A Short Story

 

During lunch with my mother, at her nursing home, I was introduced to a new resident; Gary.  He was a very large old man who looked very much like John Wayne.  I mentioned it to him and triggered the well-rehearsed theatrics of a self-defining story.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“I bet”, I said.  Being as short as possible, because I could tell by his shift in posture, and the uptick in his breathing, that the show was about to begin.

“I met him, you know… twice actually.  The first time was in 1965 Thailand.  I was a fighter pilot with the 388th flying out their Korat Air Base.  I had only been there a short time, and it sure wasn’t Kansas.  Which is where we had been based prior to deployment.”

“I had just flown a number of highly successful sorties into North Vietnam, earning quite a bit of recognition and awards.”

He leaned in a little closer and said, “I don’t think they’ve been declassified to this day, but I will tell you what I can another time.”

He quickly leaned back and resumed his story, directed both at me and the room.

“I was in the club on base, celebrating with the boys drinking copious amounts of Miller Beer we had shipped in.  We had been celebrating for over an hour, and I seemed to be wearing as much as I had drunk.  Between meaningless toasts and baseless cheers, we would sing along to I Get Around by the Beach Boys.  Our half-chosen theme of our time there.”

“I was in the bathroom, taking a leak, when I notice a distinct change to the cheers and chaos coming from the bar.  I finished up and washed my hands.  As I was trying to find a dry spot on the hand towel machine, that someone had yanked so hard it wouldn’t feed anymore clean towel, when I hear the music stop.  And, it was clearly stopped by someone unplugging the jukebox.  But, the cheers were still going on.”

“Well, now I am more than intrigued, and am hightailing it to the bar; unsuccessfully trying to find a spot on my flight suit to use as a towel.”

He took a sip of hot coffee, to freshen his voice, but caused a short coughing fit.  I drank from my coffee, silently reliving parts of his tale up to this point, thinking about what kind of actions he could’ve been a part of flying into North Vietnam in 1965.

“Sorry about that,” Gary restarts. “Anyway, as I enter the large room across from the bar, I see all the guys in a half-circled crowd against the bar.  Amongst the forest of green flight suits I see a blue and white Hawaiian shirt.”

“When I get closer I am hearing a voice that was so familiar, but so out of place it didn’t register who it could be.  But, just as I got close, one of the guys saw me and yelled, “He’s back! Here he is!””

“Everyone at the bar turned around and pointed their beer filled hands at me and parted to clear the path between myself and the shirt.”

“It was the biggest thing to every happen to me, and it couldn’t have played out better!  What I didn’t know at the time was Mr. Wayne was here getting a tour from our base commander.  He was on vacation, and through odd channels, was invited to see us American boys.  The C.O. had dropped him off at the club when they heard all the racket coming from inside.  The Old Man wouldn’t have come in, and have his rank disrupt the mood, and curb the fun.”

“Well, of course, they had told him we were celebrating my successes, and I was the hero (or, drinking muse) of the day.  They had continued to drunkenly build me up so much that I was the celebrity!  Yet, when the sea of green drunkenly parts, with loud murmurs and screeching bar stools, to reveal John Wayne; I froze.  I was more intimidated in that moment then being over North Vietnam.  But, when he came at me with the warmth of someone meeting a hero, I relaxed and excitedly shook his hand.  In fact, I ate it up and even tried to encourage it.  I was king of the world in those moments.  My hero treating me like I was the one who was special.  Best two hours of my life.”

“Of course, that elation was tempered by our second meeting.  It was 7 years later, and I had won a one-day John Wayne look-alike contest at Disneyland, while on vacation to Southern California.  It was a part of a movie promotion for a movie he wasn’t even in but had been produced by some friends of his.  As the winner I got to meet him during an onstage ceremony. ”

“He didn’t recognize me, of course.  I couldn’t say anything on stage because the whole thing was so choreographed.  But after, I was able to get his attention in a backstage hall.  Long story short, we were back in the real world.  Even though he did remember me, the exchange was retarded by the speed and public nature of it all.  It felt so hollow and belittling, taking a whole layer of cockiness off the old memories.” He says, sinking into himself.

Then, after the perfect pause, he pops up and says with a grin, “But, there was plenty to spare!  I’m still the best damn pilot in the world, and he’s the best damn movie star of all time!”  He said, with a practiced tone and pace that worked like a charm.  We all giggled and happily celebrated him and his story.

