Speaking Pashtun

Editors Note: This is based very loosely on a true event. 

By DHMcCarty 8/18

She took me to a Chinese ghost town. Gambling den, upstairs bordello, school, theater, used book store, Ning Hou’s Gallery and Al the Wops Bar, all succumbing to the forces of gravity and the relentless Delta sun.  I collected memories in a box. She collected rhythm and rhyme.

Ning Hou

Ning Hou pinned canvas  to a wooden shop door on Levee Street, oils drying in the heat of the day. Feral cats hissed at passersby from under a rotting wooden walkway. Suzanne Wong watered her commode garden with a rusting metal paint can and then discarded it on the bed of an ancient Dodge stake truck, Hedge Nettle and Fiddleneck peeking around rotting tires.

Commode Garden

“I need to get out of the sun. A glass of Pinot would suit my palate. You?”

“I agree. I think I’ve got enough pictures. Now I need a nudge for inspiration.”

“No storyline yet?”

“It’ll come to me. Probably in the car on the way home. It’s just past noon, we’ve got lots of time.”

“I’m going to take you to Al the Wop’s, my treat. They have the best peanut butter steaks.”

“Peanut butter Steaks?”

She smiled.

Dodge Stake truck

You could roll a golf ball the length of Al’s bar. When it reached the end it would roll back to you. Several hundred dollars worth of autographed one dollar bills decorated walls, stamped tin ceiling and  baseboard.

The grey bearded bartender, bifocals on the end of his nose and a heart-shaped tattoo reading ‘Maria’ on his bicep, smiled at the poet.

“What will it be Ma’am? You must be an animal lover. Picking up stray dogs on the street?”

He looked my way and grinned. There was no malice.

“He looked hungry and thirsty so I thought I’d bring him here for refreshment. He’s a good boy.”

Everyone had a chuckle at my expense.

Me? I just wanted a cold beer.

Feral cats hissed from beneath a rotting wooden walkway

It was an interesting crowd.

Seated next to me was the local Ag Agent. He was in a conversation with Truly, the owner of Truly’s Used Books whom we had met 2 hours previously. Aden the Ag Agent was defining the various threats of E. Coli and Listeria to the Valley salad farmers.

Dave, the bartender had a PhD in Philosophy from Berkley. He discovered he didn’t care for the expectations of a Professor so he took up bartending.

“The job hasn’t changed much. I just don’t have to worry about the paperwork and I can drink on the job with a hell of a lot less stigma about my transgressions”

There was a single patron at the far end of the bar. A large man wearing a dew rag, a greying Fu Manchu and a leather Harley Davidson vest. An aging Hulk Hogan with tattoos covering every inch of his exposed arms. He set an empty pint down on the bar.

“Dave, can I get another Lagunitas? This one didn’t last but five minutes. Maybe you should check the fucking warranty.”

Dave put a head on a ‘Little  Sumpin’ and walked it down to the Hulk.

The TV over the bar was tuned to CNN Headline News. The picture of a bearded man in the dress of an Afghani filled the screen.

“Dave, would you mind turning that up? I think that’s Bowe Bergdahl’s dad.”

The poet touched my arm.

“Elinor was telling me he learned  Pashtun. He hasn’t shaved since his son was captured. He’s assuming the guise of the wolf.”

“That poor kid. He’s been living in crushing fear for months.”

“He’s a fucking traitor. He walked off his post.” Hulk was looking right at me as he set his pint down on the bar. “They should put his chicken shit ass in front of a firing squad.”

“They don’t send men to war. They send boys. Boys that aren’t emotionally equipped to deal with the horrors of combat.”

Hulk got up off his stool and walked the distance between us. He stood between myself and the poet, hovering over me like an umbrella. I could smell the beer on his breath. He poked my chest with a beefy index.

“Any man that signs on should be ready to die for his fucking country.”

I tilted my head back to look up at him. There were drops of foam primed to exit the tail of Fu Manchu.

“Two things. I always heard it was better to make that other guy die for his country.

Second. Right now my mind isn’t on a response. It is on the fact that you are invading my personal space. Plus you are blocking my view of a beautiful purveyor of the language and that doesn’t please me.”

Dave straight armed the bar, knuckles to oak and elevated his shoulders. He reached under the bar and palmed a baseball bat.

