Authors: Paul Watkins
“I think you’re imagining things,” I interrupt. “Remember, your job is to focus on the Jackson family, not the people who work here. You go too far in this direction and you will forget the whole point of all this, exactly who the article is supposed to be about. I don’t sell magazines… Mr. Jackson does.”
Karen throws her hands in the air and appeals to the Jacksons with a look of despair. “See what I mean? He’s doing it again!”
I follow her gaze and see Sheri smiling somewhat uncertainly, while A.J. sits slouched in his chair with a knowing smirk on his face. Evidently this topic has been discussed in my absence and I’m living up or down to my image. All of which sort of burns my butt since they have no reason to talk about me in the first place. To hell with it, if they want to spend their time on some imaginary mystery, let them. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to get sucked into it.
“I would like you to express a personal thought on something… anything,” Karen persists. “Let’s try politics. A.J. says you’re a Conservative. Is that true?”
I can’t help but laugh… here we go again, safe topic: politics. What the hell is it about politics with this bunch? If I reply, I step onto a very slippery slope. If I stay quiet, I play into their mystery man scenario. I decide to proceed with caution.
“Mr. Jackson and I have talked about politics, but I would not describe myself as a Conservative. I guess I think of myself as a pragmatist. I try to find answers that work. Personally I could never be a politician because there are too many compromises. I think that’s probably true of most businessmen. People in business are used to trying to solve problems in a way that really fixes whatever it is that’s broken… they have no choice, it’s a matter of survival. Politicians, on the other hand, are used to addressing problems in a way that appears to offend the least number of people. Whether or not the problem gets fixed is beside the point. The important thing is that the issue has been addressed and it ‘looks’ like it’s fixed.
“If I were to say I’m a Conservative, then you could logically assume that I share their position on a particular issue. But there are several issues where I do not agree with their position, so I could not accurately call myself a Conservative. I agree with the Liberal view on many issues, but I certainly would not describe myself as a Liberal. But I think a lot about politics because it affects all of us, every day of our lives.”
Karen fixes her attention on the center of the table and continues to play with her napkin during my monologue. When I finish she looks up and says, “What about A.J.’s treatment of his employees. His policies sound quite liberal to me. Do you have a problem with that?”
“I don’t think of business practices as liberal or conservative. I think of business in terms of good and bad, what works and what doesn’t work. To answer your question, I agree with Mr. Jackson’s policies or I would not continue to work here. As I said earlier, I think he is a good businessman and the proof is in his success and many other contributing factors. Politics has nothing to do with it. As for politics in general, I’ve said all I’m going to say. Political discussions go nowhere… even for politicians.”
But there’s no way to stop a political discussion once it’s started and A.J. and Karen get into the pros and cons of management and labor, big business and little business; and, of course, show business. I listen with some interest, but I vowed to stay out of it and I manage to keep my vow. As they talk my mind wanders to other things. I look at A.J. and see his energy and interest in most everything around him… a kid in life’s candy store. He has come a very long way in a short time and he has much to be proud of. My beginnings, on the other hand, were a bit different.
We probably had a little more money than A.J.’s family, and I grew up in different surroundings. If nothing else, a small town in upstate New York is a hell of a lot different in every way from the streets of New York City. My education might have been better in some ways than his. I went on to college and he became street smart. But he’s gone well beyond street smart in the last few years. Among other things, he reads constantly. Judging from the books I’ve seen, however, his reading is not very disciplined. Once in a while he will pursue a subject, but usually he’s all over the place… wherever his current interests lead him, whatever catches his fancy at the moment.
A.J. got his money the old fashioned way… he earned it. He has worked hard and smart. He’s financially well off and if he continues in the same manner for a few more years, he will be an extremely wealthy man. If he needed a backer I would put my money on him in an instant.
I got my money a different way… I took it. It’s funny when you think about it… A.J., the kid from the wrong side of New York City, in trouble with the law for much of his short life, makes good in an honest way. I come from a small town, attend the best schools, and I turn to crime… sort of.