After a short period of clanking silverware, our table partner Nancy, starts telling of the time she met Elvis, at the Seattle World’s Fair.

Then Bob had met Merv Griffin, and Sarah’s sister had met Olivia Newton-John, and on it went.  I had no idea such a large percentage of people in an old folks home had so many celebrity stories.

During the third tale, I was scanning the room with more discernment; now that I was done eating.  I noticed Charles, an old black man from the south, who suffered from severe full body tremors.  He was paying much more attention than normal.  He usually just sits in his easy chair, in the nook off the dining hall with a fireplace, that he stares into.  But, not now, he is listening, and his tremors are worsening.

I decided to join him by the fire and see if he had something to say today.  We greeted each other with eye contact and head nods.  I pulled my chair closer to him and the fire.

“You ever meet a celebrity?” I asked.  Looking into his aged face.  He was old, I don’t know how old, but his face looked like old cherished leather.  He had wrinkles everywhere, and they were highlighted by changes in the color of his skin, that brought a warmth and trust to his affect.  He never speaks to others, but even through his tremors, I’ve always found him… I don’t know, comforting…real… it’s hard to put my finger on.  And, it’s not all good, but it’s not bad at all… it has a depth, and I’m drawn to it somehow.  But, those are the first words I’ve ever spoken to him.

“Yes.  James Meredith.” He said.

“The Civil Rights figure?” I asked.

“That’s the one.”

He stammered through his drawl and tremors.

“I grew up in Greenwood, Mississippi.  I was an only child to a blind girl.  We had a hard life, because she had a hard life.

She was from a poor family, and had to live off their grace, which wasn’t ever fully formed.  She lived in a closed-in porch and could do some chores around the house like feeding the chickens, and even doing dishes and the like, if someone else prepared the tubs of water.”

He sunk a little further in his chair as he says, “Things got worse when I showed up.  I never knew who my father was, but let’s just say, Mamma wasn’t exactly courting in those days.”

“I was just another reason for the folks to reject her.  She was talked down to by everyone, family included.  By the time I was old enough, in my mind, I would stand in front of her to protect her from others.  I’d even talk back and try and hurt those who hurt her.  I caught more than a few slaps across the face, knocking me to the ground.  But, I didn’t care, I was protecting my mamma.”

“Of course, it wasn’t until years later, after her death, that I realized the sound of those slaps and me hitting the ground hurt her a thousand times more than their words.  It wasn’t just my pain, but the fact that her blindness kept her from blocking those blows and protecting me, that’s what cut so deep.  She never felt powerful in her life.”

His last words whispered into his chest.

“It wasn’t much after that that I started getting my shakes.  One more burden on mamma.  By the time I was eight I started getting odd jobs around town, sweeping and cleaning, getting wood for stoves, anything I could get to earn some pennies, and help ease her burdens.”

“My shakes were getting worse, and so bad, there were weeks when I would lay in bed and only get out for necessities.  I was always fearful, thinking I will never be normal and move through life unaware of suffering and fear.  To be honest, I would’ve never left that old porch if it wasn’t for mamma.  I had to keep her from the evil I knew existed.”

“About the time Gary was drinking to the Beach Boys in Thailand, I was sweeping up the back dock of a grocery store in Greenwood, Mississippi.”

“I was sitting on the dock drinking warm water out of an old tin cup.  Lost in my own world.  I was struck on the shoulder by someone, and it scared me so bad I jumped to my feet and three feet back.  My overreaction scared the man who touched me, and he jumped back too.”

“I quickly apologized and picked up the cup I had dropped.  When I finally looked him in the face, I pulled back in amazement and joy.  It was James Meredith.  He had been the first black man to go to the University of Mississippi, and my hero, at the time.”

“Man, I was so scared for him up there in Oxford.  He showed so much courage, and I was proud of him.  He stepped in front of the evil, willing to take a slap and a crash to the ground, for all of us.”

“The riots, and the evil response from the authorities, and their sycophants, was costly, and some memories haunt me to this day.”

“But in that moment of seeing him, I smiled big and started talking fast.  I told him how much I liked him, and was proud of what he did, gushing as they say.  It took his big smile and bouncing hands to get me to calm down and let him speak.”

“He told me he was just driving through and needed to use the restroom.  I pointed to one he could use just off the shipping office.”