“You know my friend, if you have to resort to intimidation to make a point, perhaps you should consider working on the substance of your argument. I would suggest you take a seat next to our fair lady. I’ll pull you another Lagunitas and the six of us can address the issue.

In a civil manner.

Or, if you prefer, I can slap you upside the head with this baseball bat.”

Hulk looked from Dave to me and then to Aden and Truly, who had decided to abandon the discussion of horticulture and embrace the topic at hand. He looked toward the poet. She reached out and rotated the neighboring bar stool to his pleasure and smiled up at him.

He looked her way for a second and parked his fanny..

It was amazing to me how a woman could defuse a tense situation with just a smile.

“So what were you going to say?”

He was leaning forward on the bar looking at me around the poet.

Medic James E. Callahan of Pittsfield, Mass. in June,1967

“Just that it wasn’t a man that signed on. We always use that term. I wasn’t a man at 20 and I’m betting you weren’t either.

I was a Marine. I didn’t go to Nam. I went to the Med. The NCO’s in my unit were veterans of the Tet Offensive. Four beers and they’d be sitting with their back to a tree and sobbing like a baby. I didn’t fight a war but I saw the effects played out daily right in front of my eyes.

We don’t know what was going through that kids head. Obviously he was scared shitless. I for one refuse to pass judgement on his soul. No one knows all the facts.”

“Look at his fucking Father. Dressing and talking that Taliban shit.”

“I got a 22-year-old son in the army. If he was captured I would do anything at all to gain his release. Even if I had to learn Pashtun. You got any kids?”

He stared at his beer for a minute.

“One look at you and I could  tell you were a Fuckin’ Hollywood Marine. I did two tours in Nam. Saw friends shipped home in body bags.

Yeah, I got a boy. Hes  32 years old and doing 5-10 at Lompoc. Held up a liquor store in Downey. He was picked up by the cops that same night. Whole thing was on a surveillance camera. Kid never listened to a fucking word I said. He has too much anger in him. Thinks he’s got all the answers.

Look where it got him.”

The poet reached out and patted him on the hand. There was a tear streaming down her cheek.

“It’s hard losing people you love. My cousin died in Viet Nam when he was 19. He used to play the guitar and sing songs to me when I was a little girl. What if he had never gone.”

Hulk studied her image in the bar back mirror. He finished his beer, sat the pint on the bar and reached for the truckers wallet in his back pocket. He handed Dave $30 and said,

“Keep the change”

He stood, snapped a right hand to his eyebrow and nodded at me.

“Four beers is all I can handle and still feel comfortable on the Hog. You gentlemen are all full of shit, but, I fought for your right to be full of shit.

Good day Ma’am. Good day gentlemen.”

The poet was watching CNN, tears streaming down her cheeks.

I reached out and patted her hand.

“I think I got that nudge.”

.      .      .      .      .      .

Bowe

Shoulders collapsing under the weight

of responsibility he was not ready to bear.

Fear gripped him each night until lips

spasmed in his dreams

Dark, menacing eyes filled the screens                            

screaming traitor

His father channeled his captors

assuming their shape, their appearance.

Speaking with the Prophets  tongue.

holding words in hands shaped no different from theirs

It was never his war. His Father took that burden.

To see them, he became them.

He strapped him to his back,

tucked firm against his Mothers breast

Unwavering. 

He stood staunch against the airwaves, 

The angry voices, 

the lying eyes.

 

And carried him home.

 

The Corrs – Everybody Hurts

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If You Fall I’ll Pick You Up

By DHMcCarty 8/22/2018

Editors Note: This is a true one. The names have been changed. Cotton died last week.

 

I take pride in my ability to read people.  I used to say that I was fluent in body language but truth is thats just keeping your eyes open.

You see, most people put their faith in what they hear. Well, I got a hearing deficiency. It’s a blessing in disguise.

I can smell out a snake a mile away.

I can also see the real deal.

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .     .

El dorado County, California

Cotton Burrs father was a former bull rider. The old man lived in constant pain, a back that had been fractured a dozen times. He took out his misery  on his only son.  To escape the wrath, Cotton lied about his age and joined the rodeo circuit when he was 16.

 

He was the youngest National Rodeo Champion in the history of the United States. He was twenty-one when he donned the big silver buckle.

