by Mark Johnson
Is this all it is? I wonder. Am I this damn childish, this much a narcissist? Uh, yeah. “No duh, Dad,” as little Pete and Katie used to chime in unison at my frequent utterance of the obvious.
But it’s gotta be more than this, I think. Because I wasn’t firing on all cylinders even during my fifteen minutes of fame. It’s not just this latest spike of jealousy and self-loathing (although there’s plenty of that). I’ve been messed up since before the Winn-Dixie gunfight even happened, with a vague sense of admonition, a small but relentless misfire somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain, or my heart, or my soul.
The first disorder was likely some manifestation of PTSD, I conclude. It was all still fresh, jarring, a confused mix of survivor’s guilt, and crazy nightmares, and “coulda-woulda-shoulda meshugganah” as I am wont to describe Nancy’s uniquely tribal form of fretting.
Yeah, so it was just a mild case of PTSD back then, I figure, and it has pretty much passed. And the next affliction, the latest mortification, must spring from my pathetic envy of the grocery store hero’s glory, I guess.
But that just doesn’t cover it, because even after the hero of the grocery gunfight recovers, and even later, after a brief flurry in the press at the Winn-Dixie robbers’ trials, convictions, and sentencing, and even months after that, when we gather to receive our medals and commendations and grip-and-grins with the chief and the mayor, and I’m really over it all, absolutely done with all that, there’s still a lingering something.
I don’t even know if it’s something I have, or something I lack. Something I did, or failed to do, or something I lost. Nothing seems to explain or relieve me of this nagging, nonspecific sense of admonition, or unworthiness, or duplicity. It seems to cling to me, like a crackhead’s stink. I can’t figure it out, and I can’t shake it, or clean it off me.
29
(Can’t Get No) Satisfaction
The united personality will never quite lose the painful sense of innate discord. Complete redemption from the sufferings of this world is and must remain an illusion.
—C. G. Jung, The Psychology of the Transference
Be yourself. No one else will.
—Will Rogers, famous Okie oracle
It’s Mardi Gras, 2013. It started early this year, kicked off by the Conde Cavaliers on Friday, the 25th of January, the eve of my sixty-first birthday, and the beginning of my eleventh year as a policeman. We’re nearing the end of another season of mirth and mayhem. It’s Saturday, February 9, and the Mystics of Time are rolling through the streets now. They’ve got the coolest floats: fully articulated, fire-breathing dragons. They’ve already made their first pass by my quiet post at Church and Washington, a block off Government Street, the main drag that they’ll loop back around to for their last blazing belch of fire on the way to the float barns. The final pass of the MOT’s fiery dragons means there are only three more long days of madness and fatigue until Folly chases Death once again, on the emblem float of the Order of Myths parade, on Fat Tuesday.
It’s been a long day, with daytime parades starting at noon, running till three or so, with a three-hour lull till the MOTs roll, just after dark—the better to see the flames shoot forth from their dragons’ maws. And tomorrow, Joe Cain Day, starts at the crack of 8 a.m. with the 5K Moon Pie Dash, followed at noon by the thousand-Harley procession from west Mobile to Jackson Street, the Joe Cain parade at 2:30, and the Krewe de Bienville at five. I’m slap wore out, as they say here in Alabama.
But I’m grateful for my post. It’s on a quiet residential street—befitting a cop of my advanced years—with friendly folks who live here and take good care of me, letting me use their bathrooms, feeding me, bringing me iced-down “Co-Colas” or steaming cups of strong, black coffee. They’ve been with me all Mardi Gras season, entertaining guests in their yards or front porches between parades. They stroll over to my barricade just before each parade rolls by, with grandchildren on their shoulders or at their feet, tall cocktails in hand, and sympathize with me over the long hours, the repeated idiotic questions from tourists, the drunk-and-disorderlies. Some of them even remember that I got wounded during last Mardi Gras and ask after my recovery.
But mostly I’m ready for this season to be over. And I’ve begun to wonder if it’s time for this line of work to be over for me as well. The words of my father—shocking at the time—keep coming back to me lately.
