Authors: Paul Watkins
“I’m conservative about some things, that’s for sure,” I reply, “but I wouldn’t say I’m conservative across the board.”
“For instance?”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Jackson. To say we’re going to talk a little bit about politics is like saying someone is a little bit pregnant, or I’m just going to stick the tip in.”
A smile ghosts across AJ.’s face.
“Before you know it, the sun will come up and we will have solved nothing. Politics is bullshit… the great American dream machine.”
“I take it you don’t have a lot of respect for politicians,” he says with a smirk.
“I’d rather bite a turd than kiss a politician. Those people can walk under a snake with a top hat on.”
This brings on a snort and a laugh from my employer.
“Phil, you’ve got to learn to express yourself. You ride the fence like that and people will never know where you stand. They’ll think you’re wishy-washy. Don’t sugarcoat it… come out and say what you think. Do you like politicians or don’t you?”
“I guess I’ll need more time to think about it,” I confess.
“No kidding! What have they done to you to make you feel this way?”
“It’s not just me, it’s everyone. They have created an environment that just won’t work. Look, I don’t really know anything about your background, but I’m sure it was different from mine. I grew up in a small town upstate. We didn’t have a lot of money. My father made enough to get by. I think we had one black family in the town and one or two Jewish families. There was a large Italian population and a lot of Irish. I never really knew any blacks until I went into the service.”
“Did you know them as friends, or did you just know them?”
“You will never get closer to anyone than you get to the people you are with in combat. War is something you try to survive. All the stuff about the flag and country are just slogans when people are shooting at you. When it’s over someone may try to make it sound patriotic, but when you’re in it, all you’re trying to do is get out of it. You fight for yourself and the people around you. Think of it as the ultimate team sport.”
A.J. doesn’t laugh at my little humorous aside.
“I don’t know,” I continue, “maybe I was different. Maybe there are people who think about it the way they describe it in books and movies, but I didn’t think that way and I never met anyone who did.”
“Do you like to talk about the war… about your experiences?”
“Not really… it was a long time ago. I was a different person then.”
Was I ever! Could I ever have been that young, that strong… that dumb? I guess that’s why young men fight the wars. They don’t know any better. The politicians could never survive an election if they sent all the older voters off on one of their hare-brained schemes. You get to a certain age and it’s dangerous to arm a voter. They might shoot the wrong enemy.
“Is that where you learned karate… in the service?” A.J. asks, jolting me back to the present.
“No, I started karate training when I was in my teens. I had gotten into a few fights and my father became concerned. He didn’t want me to grow up to be a bully or a bad apple, I guess. Anyway, one day hesat me down after I came home with a big shiner. I had been in a fight with a guy who was a bit older and a lot bigger than I was. My father told me fighting was serious business and that as I got older the stakes would grow. It would be too easy, he said, to lose an eye, break a tooth, assorted bones, whatever. His point was simple: what for? He advised me to do anything I could to avoid a fight… and that there was only one acceptable reason to even think about such a thing.”
“Which is?”
“Which is, I could fight if I had to kill someone.”
“Kill someone! Jesus, that’s going pretty far, isn’tit?”
“That’s the idea… and I had the same reaction by the way… but he made his point. A fight had to be pretty serious to have to kill someone. That sort of ended my fighting days… unless I had to kill someone.”
“That implies you have killed someone. Have you… killed someone?”
Ah, the moment of truth. How does one answer a question dealing with the act of taking a life? After all, killing someone in battle isn’t exactly the same as killing someone in a different setting… is it? But the point is, I’ve done both.
“Only in a good cause,” I answer.
A.J. is quiet for a moment. He appears to have a question or perhaps lots of questions on his mind. He decides to head for safer ground.
“Ah, this karate… is that why you learned karate? You wanted to be able to defend yourself?”
“Actually, I took up karate because it seemed like a useful sport. If you’re into karate for the right reasons, it can be a great outlet for young and old alike. Having said that, however, the form of karate I chose is hardly a sport.”
