CHAPTER FIVE

TIMOTHY THOUGHT ABOUT his date with Cheryl while driving home from his night shift at the hospital. Even a couple of hours with her gave him the lift he needed. She lifted his spirits. Today, he planned to go home, sleep for a while, study for a couple of hours, and meet Scoot for a couple of beers. Boy, it will be great to see Scoot. Work, school, and life seem to get in the way of our seeing each other.

Scoot was Timothy’s crew chief in Vietnam and one of the few people Timothy trusted. They were closer than two coats of paint. Timothy was grateful they lived in the same hometown and kept the friendship alive.

He arrived home at breakfast time. The smell of bacon, eggs, and coffee greeted him at the front door.

“How was work, honey?” Mom called from the kitchen.

“Good. Not too busy. I got in some good reading.”

“I have some breakfast for you here in the kitchen.”

“Thanks, Mom. I think I’ll go to bed. I’m tired.”

“I bet you are. Do you want me to wake you at any special time?”

“No, I’m planning to get about six hours’ sleep. Then I’ll study a couple of hours before I meet Scoot for a couple of beers.”

“That’s nice. He’s a good friend. I’m glad you two still see each other. I think it helps both of you,” Mom said.

“Well, it helps me,” he said. “Anyway, night, Mom—or day—or whatever. We’ll talk later.”

He went to his bedroom and immediately fell asleep, still in his hospital uniform. It didn’t take long for Timothy to begin dreaming.

“Tiger Six, this is Papa Four. Be advised, LZ is hot. Victor Charlie’s echo side of LZ,” the team on the ground tells Timothy.

“Roger that, Four. Coming in hot. Tiger Five, you copy?”

“Tiger Six, copy that,” Tiger Five says. “Going in one-eight-zero. Hot on the echo side of LZ.”

“Popping smoke,” Papa Four shouts.

“I see purple smoke,” Timothy responds.

“Affirmative,” Papa Four says.

As they approach the landing zone, tracers streak by the helicopter. Timothy feels the thuds. He yells to his crew chief, “Scoot, we hit?”

“Yeah, couple through the tail, but we’re okay. Pretty nasty on this side.”

“Tell these guys to jump right, Scoot.”

“Got it.”

The troops jumped off the helicopter at six feet.

“They’re off. Let’s get outta here,” Scoot says.

“We’re gone,” Timothy yells.

As Timothy pulls up on the collective and pushes forward on the cyclic, an RPG strikes the belly of his Huey.

“Papa Four, Six took an RPG in the gut,” Tiger Five screams.

“We see it, Five. We’re on it. Get outta here.”

Bobby lifts off and performed a quick 360 to see what happened.

“Tiger Five, get outta here unless you want to join him on the ground. This place is erupting. Get the rest of the troops out here. We need them.”

“My friend, Six—”

“We got it, go,” screams Papa Four.

“Copy that,” Tiger Five yells.

Mom stood at the door to Timothy’s room and startled him awake.

“Timothy, you have a phone call. It’s Cheryl. I thought you would want to talk to her.”

“Thanks, Mom. What time is it?”

“Three-thirty.”

“What? I’ve been asleep for more than seven hours,” he said.

“I know. You said you didn’t want me to wake you, but I thought for Cheryl you would take the call.”

“No, that’s fine, Mom. Thanks.”

Timothy spotted the coffee percolator light and poured a cup before picking up the phone.

“Hello?” he said.

“Well, hello to you, Mr. Sleepyhead. Your mom said you were still asleep.” Cheryl spoke melodically and rhythmically, like someone in the counseling field.

“Yeah, I guess I was more tired than I thought. God, this feels good, though.”

“Good, I was worried about you. I noticed you drifted off a couple of times during the movie and wondered how you did at work.”

“Oh, it was fine. Things were slow so I caught up on some reading. I’m even better now that I got some sleep. How’s your day?”

“Good, we had a couple of new girls come in today, and we’re getting them processed and settled.”

“Processed? Sounds like the government.”

“Oh yeah. You know the drill. Are you still going to meet Scoot later for a few beers?” she said.

“Yeah. I’m going to clean up, read a little, and meet him at Junior’s.”

“That’s the tavern around the block from your house, isn’t it?”

“Yep. I figure I’ll walk up there just in case,” Timothy said.

“Good idea, and Scoot can give you a ride home in case it’s, uh, too cold,” Cheryl laughed.

“Right, in case it’s too cold.”

“I’m glad you guys are getting together. You don’t do that enough. Women are better than men at that kind of stuff. I see my old friends every month. It’s great to stay connected.”

“I know. It seems like I’m so busy. Anyway, it’ll be fun to see him.”