It was the only good thing to come out of the war as far as I was concerned. Viet Nam was a cesspool of war and intrigue. I was young and full of ideals. However, I had no misconceptions about war. By the time I had finished training I knew there was no glamour to be found in combat… it wasn’t going to be like the movies. I had learned that I could overcome fear. In training I jumped from planes and managed to eat snakes to survive. But then I learned that a guy could fire a projectile from twenty miles away and blow my ass to kingdom come. Or worse, blow only my ass to kingdom come and leave the rest of me sitting on some street corner with a tin cup in my hand, waiting for death to come along and set me free.
While going through the various military training schools I found new ways to describe total exhaustion.
When I arrived in Viet Nam I thought I was ready. The army told me I was ready. In fact I wasn’t close to ready because there was no way to prepare for the reality of war. And there really isn’t any complete way to prepare for actual combat. Sure, you can learn to shoot, maneuver, set up a defensive perimeter and a hundred other technical military things. But there isn’t any way to prepare for the noise, the confusion, the exhaustion and all the things that contribute to the total destruction of your mind, for it will never again be the same as it was before the first shot was fired. Combat is total immersion into chaos.
At the end of a training day you return to a nice clean barracks, get cleaned up, have a meal and go to bed and rest. Worst case, the training simulates battle conditions for a few days or a couple of weeks, but you always know it will end. And, more importantly, when it will end. Then some high-ranking officer gives you a merit badge and you go off to another assignment.
Combat is different. It seems like it will never end. Most of the time you sleep outside and you do everything else outside. Eat outside and take care of all bodily functions outside. You try to stay clean, but you’re usually dirty. And diarrhea becomes a way of life. If it’s hot out, you’re always hot and if it’s cold out, you’re always cold. You’re very seldom comfortable and you’re almost always scared. When it finally ends, reality has a tough time catching up. Peace and quiet is unnatural and a difficult condition to accept. You are no longer the same person who stepped off the plane only a year and a lifetime ago. And you will never be that person again.
We fought in a war directed from a place thousands of miles away, Washington. I understand that no child of our nation’s leaders fought in that war. This one was strictly for people who couldn’t exempt themselves for one reason or another and people like myself who didn’t know any better.
I found myself in combat less than forty-eight hours after my arrival. Forty-eight hours after that I learned there were levels of exhaustion I had never dreamed of. There was no way to rest. Bugs, filth and dysentery were my constant companions. Our worthy adversaries were one enemy and just getting through the day was another. The war became a game with body counts, our bodies and their bodies, as the officially sanctioned system for keeping score. Americans always have to keep score… it’s the only way to tell who’s winning… isn’t it? The other score we kept was the number of days to departure.
I had five weeks to go when the Tet offensive hit. I was in the city, away from my team, working on some overnight shit detail when all kinds of hell broke loose. There was fighting everywhere. Small units, individuals, grenades, sniper fire… it was a mess. I gave up trying to get back to any kind of unit and decided to hole up and ride it out. I had no idea where to go anyway. A mortar round blew a hole in the road about one hundred yards to my front. It might have been ours, it could have been theirs… it doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference who fires the shot that kills you. Istepped into a doorway when a second round went off… closer this time. I pushed the door open and walked into a room. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. A couple of windows were broken and a murky, dust-laden light ebbed through the room as though powered by a battery with only moments to live. I tripped and stumbled, almost falling, my hand and knee saving me from going flat out. Just as I looked to see what had taken me down, a bullet tore through the sleeve of my jacket. I didn’t wait for any explanations, I leveled my automatic in the general direction of the flash to my left and hosed the area with a full clip.