“I’m not sure what you mean… isn’t all karate pretty much the same?”
“No, there are many forms of karate. The major methods practiced today came from different senseis, or teachers. The karate I practice is called Isshin Ryu. It is the most deadly form of karate ever developed… virtually every move is designed to disable or kill the opponent. To practice Isshin Ryu, one must become very disciplined and attend to the spiritual side as well as the physical.”
“Is that what you used on Bear that day? Could you have killed him?”
My mind returns easily to the brief encounter with the big man. Violent moments such as those played out that day are imprinted in the permanent memory bank and they are recalled with little effort. I can still feel Bear’s bulk against my fist, his face across the top of my foot. I do not remember these things with any pleasure, but more in a clinical sense, seeking and finding the exact position and balance from which to launch a kick. A move practiced literally tens of thousands of times in mock combat, to find it working exactly the same way when needed. No pleasure derived from it, but probably a certain amount of satisfaction.
“Yes, of course I used karate moves on Bear… that’s what I do. And, yes, I could have killed him. But the thought never crossed my mind, which I realize negates everything I just said on this subject. I should have walked away, but that would have meant losing my job… and if I kept my job, then I would still have to face Bear another day. I decided to do it then and put an end to it. Besides, if I am to be absolutely honest about it, I suppose I got a little upset. I don’t like to be pushed around. I don’t push other people and I don’t expect to be pushed. I’m actually a pretty easy going sort.”
“Oh yeah, you are,” A.J. offers with feigned sincerity. “You’re very easy going from everything I can see. All you did was beat the shit out of one of the meanest bastards I’ve ever known. Now everybody leaves you alone. I suppose you can afford to be easy going when you’re walking death. You’re easy going until you’re not… then you do your thing… then you’re easy going again. I want you to know that in my opinion, you’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.”
A.J. finishes his monologue with the biggest smile he can manufacture. Screw him, if some people can’t tell an easy-going guy when they see one, then to hell with them. Some of those people should probably have their collective asses kicked anyway. Then maybe they would understand an easy-going guy the next time they run across one.
“Well, you lived in a place where there weren’t any blacks and I lived in a place where there weren’t any whites,” he continues. “You know, I grew up thinking some pretty bad thoughts about you guys.”
“That’s where we’re different,” I reply with a laugh. “I never thought anything about blacks… nothing good… nothing bad. The subject never came up.”
“That’s not the way it was in the city. There were white gangs, black gangs, gangs of every sort. Christ, when I think back, I wonder how any of us survived it. I can’t tell you how glad I am to be out of that environment… and to have my family out of that place… and I was a good kid compared to some of them.”
“Why were you so good? What made you different?”
A.J. smiles as he reaches for his glass, sips and cradles it in his lap.
“I was a good kid because I loved my parents and I knew they loved me. And my old man would beat the piss out of me if I ever forgot it.”
The obvious truth of A.J.’s comment makes me laugh.
“I think you just might have found the secret.”
“No shit, don’t think I don’t know it. But I knew it then. Sometimes it was a bit of a hassle, but I wouldn’t have changed anything for the world. My folks are great. They worked their asses off for us. They still work like hell. I’ve offered to buy them a house and get them out of there, but they won’t budge. They like it in the old neighborhood… that’s where all their friends are. So I figure, what the hell… they’re happy,leave ‘em be. If they ever need any help, I’ll help. Otherwise, I’m just going to go with the flow.”
I’m sure my face shows my approval.
“That’s great! A parent couldn’t ask for anything more. You’re a good son, Mr. Jackson.”
A.J. accepts my compliment with a nod and continues, “My parents did a good job with all of us… I have four brothers and sisters… they did all they could. My only regret is that I didn’t go farther in school. But I’m not going to let that happen to them… my brothers and sisters. They’re all quite a bit younger than I am. People used to say it was perfectly understandable that my parents didn’t have any more kids for a long time after I was born. But time heals all and after a while they started in again. Those guys are going to have all the school opportunities they want. Fortunately it’s not a problem on the academic side. I don’t know where they all got their brains, but every damn one of ‘em is as smart as they come… and they like school. We’ll make sure they have a good start and after that they can make their own way.”