“Be careful and have fun, but not too much fun,” she said.

“Always the worrywart, right?”

“Yes, and don’t forget about early dinner at my parents’ house tomorrow. Be on time so we can go to Leslie’s after that.”

“I know. Two o’clock, right?” he said.

“Yes, two, or before if Dez lets you off early.”

“No chance of that happening, but I’ll be there at two. Bye, love you,” he said.

“Love you, too, honey. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

Timothy hung up, walked back to his bedroom, and sat on the bed. God, I love that woman, and she loves me. I don’t know why she does, but I’m lucky she does.

Cheryl was a twenty-five-year-old social worker. She completed her master’s degree last May and immediately got a job with the state of Missouri. At a slim five-foot-seven with blond hair, hazel eyes, a perfect smile and a pretty face, she looked more like Miss Missouri than a social worker. She and Timothy met at a concert in Chambers Park about a year ago. Having completed her class work, she still had a practicum to go. Timothy had just returned from the Army and enrolled in school. They called their meeting “fortuitous” and “instant chemistry.” She did not know him before the war, and she loved him, warts and all. Timothy often reminded himself of this fact. It made him feel redeemable.

Time to get ready. I can read later, maybe. I’ll get to the bar early and save a stool for Scoot.

Timothy walked to Junior’s Tavern. The forty-degree weather felt invigorating. Working at the tree lot increased his tolerance for the cold.

When he opened the glass door to Junior’s, a cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke poured out. The jukebox played an old country song about a man who lost his wife and dog. It was barely audible above the bar chatter bouncing off the wood-paneled walls like ping-pong balls. Timothy could taste the heavy smoke. He looked around at the collection of businessmen, postal workers, truck drivers, and the local drunks. Two couples huddled in separate booths having romantic moments. Damn, it’s packed today.

Timothy chose a couple of stools at the bar. He preferred the table next to the wall so he could keep his eye on the exit, but the place was crowded. He nodded at Junior, the owner, whom he knew from the neighborhood. A couple of years earlier, Junior inherited the place from his father after the old man died. People knew Junior as a screw-off. He got in trouble with the local police and the judge gave him a choice—go into the military or go to jail. Junior chose the Air Force for three years. He got out in time to help his father run the bar. Now that he was in business, Junior dropped the troublemaker role. He cleaned up his act. He looked like a bar owner. Neat haircut, dark cotton pants, white shirt, and a towel over his forearm.

Junior walked over to Timothy. “Hey, Tim. Budweiser?”

“Yeah, unless you started serving Pabst,” Timothy said.

“Can’t do it, man. My beer wholesaler got into a pissing contest with the brewery so he can’t buy it anymore. I can get you a Stag or a Schlitz.”

“You mean Schitz. I can’t drink that stuff, and Stag? They might as well call it Gag.”

“Ah, man. Keep it down. I got a couple of regulars at the end of the bar that love that shit.” Junior looked around to see if anyone heard their conversation.

“Bud’s fine, and bring two. One for me and Scoot.”

“Scoot? Oh man. I told that cycle trash I don’t want a bunch of bikers hanging out here too much. It scares the citizens.”

“Yeah, he loves you, too.” Timothy smiled.

“Alright, two Buds.”

Junior pulled a couple of iced longnecks out of the cooler. Even though the cooler was refrigerated, Junior kept the beer in a tub of ice. He did this so he could place wet bottles in front of people. He thought it was good for business to serve ice-cold beer. He brought the beers over to Timothy and placed them on a couple of Falstaff coasters.

“Let me know when you guys need something.” Junior walked to the other end of the bar and started talking to some regulars.

Timothy took a long, slow draw from the bottle and swished it around his mouth. He took another pull from the longneck and set it down on the coaster, which already had a sweat ring on it.

“Hey, is that one for me?” Scoot said in a husky voice.

Scoot was a six-foot-three tree trunk. His soft brown eyes were a contrast to his long dark hair and beard. There was no mistaking him for a hippie; Scoot was a die-hard biker. He wore T-shirts in cold weather because he could—and because he had ink on his guns that he liked to show off.

“Damn straight, brother.” Timothy stood and offered Scoot the customary grip—not quite a handshake. More like a high five followed by a hand clasp and shoulder bump. Scoot returned the bump.

They sat at the bar and held up the bottles for a toast.

“To the fallen,” Timothy said.

“To the fallen.” They clinked bottles and took a drink.

“It’s good to see you, bro. We don’t do this enough,” Scoot said.

“I hear you. I feel the same way. School, work, family. It’s a lot,” said Timothy.

“I know. I got a business to run, remember?”

“Yeah.”