Mom had arranged a small family reunion. Nancy noticed that my father didn’t look well. “His face looks kinda ashen,” she’d said. I didn’t pay it much attention until Dad insisted (as always) that I play a few sets of tennis with him.
The game was his passion; he’d played it all his life. Though I was in my forties and Dad was in his seventies, he’d always kept me virtually scoreless with his blistering serves. But that day in the winter of ’94, for the first time ever, I beat Dad on the court.
As the two of us sat on a courtside bench cooling down, Dad became uncharacteristically philosophical.
“Y’know, Mark, I wish I had retired earlier. I kept working, always thinking I had to make more money. Now I realize, I’ve got more than I could ever spend, over and above what I plan to leave you and your sister. Time matters more than money; you can’t earn any more of it, or make up for any that you wasted.”
This from a man who insisted, from my college days on, that at least once a year I spend an hour with him, just the two of us, going over his master ledger, his entire investment portfolio, reviewing with me the growth of his wealth, his increasing salary and net worth year by year and how much he had saved, how much he had spent, and how much and where he had invested it and why; the red-letter day when he had crossed the million mark and the inexorable march to the next; the importance of caution, prudence, patience, and diversification; the varying risks and rewards of blue chips, small caps, and emerging markets, commodities versus utilities, the dangers of some kinds of REITs and limited partnerships, the safety of Treasuries compared to municipal bonds, varieties of mutual funds and how to look for their hidden costs and fees, distinctions between the Dow Jones and the Nasdaq, the importance of saving and investing early and often, how to pick a broker you can trust, how to read a prospectus and a financial statement and the Wall Street Journal and Morningstar . . . until my eyes would glaze over, and he’d snap at me, “Now pay attention! You’re gonna hafta to know all this after I’m gone. Even if you don’t care about it now, you will someday, and it will be your responsibility for Mom’s and Lynn’s sake, do you understand?” and I’d say yes sir and force myself to focus.
I used to dread those sessions, in some ways like I dreaded his insistence that I play tennis with him. My attitude toward both sprang from my utter lack of aptitude for either. And of the two, the dullness and opacity of the investment game had the effect of anesthesia on me.
But there was more to it even than that. For me, those sessions with Dad and his ledgers were exercises in unworthiness. I had done little if anything to make my father proud, did not bear his looks nor share his temperament, talents, industry, or strength, and lacked even the most basic birthright, as a castaway bastard, rescued only by his whim or benevolence (or more likely Mom’s saintly insistence). Not only did I not deserve what he would entrust to me, I was destined to be a poor steward of it. Upon reflection, I suppose a case could be made that Dad’s insistent tutelage in matters financial or insistent play with me on the court were the only ways he could express paternal love. It’s a nice theory, anyway.
Six months later, Dad was gone. He dropped dead on the court, at the tennis hall of fame in Newport, Rhode Island, where he had made a pilgrimage to fulfill a lifelong dream.
So lately I find myself wondering, do I really need to keep chasing thugs at my age? Why? To test myself, or my half-baked sociopolitical solipsisms? To make some kind of point? After a decade on the job, have I made my point, whatever it is? Have I made some kind of difference?
I had originally set out to be “a good cop,�
� as I had declared to the TV reporter when I quit United Way and entered the academy. “The world needs more good cops,” I had solemnly intoned, “and I aim to be one of ’em.” Sometime during my first year on the streets, I had privately amended that aim to just being a competent cop.
Way back at the beginning, I had even entertained the notion of someday returning to United Way with my hard-won knowledge of the streets, to introduce a taste of Realville to the world of local philanthropy. But that grandiose notion is long gone, too; I haven’t a clue what to do about the suffering I’ve witnessed almost daily.
To be sure, there remain plenty of thugs and countless victims, both in need of justice and mercy. But that’s always been and always will be. As a well-known national figure recently complained, “What difference at this point does it make?”
When I catch myself agreeing with that sentiment, I know something’s wrong.