I waited but I couldn’t see or hear anything. My ears were ringing from the racket the gunfire made in the enclosed room. It would be days before my hearing would return to anything near normal. I wanted to run outside, but the continuing shellfire wasn’t all that inviting. Caught between two different ways to die, I slammed another clip in my weapon and stepped across the room. Again I stumbled and reluctantly looked down, afraid to take my eyes away from the source of the gunfire. Slowly the bodies of men took shape on the floor. Dead soldiers seemed to be everywhere.
They were G.I.’s… our guys. Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed hard… it was tough to hold it together. I later determined there were six slain men lying about in different places in the room. The man I killed was the seventh, and another G.I. Evidently he was the lone survivor of a shootout that must have taken place only a short time before my arrival. But that wasn’t all.
On a table near the far wall, stacked in piles of various denominations, was the sum I later determined to be a little more than four and one half million dollars. Evidently I had walked in on a drug ring that had held its last meeting. Drugs… the only business that could generate that kind of cash and have it sitting in a pile in a shit-hole in the middle of Viet Nam. One problem with soldiers arguing amongst themselves in a war zone is that they often settle matters in the manner in which they have been trained. Trouble is, when you shoot the enemy, they call it killing. When you shoot your own, it’s called murder.
I had no illusions about what would happen to the money, assuming I could even think of anyone to give it to. I mulled it over for five or six seconds and decided to try to keep it. I say ‘try’ simply because it isn’t easy to hide and then move a lot of money… especially when there’s a war on. But after a great deal of thought and hard work I managed and the rest is history. I returned home, opened a business and have been fairly honest ever since. I never bothered to tell anyone about my good fortune, believing in the old adage that the best way to keep a secret is to tell no one. Two people can keep a secret, the saying goes, only if one of them is dead. I have kept my secret to this very moment.
“Phil!” Karen punctuates my name with a jab in the shoulder. “Where have you been? Sheri asked you a question.”
I turn to face Sheri and see a smile, but also a look of concern.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jackson,” I reply. “I was just thinking about something I have to do later on.”
I have to lie. The truth would be an insult. I don’t have the faintest idea of where the conversation has gone. Shit!
“Karen is going to leave soon,” Sheri continues. “Would you help her with her things, please? She has a heavy case and all those materials. I’m sure she could use a hand.”
“I’ll be happy to, Mrs. Jackson.”
I look at Karen, but she’s already pushing back from the table and heading for the door. I look over at A.J. but all he offers is his goddamned smirk. I hope I’m never in a situation where I need his help. I’d be screwed.
The telephone’s ring is simultaneous with the sound of the quarterly reports hitting A.J.’s desk. The timing is perfect, so much so, it takes me a moment to realize the two actions aren’t linked together somehow.
“Jackson residence,” I say, somewhat preoccupied with two large gang-mowers crisscrossing the yard for what will probably be the last time before winter sets in. I watch as the two men operating the mowers sit hunched over the steering wheels in almost identical positions, each concentrating on the line of uncut grass immediately before him. I wonder what they think about?
“Hi, this is Karen.”
Her voice is certainly a welcome change from the tedium of my day. Her greeting seems full of energy, like an athlete who has just finished a run or a good workout, a very upbeat little lady indeed.
“Hello, Miss Adams,” I reply with genuine interest and warmth.
There must be something about talking to beautiful young women that engenders such feelings on my part. I suppose it’s another one of those things I’ll have to research one of these days.
“Mr. Jackson isn’t in right now, but if you will give me a minute, I’ll see if I can find Mrs. Jackson.”
“No, that’s okay,” she replies, “I called to speak to you. I wondered if you were free for lunch today?”
This is something I’m not at all prepared for. I’ve made it plain from the beginning regarding my desire to stay out of these discussions. And much as I would like to talk about other things, forbidden though they might be, I have to decline.
“Miss Adams… “
“Karen. I was Karen last night… I’m still Karen today.”
“Sorry. Last night was more of a social setting and I guess I got carried away. Anyway, thank you, Karen, but as to this other subject, we have discussed this before… I will not be a source for your article. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”