Junior pitched a couple of empty bottles in the trash and they jumped.

“Sorry, guys,” Junior said. Timothy and Scoot grinned at each other, shaking their heads.

“So, how’s your pretty lady doing?” Scoot asked.

“She’s great. Just talked to her before coming here. We went to the show last night and saw The Sting. Good flick. Did you see it?” Timothy asked.

“Naw, I don’t go to the show much. Too busy with the shop and the club.”

The club was a group of bikers Scoot rode with but not a gang, or so he said.

“I ain’t got a steady squeeze these days, and going to the show by yourself is queer.”

“Do you want me to see if Cheryl knows someone you could meet?”

“No, that’s okay. Besides, I like my women to be a little less wholesome than Cheryl. You know what I mean.” Scoot smiled.

Timothy knew Scoot had good taste in women but preferred a type Cheryl probably didn’t know. They sat silently for a couple of minutes, enjoying the beer and the company. Someone dropped a glass, and it shattered on the floor. Timothy nearly jumped off the stool.

“You still doin’ that shit?” Scoot laughed. “Me too.”

Timothy shook his head, grinned, and took another pull on his beer.

“Do you think they ever found the body?”

“Man, not that shit again. You gotta quit going down that rathole.” Scoot took a long draw on his beer.

“I can’t, Scoot. I had that fucking dream again today. Like every other week since I left Nam. If I knew how to let go, don’t you think I would have done it already?”

“Tim, look. You keep beating yourself up for something that ain’t your fault. You gotta let go of that guilt—it’s eating you up. There was nothing you could do. You don’t walk on water, for Christ’s sake.”

“I wish I had your ability to let go,” Timothy said.

“Look, man, I still hurt too, but I don’t like picking scabs. They can’t heal then. Sometimes I hurt boo-coo. We left a lot of loose ends over there, man. Too many. I thought we were winning that fuckin’ war when we left.” Scoot paused. “Look, I don’t know if we’ll ever get over any of that shit, but I know we have to get past it.”

“How? That’s my question,” Timothy said.

“I don’t know. You’re the fuckin’ psychologist. I figure if you keep movin’ forward, sooner or later you’ll get tired of draggin’ that wagon.”

Timothy nodded and drained his beer.

“You boys want another brew?” Junior said.

“Hey, Junior. How’s it going?” Scoot said. “Biz good?”

“Could be better,” Junior said.

“It would be if you let me and my boys hold our monthly club meeting here. They’re a thirsty group, you know.”

“Yeah, and they break shit, too,” Junior said. “Besides they scare the other customers.”

Timothy sat there and watched these two go at it. He had seen this kind of back-and-forth before.

“C’mon, man, it was only a pool stick and a chair, and we paid for both, right?” said Scoot.

“Yeah, but it still caused a ruckus with the citizens. I’ll get your beers,” said Junior.

“Did your guys really do that, Scoot?” Timothy asked.

“Yeah, but it was no big deal. No one got hurt, and he sold a lot of beer that night. Besides, I like to give him shit. Back to the dream . . .”

“Same dream every time. We do a quick insertion into a hot LZ, take off, and catch an RPG in the gut. The gunner and copilot die. I shoot a gook with my .45. You and I make it out.” He stopped and took a drink of beer.

“Pretty much how I remember it,” Scoot said.

“Then, Bobby returned to the LZ, and you know . . .”

“I know. Look, it ain’t your fault. You’d done the same for him, right?” Scoot said.

“Yeah,” said Timothy.

“Personally, I’m just glad we made it home. You didn’t ask for that RPG in the gut, and beatin’ yourself up over Bobby ain’t gonna bring him home. All it does is keep you stuck in Nam. And if you’re stuck in that shithole, how you gonna finish school and marry that girl?”

Timothy nodded.

“You know what I say to the Nam? Xin loi, motherfucker. I’m gone.”

Timothy laughed.

“Let’s drink to making it home.” Scoot held up his bottle and Timothy returned the salute. “So tell me about this flick you guys saw last night.”

Timothy admired the way Scoot could shift gears. Timothy couldn’t; he clenched his memories like a baby gripping a rattle. He couldn’t figure out whether the memories had a grip on him or the other way around.

They sat for another hour and a couple more beers.

“Time to didi mau,” Scoot said. He had to get back to the shop.

“Yep, I hear you,” Timothy said.

Timothy wanted to go home, read a little, and get some sleep. Thanksgiving would be a busy day for him. They said their goodbyes and promised to do this again soon. Timothy walked home and thought about Scoot’s comments. It’s not my fault—I wish I believed that. Scoot’s right, though. I am tired of draggin’ that wagon. I just wish I knew how to let go of the handle.