GUD Magazine Issue 1 :: Autumn 2007

by GUD Magazine Authors

  They even had smiles on their faces when the taxi driver overtly ripped them off.

  * * * *

  The Krakow city center was empty. The snow continued to fall, even harder. The lights turned the snow orange. There didn't appear to be many footprints. I couldn't tell if it was the blizzard or it being Wednesday night that was keeping the people away; probably a lot of both.

  We walked around from empty bar to empty bar looking for a party. We finally stumbled upon a Gatsby-like green light glowing in the distance that turned out to be a pub with a radiant Heineken sign. It was one of those watered-down Irish pubs you can find in pretty much any major city in Europe, the kind that expatriates flock to in large numbers. It was a good-sized place, two floors, with a thunderous party happening upstairs. Once every ten minutes or so, we could hear singing:

  Sto lat, sto lat, niech zyje, zyje nam!

  Jeszcze raz, jeszcze raz, niech zyje nam!

  Niech zyje nam!

  There were plenty of women there, which seemed to make the agents extremely happy. In fact, the whole place was festive and warm in a way that can only be achieved on a dark winter night like that one. This seemed like as good a time as any to introduce the Wsciekly Pies, or Mad Dog.

  You take a shot of vodka with a layer of raspberry juice at the bottom, crown it with a few drops of Tabasco, and you have a Mad Dog. It goes down sweet and bites you at the end. You haven't experienced Poland until you've had a Mad Dog burn your throat and coat your stomach.

  I ordered a round for everyone. Bruce was at the end of the bar attempting conversation with two women who looked like a Polish Betty and Veronica. He held his Mad Dog up to the light as if he were examining a large jewel. “What's this?” he asked.

  "A Mad Dog,” I said.

  "What's it taste like?” He sensed my answer and added, “Magic?"

  I nodded.

  Bruce held his Mad Dog towards the ladies. “Does he speak true? Is this magic?"

  Veronica grinned and tipped the glass towards his mouth to get him to shut up.

  * * * *

  Now I've drunk with many people in my life, a surprising number of whom have worked in law enforcement. From state troopers to sheriff's deputies to diplomatic security agents, all of them share the same reckless abandon to drinking, leaving absolutely no room for anything even close to moderation. Once inebriated, they're as dangerous as they are funny, with pretty much no concern for the laws they enforce when sober. In fact, they become dangerously human. Deputies burning property, state troopers defecating in convertibles, diplomatic security personnel sideswiping cars ... it goes on and on.

  While these agents shared many of those traits, minus the destruction, their way of drinking was in a category all its own, an almost Zen-like quality that made their antics charming even when they bordered on being appalling. A large part of this was because they seriously enjoyed themselves; there was none of the ingrained self-loathing I see regularly with the other agencies.

  Perhaps it's because the Secret Service appears to have it made in the Federal scheme of things. There's travel, interesting people, limited diplomatic vouchers—the kind of Get Out of Jail Free card we can only dream of—and a certain attitude that doesn't appear to leave room for cynicism.

  While the Secret Service is popularly known for the protection of their protectees—including the President, Vice President, President-elect, Vice President-elect, and their immediate family members, among others—another of their major functions is to investigate any crime that affects the nation's financial institutions, including counterfeiting, forgery, and credit-card fraud.

  As of 2006, only thirty-five Secret Service agents had been killed in the line of duty since the agency was created in 1865. Compare that with the fifty killed in the Federal Bureau of Investigations since 1908 or the fifty-seven killed since the Drug Enforcement Administration was created in 1973 and you'll see that their casualty rate is at the low end of the federal totem pole. Since 2000, fifty-one federal agents have been killed in the line of duty; only two of those agents were Secret Service. More Secret Service agents die in one Hollywood movie than real ones do over the course of decades.

  All of this isn't meant to suggest that the job isn't dangerous, because it clearly is. Most of us wish we had jobs half as interesting and twice as dangerous. But there's something about an agency as old and complicated—not to mention mysterious—as the Secret Service working with a low casualty rate that makes the whole gig seem that much cooler.