We both sit quietly for a moment and then A.J. poses another question. “What about you? You went to some pretty good schools as I recall.”
“Yeah, I did. I was fortunate. I knew early on that I wanted more out of school than just a piece of paper when I finished. I went to the library and found there were scholarships that, quite simply, were never applied for. I guess no one knew about them. So I started writing letters. My grades were good enough to merit serious consideration. My bloodlines weren’t right in some cases, I suppose, but I got the job done. I was able to pay for the bulk of my education with scholarship money and I worked for the rest. I majored in Finance and then went on to get my MBA. By then I was schooled out and I was ready for adventure. I had to go into the service anyway… they still had the draft in those days… so I joined the army to go into Special Forces. I attended officer training, airborne and ranger training and then I was shipped to Viet Nam.”
“What happened over there?”
“Nothing special. I did my tour and a few weeks more on a special assignment and then I shipped home. I got out and put the military behind me. Later, I went into business, had a company for a while and here I am.”
To talk in any great detail about what really happened would take longer than either one of us wants to spend on this night. Besides, memories beget memories and that could be dangerous ground for me. Ground I try to steer clear of whenever I can. Sometimes it’s tough to turn off the memory machine and then things tend to get a little crazy. It’s okay to talk to some of the guys once in a while… we all seem to remember the funny stuff, but we stay away from certain things. We know what happened and we don’t want to go back.
They say therapy can be good, but I can’t bring myself to do it. So far I haven’t had to go to drugs or drink, so I guess I’m one of the lucky ones. The nightmares come and go and I know it’s not right, but it’s probably part of the system. When we got out,therapy was for enlisted personnel, not officers. We were supposed to be above and beyond all that stuff. Most of the officers I knew had problems of one sort or another, but we kept them to ourselves… some for only a short time before they needed help. Others never sought help, but that doesn’t mean the problems weren’t there.
I’ve often thought about my good fortune and I think the two reasons I made it this far are because of Laura and my work. My business kept me busy and Laura kept me sane. She was a rock and she never pushed me to talk about anything I didn’t want to get into. I owe her a lot… always will.
“When did you get married?” A.J. asks, unaware of my concern over the previous topic.
Unfortunately this one isn’t much easier. It’s always tough for me to go back in time when I think about Laura. I can talk about her in an abstract sense, but when I think of the early years, somehow those memories are more painful. A sip of brandy gives me time to put things into perspective.
“We originally met in college. Then I got together with Laura again shortly after I left the service. She had just finished college and had worked for about a year. We were married less than a year after we got serious and we lived happily ever after… almost.”
A.J. senses I do not want to stay on this subject and he changes direction smoothly. “How about your company… do you miss it?”
“No, not at all. I was too involved when I was there, although I didn’t know it at the time. I did miss it for a while right after I left… it’s difficult to adjust. I came upon retirement without much warning or preparation, so I wasn’t quite ready in some ways. Maybe I don’t miss it now because I’m a little involved in your business. Not enough to consume me, but enough to keep me busy. Like I said before, I feel like I’m in a consulting role, sort of, and I can stay out of the daily battles. We have managers to handle the nit and grit. No, I like this… it’s just about right.”
“And what about the future… have you given it any thought?”
“Just be happy. Take it a day at a time. I really like what I’m doing, so I would like to leave things as they are for the time being.”
We continue to chat for another twenty minutes or so in the same fashion, gently probing each other’s past to help color our impressions. The kind of information one needs to help lay the foundation for a lasting friendship.
The biggest problem I have with staying up late is that I still have to get up at the same time the next day. Whether or not I actually want to get up at the appointed hour is beside the point. My body seems to think it’s time to move and sleep beyond that point is impossible. As a result, this morning’s run is more like a fast stagger. Eventually enough oxygen makes its way to my brain to clear out most of the pain, but it’s a struggle.