“When he came out, I asked him if he wanted some water to drink, and he said, “sure.” We ended up sitting on that dock drinking warm water out of that old cup.  Me shirtless in old overalls, looking like a bum from decades past, and him in dark blue slacks (whose matching jacket must’ve been in the car) with a white shirt and black tie.  What a sight we must’ve been.”

As he pondered that thought, reliving it, he raised his coffee to his mouth, like that dented old tin cup.  His coffee is contained in a travel mug with a lid, because of his tremors.  As I watched him open the plastic flap to drink just before his mouth, his tremors still caused him to spill down his chin and neck.  His jerking body tremors are so odd.  I don’t know what it is, but they are different enough that few people can stand to be around him.  They were more of a curiosity to me, and another sign of this man’s tragic life.  I wanted to ease his burden, like he did his mother’s, even if it is just a few pennies worth.

He forcefully wiped his chin with his sleeve while shooting me an embarrassed glance, then continued his story.

“Mr. Meredith was kind enough to tell me the story of walking to those doors of Ole Miss.  And, he did tell it with the same polish and vigor as Gary over there.  I loved it.”

“He then allowed me to tell him of how scared I was as a child, just walking my mamma to the store.  With her blindness, and the unique responsibilities that came with it.   My tremors were relatively new, and I hadn’t learned to control myself well, and on top of that, there was the hatred of those around us.  Children, that’s a lie, people, would throw rocks.  I always had to be on the lookout.  I will never understand that kind of fear.  They never said anything just in case mamma might recognize them, and I never had the heart to tell her who they all were.”

“Again, what a sight we must’ve been walking down the street.  Her being led by, what would’ve translated through her arm as, an untrustworthy source.  Raising her tension and frustration.  She couldn’t help but scold me from time to time, and I couldn’t help but say, “I’m sorry mamma.””

“As a seven-year-old it was too much for me, but I tried to not let it show, and bear it for her.”

 

 

“Sorry.” He said, after a long pause, pulling himself back from those visions of memories past.

“It can be so real.  I got lost for a second.”  He said, clearing his mind to start again.

“Me and Mr. Meredith ended up agreeing that sometimes it’s the simple act of walking in courage that can change your life and the world.  He then thanked me for the water, and inspiration.”

“I didn’t understand what he meant by inspiration, until a number of months later, when he announced his March Against Fear.  He made me proud again, and proud of myself, for my courage.”

“Did you know he was shot by a sniper on that walk?” He asked me.

“I did.  It must’ve been crazy.”  I replied.

“Crazy…that’s a word for it… I guess.” Came his.

“The thing I never told Mr. Meredith, those fifty some years back, or anyone else is; I don’t have tremors.  Not like you understand the word.”

“About when I turned six I was walking back from the woods behind Grandpa’s place, when I got my foot caught on a root; bringing me to a stop.  But, when I looked down I didn’t see a root, or stick, rock, nothing.  I saw a black mist the size of a tom cat, open eyes and latch onto my calf with large claws.  I was frozen in fear.  It must have only been two seconds, but in my mind, it seemed like an hour.  Whatever I was looking at changed its look and size constantly, but never it’s gaze.”

“I jerked my foot and was able to free myself.  I took two more steps, and my foot was caught again.  I looked down to see black eyes and claws.  I freed myself again and started running.  Panic has overtaken me, and I run as fast as I can.  I could feel them grabbing my feet and legs.  The further I got, the more appeared.  They were clawing my legs, my ribs, and even my arms.  I could always fight them off, but their pulling and clenching hurt, and terrified me.  I was seeing through red dots as I ran towards the porch I called home.  Watching them appear on my arms; yanking them sky ward, or my legs; pulling me down.  They never look the same.  Sometimes they have a mouth full of teeth, sometimes they have no mouth.  They might have a nose, or maybe not…they could be almost all ears or have no ears at all.  But, they always have eyes, and they always have claws; always staring, always clawing.”

I had heard every word he had just spoken, as I stared into the flames.  And, I had become mesmerized by both.

I slowly turned my head to face him.

“You don’t have tremors…?” My voice trailing off as I looked into his face once again.  This time his eyes have the desperate look of a pleading six-year-old boy.  His vision softened by the tears I watch fall from his sparse lashes and pool in the spaces created by his raised chin and cheeks; clenched in emotion.  Once full, they stream towards the ground, zigzagging through his wrinkles, and falling towards his calloused hand…

 

…that is jerked towards the fire before they can collide.

 

 

 

Mutemandeafcat

 

James Meredith