s dangerous here.”
“Yeah, for everyone,” he almost laughed back in a sotto whisper.
Twice we had to wait until groups of militia I had spotted moved or dispersed. Those were bad times. I would stand in the middle of the intersection keeping watch and chattering about what was happening to my soldier. He hid as well as he could, and we both hoped nobody else came along. Just like old times, my Jeremy would shake his head at my more absurd comments.
We rounded a corner, and suddenly Jeremy froze and then pressed himself even harder against a pale gray wall. I looked around but saw nothing. I could sense his deep concern but not the reason. Knowing what your boy is thinking and understanding it are two different things. I shrugged in an exaggerated manner to let him know I didn’t see anything and then walked over to where he hid.
“This is the bad part,” he explained.
I must have still looked confused.
“We are getting close to the edge of Sadr City. There is likely to be a sniper up there somewhere. They spot them all along the entry roads. Sometimes they get lucky and some noob forgets to button up,” he continued. “I’ll never know if one sees me until it’s too late.”
I looked at the three-story buildings that lined the last five hundred yards before safety. In the distance there was a roadblock. Unless the Shiite militias were now using M1 Abrams main battle tanks, it meant safety for my companion. We were just beyond the effective range of small arms fire from the soldiers there. Close but not close enough. Those tanks looked a long way off.
We both stood and worried. It wasn’t as if Jeremy had a choice. He had to try. But we both knew it was a bad idea. I could not just walk ahead and scout as I had. Any snipers were hidden on the top floors of the buildings.
Then it hit me. There was no reason I could not try to find the sniper. Then I could at least warn Jeremy where he was. Then my soldier could slip down the street on the same side as the sniper under the window where he watched and never be seen. I was quite proud of myself. But then I am sorta, kinda meant to look like a general after all.
Explaining my plan in a few words, I got my soldier to agree. He would stay put and wait for me to lean out a window and yell. Then he would hurry along the wall under whereever I yelled from. Jeremy agreed, though there was a sense of better than nothing in his tone.
I hurried. The longer it took for me to find the sniper, the more danger. There was always the slight chance that even this close to the edge of the ghetto a militia patrol could pass by and spot him. That or some desperate civilians breaking the curfew could raise an alarm. So I hurried from building, to building, slipping through locked doors and walls as needed. Mostly what I saw were miserable, frightened people wishing the whole war would go away. Lots of women and children keeping carefully away from windows whose curtains were closed.
I found the sniper in the fifth building on the left. He was set up on the top floor as expected. The militia gunman was small, maybe no more than five feet tall and slightly built. He was dressed in what might have been an attempt at a uniform. Both his skin and the uniform were stained. He sat there at an open window reading from a small book and occasionally glancing up and down the street looking for a target. His rifle was Russian, with a French-made scope. I wasn’t sure how I knew about rifles, but I guess Jeremy knew, and so I did too. Funny, but even this close the sniper did not feel evil, just determined. I was equally determined that he was not going to get a shot.
I watched for some time. The man would study his book for a minute or more before looking up again. Finally I was ready to lean out the window. He had just started studying that book again. It was time.
“One here, but you can get past!” I yelled down the empty Sadr City street. “He is reading. Koran, maybe. You can slip past when he reads. Half minute bursts. Wait for the word each time.”
I could see Jeremy get ready to slip down this side of the road. If he could go right under the sniper’s perch, there was a good chance he would not be seen even if the shooter looked up unexpectedly.
Twice I gave the word to run, and he hurried from doorway to doorway. I had just seen him duck into one when I was startled as the sniper leaned right through me and out the window.
For a horrible moment I though he had seen Jeremy. That wasn’t it, but it was almost as bad. He yelled something I could not understand, and a man appeared in another window across from the sniper’s on the far side of the road. He also had a long rifle with a scope.
I had almost sent Jeremy to his death.
“Jeremy, hide! Two snipers!” There was a touch of panic in my voice. I was not sure what the fate was for a companion whose mistake caused his child to be killed, but part of me wanted it to be horrible, and the rest was afraid I was about
to find out. I could see my soldier press deeper into the shadow of the doorway he was in and freeze.
I could sense Jeremy’s concern and frustration. So close to safety and yet no way past two snipers. Worse yet, I could hear the roar of another badly tuned engine and abused gear changes that marked one those militia trucks, and the sound was getting louder. He couldn’t move without being shot, but if my boy didn’t act soon, it would be too late.
I was proud and sad at having my second idea that day. Proud for thinking of a way to help my childhood companion to safety and sad at the price. I hurried down to where Jeremy hid and warned him to get ready.
“I’m going to provide a distraction,” I promised. “You need to just get going, and don’t look back.” I paused and looked at the approaching truck. Jeremy seemed about to argue. “They won’t be watching you,” I insisted.
Jeremy seemed confused, but the sound of that truck was getting louder, and there was no time to explain further.
“Can you just trust me?” I finally asked.
His old smile came back. I could almost feel the ability to trust coming back to him.
“Okay, Thumper, let’s do it . . . and thanks,” he agreed, nodding.
There is, you see, one time that everyone can see an imaginary friend. It isn’t used often because it can cause more problems that it prevents. Sometimes to save a child from being condemned for his friendship, we companions can become visible in your world. We can be seen not only by our child but by everyone.
It does not last very long and the strain of it means we can never, ever return.
We call it the Big Exit.
So with Jeremy perched to run, I made my Big Exit.
It must have been quite a shock to both snipers and the truckload of men just bailing out of the truck in the intersection behind us when a six-foot-three George Washington in a star-spangled jacket with gold trim appeared suddenly, high-stepping down the center of that Sadr City street.
I was the very image of the enemy. The cliché version of that which they had been ordered to destroy. The first few rounds passed through me within seconds, and then everyone opened up.