“To whom much is given, of him much is required.” One of Mom’s favorite scriptures. She said it often, not to scold, but to remind me to be grateful, and not to squander my blessings.
But I wonder, is there ever any clarity, any satisfaction?
No. “Never. Never any.” So snapped a friend of AA founder Bill Wilson, when Wilson asked the same question. As the story goes, Bill was well into sobriety when he became bedridden for weeks, so deep was his funk of grandiose self-pity. A Jesuit priest from St. Louis, Father Ed Dowling, had recently heard of this new fellowship bringing hope and recovery to hopeless drunken wastrels and traveled all the way to New York to meet the founder of this miraculous fellowship, whose principles he recognized from his own study of things spiritual. And he discovers Bill Wilson, whining and wallowing in depression, demanding the elusive “satisfaction.” Father Dowling is best known in AA circles for the memorable quip, “If I ever find myself in Heaven, it will be the result of backing away from Hell.” He knew that for certain kinds of people, satisfaction is code for complacency, for self-satisfaction, for sloth, and a slippery slope to intemperance and dissipation. I could use a good dose of Father Ed’s brand of soul saving.
Eighteen months after Dad died, Mom left us. We had moved to Mobile by then and had brought Mom down to live with us because her health had been failing since Dad died.
“I wish your Dad had lived to see how well you’ve done, how well situated you and your family are here,” she said not long before she died. I wish he had, too.
But by 2001, despite being “well situated” I was feeling restless, irritable, and discontent. I drove over to Pensacola to talk to Tom Whitaker about my idea of a career change to law enforcement. Not that I necessarily trusted his judgment, but what the hell. I met him at the FloraBama Lounge. He ordered a beer I was wishing I could drink, and I smoked a Camel he was wishing he could smoke. (By then, he was wearing a respirator about half the time, owing to his emphysema.)
“I think you’d make a great cop!” he wheezed. “And you oughtta get it out of your system before it’s too late.”
A year later, Tom died. His family invited Nancy and me to his funeral and insisted we sit with them as members of the family. When the Marines failed to synchronize the rifle salute, sounding more like three successive strings of firecrackers, Marilyn leaned over to me and said, “Tom would say, ‘That’s the Corps for ya: they can’t even get a funeral right.’”
Shortly after that I joined the force.
After I’d been on a few years, I was invited to a small gathering of Dad’s old buddies who were getting together in New Orleans to reminisce. Decades earlier, as young men, they had named their little group of chemical engineers the Onagers (wild asses; you can look it up). The old men were like uncles to me. Lonnie, and Fred, and Harry, and Frank: they were all from Texas or Oklahoma or Louisiana, had all served in the navy in the last good war, and had spent most of their careers working for Lion Oil, and then Monsanto. They had all come to both of my parents’ funerals. Some of them had lost their wives by then; they all agreed each Onagers reunion could be their last. I drove over straight from work, still in uniform, and got there in time for their last round.
They all stood to toast “Stan’s boy” when I joined them. They all remarked on how sharp I looked in uniform. And they all said, “We’re proud of you, and we know your dad would be, too.” I so wanted to believe them.
Still, I had my doubts.
So I went to visit the last survivor of my parents’ generation, Mom’s sister Billye. Her husband, my uncle Bill, had died several years before, and Aunt Billye had been taken in by her daughters, my cousins, who had moved to Albuquerque. They cautioned me that their mom is often “confused” and she might not know for sure who I am, even though they had been showing her pictures of me in preparation for my visit.
She knew my name when I walked in, knew that I was Margaret and Stan’s boy. We talked for a while, catching each other up on family news, and she asked how things were with the United Fund. I reminded her that I had switched to law enforcement several years ago.
My cousin Susan prompted, “Remember Mama? We went to Mark’s graduation from the academy. He was president of the class and gave the speech, and now he keeps the peace, just like Sheriff Andy in Mayberry.”
“Oh, yes,” Aunt Billye said, “how exciting it must be for you, Mark.”
“Well, it has its moments,” I agreed. “But tell me, Aunt Billye. What do you think Dad would’ve thought about my career change?”