  To top it all off, the men and women—at least the ones I've met—who do this job aren't out there to save the world, and they're certainly not jaded about not being able to change anything. They are incredibly practical and charismatic with little to no ego. Half the time, they're as amazed at what they're getting away with as we are. It's work hard and play hard, performed with serious verve and respect.

  They're reckless, sure, but mindfully so.

  All my life I'd thought they were the Grant Morrison Justice League, and they turned out to be the Keith Giffen and J.M. DeMatteis version instead.

  It's fantastic.

  * * * *

  The Mad Dogs ended up being an amazing success, so much so that the shots replaced beer for most of the evening. By the time it occurred to me that we might have passed our tenth round of Mad Dogs, Bruce was three seats down chatting up Betty and Veronica—who had both had a sudden interest in him once he had “accidentally” revealed he was a secret agent ("I'll buy your drinks ... let me get my wallet here. Oh, this? This is my badge. Yeah. This is my ID. It says ‘Secret Service'. It means I'm awesome.")—and I was too busy listening to one of Alan's stories to care.

  "Let me explain how it all works,” Alan started. “When Air Force One or Two is coming in for a landing, the airport is shut down. It doesn't matter where. This is standard. You're allowed so much activity on the runway, but once the plane is within ten miles of the airport, everything stops. Nothing lands. Nothing takes off. Got it?"

  "Sure,” I said.

  "So we're in Russia with Air Force One coming in for a landing. The plane's thirty miles out, I'm in the control tower—little old me—in charge of everything. I inform the guy in charge what the drill is. At such and such a distance, he must shut this and that down. At this distance, this and that. And the guy waves his hand at me and says, ‘No problem. No problem.’ Now, what does ‘No problem’ mean to you?"

  "All good? I understand?"

  "Oh, if only it did. You see, apparently, in Russian, ‘No problem’ means, Fuck you, American, I'm doing whatever the fuck I want.” He emphasized each word by beating his finger into my shoulder. “The plane's now ten miles out. I tell the flight controller to shut down everything. I want every plane at a standstill. Nothing moves. Again, ‘No problem.’ Meanwhile, I'm watching planes take off and land like it's going out of fucking style. I'm pointing at the planes and the guy's smiling. ‘No problem. No problem.’ So I'm standing there at the tower, looking out the window, watching Air Force One landing while two planes are taking off, one landing, a military helicopter armed with missiles and machine guns is flying around, and a whole squad of armed military guys are marching up and down the runway doing god knows what."

  "Awesome."

  "In reflection, sure, you could say it was awesome. But at that moment, I was watching my career end right before my eyes. I swear, I almost started to cry. And when that guy walked over to me, shook my hand, and invited me for some vodka later on, I wondered if my diplomatic immunity would've covered me if I'd shot the bastard down. I don't think I ever hated someone as much as I did that guy."

  Bruce shouted, “Hey, is he telling you the control-tower story? Shit, man, I wish he'd let it go already. It's happened to all of us. Well, not me, ‘cause I'm obviously taken more seriously than Al is.” He turned his attention back to the ladies. “Did you hear? We were talking serious secret agent stuff."

  That was right about when the horrible people from
the hotel bar showed up, about eight of them, half women, half men. When they entered, it became clear that their behavior at the hotel had just been a dress rehearsal. They scattered, as if to conquer the place with their obnoxiousness.

  "Cheney would love this beer,” one of them said.

  "Oh, Cheney'd love this wine,” chimed another.

  "Cheney would not only love the vodka here, but bathe in it with an albino orangutan before drinking its blood to honor the Great Cthulhu."

  This one-upping seemed to slow time itself.

  "Okay, okay, I get it! You're important!” Bruce said, too loudly. “Jesus, who are these terrible people?"

  "They're the Air Force Two staff,” replied Alan.

  "Them? No shit?” I said.

  "No shit."

  "They just might be the most awful people I've ever seen,” said Bruce.

  Betty and Veronica appeared to be leaving.

  "Please don't go,” said Bruce. “I'm not with them."

  They stood up together. Veronica kissed Bruce on the cheek politely and turned for the exit with Betty.