Six months after Cotton won the buckle he was stomped by a bull, his spinal cord severed at T6. With a paralyzed lower body and  limited use of his upper extremities, he was considered a functional quad.

There are a lot of complications that go with functional loss. He was in the hospital often. He was always admitted to the Progressive Care Unit because his care was demanding and complex. On nights that Lily Dupree or myself were working, we always drew his assignment. It was our choice.  Less experienced nurses complained that he took up too much of their time. They don’t teach time management in nursing school.

Immobile patients have to be rotated. A pressure sore can develop in a matter of hours. If you’re assigned  a lazy NA then you do it yourself. Hospital protocol stipulates a turn every two hours but Cotton dealt with a major bed sore in the past. I was there every hour on the hour, I knew where he was coming from.

He worked for  State Social Services. I called him the fixer. If somebody needed dental work or a new pair of glasses then Cotton was the man. Someone couldn’t make rent then Cotton was the guy wheelin’ and dealin’ with the landlord. He knew every supermarket manager in town. Produce that generally went into the dumpster was loaded into the back of his van by  stockboys. There would be folks waiting in line at the Food bank when he pulled up.

Cotton time.

He parted his hair in the middle and wore a big cowboy mustache. He requested a shave every day. If Emily or Roseanne were working days, his shave time was 10 a.m. If I came in at 7 p.m. and he had stubble, I was out in the hall looking to pin some lazy NA against the wall before they snuck out the door.

Cotton and I had an understanding. He wasn’t demanding or hard to deal with, he just had needs.

Quads don’t generally live long lives. Like I said, too many complications. He was 52 and time was taking its toll.  His old man had died of a gunshot wound at 59. Probably self-inflicted. Cotton’s goal was to see 60 just so he could say he out lived the old bastard. I aimed to see him across that finish line.

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

I had turned Cotton onto his left side and fluffed pillows. I was entering his I&O’s on the tally board when a water pitcher whizzed over my shoulder and slammed against the tally board, soaking my scrubs. I whipped around to see Cotton with his left arm still raised over his shoulder. Quite a toss for a man of his physical condition.

“You need to do something about your hearing Cowboy. I’ve been talking to you for the last five minutes and you haven’t responded. I know why. I haven’t trimmed my mustache so you can’t see my lips. You read lips.”

“I don’t read lips.”

Lily was standing in the doorway and laughing. She had heard the pitcher explode against the wall and came to investigate.

“Yes you do. You’re the only man in this hospital who watches my face when I’m talking. The rest of them have their eyes a foot south.”

She had a point. She also had an extremely impressive bustline. She walked into the room, opened the drawer on Cotton’s bed side table and removed a small pair of scissors and a hand-held mirror.

“I noticed it the first day you started working here. You watched my face when I spoke but it wasn’t my eyes. You were watching my lips.”

Lily draped a towel across Cottons chest and placing her fingertips to his forehead. tipped his head backwards. She trimmed his fanny duster and was out the door in less than a minute. She had obviously done this before.

“Can you hear me now Cowboy? Still think you don’t read lips? We need to see about getting you some hearing aids. I know a guy downtown. You ain’t worth a shit to me if you can’t hear when I call.

One more thing Danny Boy. I’ll bet you read people real well, don’t you?”

“Uhm, yeah. I believe I do. It usually stands the test of time too.”

“Theres a reason for that. You pay attention to what you see instead of what you hear.”

He tapped his index finger against his frontal lobe.

“It’s all sinking in right here. Trust it. Now how long has it been since I had that last pain pill? I worry about constipation. In my situation that can be a real problem.”

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

I got an email from my friend Sammy Pecorino back at the old hospital. Cotton passed away in his sleep last week. He was 61.

Sammy told me he had a stache that would put Sam Elliott to shame. He didn’t feel the need to need to keep it trimmed anymore since I’d left town.

Ricky Lee. She’s the Real Deal. Trust me

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3 a.m.

by DHMcCarty

the pool was 18 feet end to end. two laps underwater seemed feasible. the push off on the far end gained him 8 feet. when he was 17 he swam two lengths of the High School pool without surfacing.

feasible, right?