Aunt Billye paused a moment, cocking her head. “That’s a good question. Your father was a very opinionated man, and never shy about sharing them, either, but I think he’d be happy for you if it makes you happy, Mark. I know for certain that Mayberry was his very favorite TV show!”
It was all pretty inconclusive, at best.
The Mystics have just made their final pass at Washington and Government, and the crowd of mostly teenagers and a few grandmas with clusters of little kids is walking south on Washington, away from the parade route, toward home.
I’m facing southward, leaning on a portable barricade in the middle of Washington at Church. A sign on my barricade reads “Road Closed.” You would think that the barricade, the sign, and the southbound flood of pedestrians filling the street would be sufficient to discourage northbound traffic on Washington, but it’s not. That’s why I’m there. I’ve just waved off my third driver, but this one is either clueless or an asshole. He just sits there, shrugging his shoulders and raising his palms as if helpless, despite my clear gestures indicating he should turn around or just put it in reverse. I guess I’m gonna hafta make it real clear to him.
“What should I do, Officer? I hafta get to a party on the north side of Government.”
Through gritted teeth, in a polite and measured voice, I explain that he can back it up and take a big westward loop around the parade route and try to get to his destination from the north side, which will take about forty-five minutes, or he can park it here as long as he gets it off the street, and he can wait about forty-five minutes, until the crowds, barricade crews, the blower brigade, and the street-sweeper flotilla pass.
Neither alternative pleases him. I then explain that a third choice is for him to get out and walk, because I’m going to radio for a tow truck to impound his vehicle. He finally gets the idea and backs away from me.
I lean back on the barricade to watch the doofus recede into the sea of pedestrians when behind me I hear a chorus of screams in the crowd, followed by gunfire. And it sounds real close. I turn around and the crowd is parting like the wake behind twin Evinrudes and a kid about 5 foot 3, ninety-eight pounds, sprints past me like a wild-eyed jackrabbit, and seconds later another kid, a little taller, streaks by me close enough for me to trip, if I had realized what was happening quick enough to do it.
The second kid is firing repeatedly at the first kid from a distance of two or three strides. He’s got his right arm extended with a full-size semiautomatic pistol aimed at the kid in front of him, and he’s popping off round
s but not hitting his target, apparently, because the first kid rounds the corner from southbound Washington on to eastbound Church without breaking stride. My heart’s in my throat with the horrifying thought that any number of innocents in the dense crowd may have already been struck. I draw my weapon and join the chase, yelling at the kid with the gun to “Stop! Police!” I think if I have to shoot on the fly, it would sure be easy to hit an innocent bystander myself in a running gun battle, and hell, even if I hit the shooter and don’t injure anybody else, it will be just as sickening to kill some dumb-ass teenager.
Thank God the kid with the gun hears me after I’ve taken just a few running steps, and he stops. He turns, faces me, and freezes, his gun still in his hand but pointing up in the air. We stare at each other from a distance of maybe eight feet, my Glock in the two-fisted grip aimed directly at his center mass, and I order him to put the gun down.
It seems like the world goes silent: no more screaming crowd, no more marching-band-Mardi-Gras music. I can’t even hear my own commands to the kid. And he stares at me, motionless, neither complying nor resisting, as if he’s trying to comprehend the scene himself. He doesn’t have Travis Colt’s look of wheels turning in his head, that mental calculation that preceded Colt’s leisurely backstroke across the bayou. This one is confused, and scared, and immobilized by it. I have since wondered, was there something different this time, in my face or voice? I was not smitten with my own delusions of a Dirty Harry moment of triumph, nor was I realizing (as Travis had calculated) that I couldn’t really shoot in these circumstances. I doubt this kid gave any thought to the fact that I had grounds for a “righteous kill,” that I could pull the trigger and blow a hole in his chest, pierce his teenage heart and lungs with a tumbling, fragmenting, slicing round of hollow-point .40-caliber law enforcement lead, and it would all be found justifiable in these circumstances.