  "But ... but ... I'm a secret agent. Doesn't that mean anything to you?” Bruce jumped up and down like a little child who's had his favorite toy taken away from him. For a moment there, it looked like he was going to collapse to his knees. He raised his fists at the Air Force Two people and screamed, “Foiled by my own people!” He then turned to the bar and ordered a round of Mad Dogs.

  I noticed two extra Mad Dogs. “What happened to the rest of you guys?"

  "They're married,” Alan said. “They usually check out early."

  "We're in it for the long haul,” Bruce said. “None of this halfass bullshit.” He pushed the extra Mad Dogs to Alan and me. “It's time to find the next party."

  "Weren't you not drinking tonight?” I asked.

  "I wasn't going to, you know that. But once I saw the opportunity to pursue my lifelong Archie fantasy, I had to adapt. And now, well, I'm in mourning. Now drink, you two."

  Before we'd finished the last Mad Dogs, three of the Air Force Two women walked over to us. “Are you with Cheney?” one of them asked.

  "Honey, Cheney's with us,” said Alan.

  This remark provoked a nervous laugh.

  "Secret Service, I presume?” the woman in the middle said.

  "Guilty,” said Bruce.

  "Not guilty,” I said.

  "He's guilty too,” Alan said quickly, nudging my shoulder.

  * * * *

  Despite Bruce's initial anger with the Air Force Two staff, he knew an opportunity when he saw one, which is why we ended up staying for a while longer. Bruce was clearly working the woman on the right, who had difficulty even standing, and Alan had expressed interest in the woman on the left, who was tall and thin with dark hair. This left the woman in the middle, who clearly was as repulsed by me as I was by her.

  Bruce ordered more Mad Dogs. The bartender made it known that he was going to be out of raspberry juice if we kept this up.

  "That's okay,” said Alan, “as long as you have tequila, we'll be fine."

  The thought of tequila added to the equation made my stomach burn, especially since they use orange and cinnamon in Poland rather than the usual lemon and salt I've been raised to accept. And all at once, the dozen-plus Mad Dogs hit me like anesthesia. I excused myself and pushed my way outside to get some fresh air. Walking was like swimming in toothpaste.

  It had stopped snowing, but it was colder than before. My jacket, I realized, was still inside. My breath appeared to stay with me, hovering around me like confused clouds. I wanted to flee, to go someplace where I could lose myself in a sea of blankets and find warmth and sleep. But I'd played this game enough to know that the night wasn't over, that the chances were high I'd be seeing the sun high in the sky long before I saw even the hint of a dream.

  A large part of the problem was drinking with the secret agents. I felt like their equals as we drank, but I knew enough to know that tomorrow they'd return to their jobs with their expensive suits and guns, travel to countries I don't even know exist, and meet people who actually change the world instead of talking about it. And I'd still be here, an expatriate in Poland trying to make sense of the geometry of my life, drinking large quantities of what would surely be illegal where I come from, and endlessly exploring an empty bed while the moon worked the graveyard shift.

  In America, I escaped Florida to New Jersey, to Pennsylvania, and back to Florida, until finally fleeing the country altogether for Poland. And no matter where I ended up, life always crept its way back, and before I knew it, I was surrounded once again by routines and people asking me for things I couldn't give.

  I'm thirty years old now; shouldn't this finding-myself nonsense be long over? I'm stalling, I know it; I just wish I knew what I was really holding off in the long run.

  It started to snow again. My ears were starting to burn from the cold. The door to the pub opened and Bruce was there to throw my jacket at me. “I'm sensing the hindrance of introspection and that's simply unacceptable."

  "Are we leaving?” I asked.

  "There's talk of a club not far from here, one that has plenty of raspberry juice. Alan's coming and the ladies of Air Force Two will be joining us. They're awful, I know, but we must make do with the tools we have. I read that in a book once. Maybe the Bible."

  Alan stepped out.

  "We don't do tequila with oranges,” he said. “Let's move, gentlemen."

  * * * *

  The ladies of Air Force Two caught up with us before we reached the next place. They brought with them the men of Air Force Two, who were either annoyed by our presence or extremely tired. Perhaps they thought we were cock-blocking them; either way, it was apparent they didn't trust us. One of them seemed to make the connection that I was one of the people they'd been talking about before at the hotel and wouldn't look me in the eye when he spoke.