. . . . .

she was talking core requirements, her unit clocking in at 87% compliance or some such. it sounded vaguely like the dinner conversation they had last night.

and the night before.

and the night before that.

abel was texting on his phone. at the table but ten miles away.

she turned the air conditioner to 70. sitting at the table fanning herself with a magazine. hot flashes.

he felt like he was breathing freon.

ray pushed the shrimp through the buttery cream,popped it into his mouth , then soaked up the alfredo he missed with a piece of garlic bread. he made the sauce from scratch. heavy cream, butter, parmesan, garlic and pepper. his tuesday staple. did he need all the butter and carbs?

maybe he needed new staples.

she disappeared into the living room to correct papers.

he gathered the plates. he never used the dishwasher. something therapeutic about washing by hand. memories of, “i’ll wash – you dry” with his sisters. splashing each other.

satisfying manual behavior with a clean finish.

“dad, can I borrow your car? i need to run over to matthew’s to look over a story he wrote for the school paper.”

“it’s low on gas. take $20 from my wallet.”

$20 got him $10 in gas.

. . . . .

ray put the dishes away, stepped into the garage, hit the lights and raised the door. he preferred a closed-door but It was far too hot. he stood at one end and sighted down the length of the kayak. 150 grit on a sanding block for the seams and 220 for a finish.

the air in the garage was muggy and heavy. like hunkering down under oilcloth. the sweat was running down his neck, soaking his t-shirt. a late september in florida.

“hey sugar ray, got that boat smoothed out yet?”

joe and kenny were sharing beers on the porch across the street. sanding the boat was cerebral. you didn’t have to concentrate on the job. you could lose yourself inside. one of the reasons he hated having to work with the door open, the overheads like stage lights.

“yep, smooth as glass.”

“you mean fibreglass, amigo. how about joining us for a bud light?”

“i’ll pass guys, i’m going to go for a ride when i finish up here.”

“suit yourself.”

. . . . . .

it was quiet in the house. they had both gone to bed. ray adjusted the thermostat to 73. he slipped into the den and turned on the computer to check up on the news.

same old theme.

the clock chimed midnight. he grabbed the bike shorts from the laundry basket and slipped on the adidas. he pocketed his keys, the garage door opener and a bottle of gatorade from the fridge. he unhooked the i-pod from the charger, slipped in the ear buds and headed out to the garage.

he wheeled down the driveway. his legs felt stiff. he left the bike in second gear until he loosened up. 2 laps around the neighborhood and then a quick walk would be enough.

he took the turn wide on longmore. no traffic at 1:00 a.m.

“and the colored girls go doo duh doo duh doo duh doo duh doo doo. take a walk on the wild side. i said hey honey, take a walk on . . . .

his joints were feeling more fluid. the stones had picked up the pace and lou reed had packed it in. he reached into the handlebar bag and jacked up the volume. when he reached the turn at joeken lane, he sailed right on by and made a left on the boulevard. the loop was 1.8 miles. he checked the watch. he could do it in 20 minutes.

“you can’t always get what you want, no you can’t . . . .

he downshifted 6 times. he was breathing deep and even.

“no you can’t, no you can’t always get . . . .

he was breathing.

the burn in his lungs felt good. his legs pumping hard as he leaned over the bars.

“if you try some time, you just might find, you get what you need . . .

he checked the watch as he passed his turn. 19 minutes and 25 seconds. he downshifted again.

one more loop.

. . . . .

he coasted the bike up the driveway and over the lawn, opened the yard gate, leaned the bike against the shed and stepped into the pool enclosure. he shed his clothes on the deck and dived in, resurfacing at the deep end.

he smiled as he remembered being chased from the college reflecting pool by the campus police. the cops never took the spotlight off susie creamcheese as they scrambled naked up the slope to their clothes.

they sure were breathing then.

he looked up at the stars through the screen, grasped the side of the pool, took a deep breath and dropped below the surface and pushed off, cupping his palms and pulling with his arms. he touched the far side, spun and pushed off with his feet.

six strokes and his hand touched the wall. he did the pivot, pushed off and stroked for all he was worth as the bubbles fled from his lungs.

the wall.

just reach the fucking wall.

his head broke water, grasping the rail and gasping for air. 54 feet. his head back, his gaze fixated on the stars. there must have been a million of them.

all of them 10,000 light years away.

he turned to the clock on the wall.

it was 3:00am.

. . . . . .

“She says Baby, It’s 3:00 am I must be lonely” Rob Thomas

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