  At the door of the next club, security eyed our group suspiciously. The walk between the pub and here had been an inch too long for people in our state. Things were turning blurry and dark. The wave we were riding was getting weaker. If we didn't have more alcohol soon, things were bound to turn deadly.

  We smiled and projected the feelings of Joy and Fun. We were gods—debauched, yes, but we never claimed to be perfect gods—clearly surrounded by imposters; security could sense this, which is why the secret agents and I entered the club without any hassles while the Air Force Two people—who represented something Evil and Filthy—were harassed and forced to pay a ridiculously high cover.

  By the time the Air Force Two people made it downstairs to the club, we were finishing our second round of Mad Dogs. The bartender, unlike security, saw through our charade and revealed his hatred of us by dousing the Mad Dogs with way too much Tabasco. It didn't matter though, because we were once again high and full on Mad Dogs and all was right with the world.

  To push my luck and stomach even further, I bought myself a beer. Before I could even get the glass to my lips, someone accidentally pushed me, forcing me to drop the beer. The glass hit the ground between music beats, making it louder than it should've been. The bartender was immediately yelling at me to pay for the glass. I told him I'd buy another beer, sure, but I wouldn't pay for the glass.

  "NO! YOU PAY!” the bartender screamed.

  When I stepped back, I realized one of the club's security guys was standing behind me.

  I could hear Bruce and Alan close by. Bruce said, “What's happening, Al?"

  "I'm not too sure,” said Alan.

  Bruce, the secret agent, began to panic. “Are they going to send Christian to the gulag? Oh, Jesus! Not the guuulag!” He stretched out the u in gulag to comic proportions.

  "Do they even have a gulag anymore?"

  "Poor Chrissy's going to the gulag! Our baby's going to the gulag! Look at those soft, pretty hands of his! He won't have a chance in the gulag!"

  All the while, I was wondering, why can't the secr
et agents get me out of this, as this problem is probably trivial compared to, say, shutting down an airport? Can't they commandeer the bar and give me free drinks in the name of freedom? Or at least make something explode that segues into a thrilling car chase? Man, drunk secret agents are as useless as the politicians they protect.

  "YOU PAY!” the bartender repeated.

  "No,” I said again.

  "You tell him,” said Bruce. “We'll be there to break you out of the gulag!"

  "I'll buy another beer. I'm not asking for a free one. But I sure as hell won't pay for the glass.” I set my money down on the bar and, without even thinking, I said, “Piwo, prosze."

  The “Beer, please” in Polish appeared to have a profound effect on the bartender. It had looked like he had something else to say; instead, he picked up a glass and filled it with beer. The security guy walked away.

  "That's it?” said Bruce. “What about the gulag?"

  I held up my new beer to Bruce and Alan. “Thanks for your help, you two,” I said. “You drunk secret agents are about as useless as the politicians you protect."

  "Ouch,” said Alan. “Let's hear you say that the next time I foil Dr. Doom's diabolical plan ... while drunk!"

  "I told you we'd break you out of the gulag, didn't I? You won't find many people who'll do that for you.” Bruce turned to Alan and said, “I don't know if you've noticed, but I like saying gulag. I need to figure out how to use it more often.” One of the Air Force Two women tugged at his arm. He said, “Did you hear? We were talking serious secret agent stuff."

  * * * *

  As I wandered away from the bar, I noticed a persistent London fog of smoke that made the club seem endless and dangerous. The music was good and loud. The hot air near the dance floor made me think of a Florida beach at night; the cigarette smoke guaranteed the illusion didn't last.

  There were voluptuous shadows moving suggestively in the smoke. It felt like there was another world on the other side of the room, one far away from the Mad Dogs and the uncertainty. This was the kind of place where you could fall in love or just end up with an unforgettably powerful blowjob; either way, your heart would be changed by the experience. Because these connections, no matter how frivolous or shallow, they work their way deep inside of you and stir the parts that have congealed while you were paying attention to something that wasn't important.