CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MONDAY MORNING ROLLED in and Timothy had a hankering for caffeine. Coffee from this old percolator tasted bitter. Not strong, just bitter. Timothy grew up on the smell and taste. He remembered his father making morning coffee with this pot when Timothy was in grade school. The only thing that changed in the past twenty years was that Mom bought bags of coffee versus cans. She said it was fresher. That didn’t matter, because the moment it hit that basket it tasted like the same old bitter syrup it had brewed for years.
He made a full pot of mud today in case the furnace guys wanted some. Timothy drank from a mug he purchased on his trip home from the war. It was heavy ceramic and wore the Ernest Hemingway quote, Courage is grace under pressure. He wondered how much grace he could show under the pressure he was feeling.
He liked drinking coffee at the dining room table. It reminded him of better days, family celebrations and big meals filled with adult chatter and cigarette smoke. They were good days—safe and innocent. While he was downing his first cup of the thick brown syrup, reminiscing, the doorbell rang.
“Morning, Tim.”
“Morning, Fred. You guys are here bright and early.”
“Like I said, we’ll take care of you.” Fred had the matter-of-fact conviction of a simple, working man.
“I’ve got some coffee in here if you guys want some.”
“Might take some later. I wanna get these guys working. I don’t pay ’em to drink coffee.”
“Good enough,” Timothy said. “Did you call that emergency line at the gas company?”
“Yeah, they said they would be here sometime this morning,” Fred said.
“I plan to be here all day. I’m taking a day off classes to study.”
“That sounds funny. Taking off school to study. Isn’t that what you do in school?”
“Yeah, I guess it does sound funny, but on some level, it makes sense,” Timothy said.
“Got it. You got the cash we talked about?”
“Yep. I will have it in hand tomorrow when you finish.”
“Good enough for me.” Fred turned to the crew. “C’mon, guys, let’s get started on this.”
“I’ll be in the dining room if you need me,” Timothy said.
“All right,” Fred said.
The dining room was the heart of the house. People had to pass through it to get from one room to another. It was a comfortable place for Timothy to study when Mom wasn’t around. He could spread out all of his books and materials on the table. Coffee, a comfortable chair, and a big table. As he sat he heard rolling thunder. It was the roar of Scoot’s Harley-Davidson, announcing his arrival from a block away. Timothy smiled and went to the front door.
“Hey, Pete,” Scoot hollered. Pete was short for Peter Pilot, the name given to all new helicopter pilots in Vietnam. Rank didn’t mean much in a chopper. The pilots, who were warrant officers, knew that the gunners and crew chiefs, who were enlisted, had their backs; that was all that mattered. The crews joined in the good-natured hazing of new pilots. They were all Peter Pilots. New enlisted men were called FNGs, shorthand for fuckin’ new guys.
“Hey, Scoot, that thing is louder than 519.” That was the tail number of their chopper. Anyone who had ever heard the whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp of a UH-1H “Huey” helicopter would never forget it. It was as distinctive as the crack of an AK-47.
“I saw Fred at the doughnut shop this morning and he told me they were coming over here to replace your furnace,” Scoot said.
“Yeah.” Timothy filled in Scoot on the happenings of the past few days.
“Sorry to hear all this, man. How’s Mom doing?” Scoot called her Mom too.
“She’ll be okay. She’s at the hospital still. She’s going to Leslie’s tonight. I spent the night there last night.”
“I figured you didn’t sleep here last night. Hey, when is she gonna make her oatmeal raisins?”
“God, Scoot, you sound like Kenny.”
“Hey, don’t compare me to that genius.”
They laughed. This was the first time in a few days Timothy let loose.
“How do you know Fred?” Timothy said.
“I work on his bike. Good guy, Nam vet, Air Force. He was in maintenance or something. He told me he was giving you a cash discount.”
“That’s right.”
“You gotta know that’s a pretty big deal for him. He doesn’t cut his price for anyone. Says it insults his craftsmanship.”
“Really.”
“Yep, he gave you the vet’s discount. You know how it is, brother taking care of brother.”
Timothy nodded.
“Speaking of that, did you hear the latest on the POWs?” Scoot asked.
“No, what?”
“Good news and bad news. Good news is Laos is releasing some pilots. Bad news is Bobby ain’t on the list,” Scoot said.
Timothy stared off into space. For him, this conversation was a time machine transporting him back to the day he and Bobby were shot down.
“C’mon, man, we all lost something that day.”
“I don’t know, Scoot. Bobby was supposed to transition to Cobras but stuck around to fly with me until the end of my tour.”
“Listen, man, the snakes got shot down too. He could have as easily been shot down flying a gunship as he did flying slicks.”
“True,” Timothy said.
“You keep this shit up and you will be dinky dau.”
Timothy nodded.
“So how’s your woman?” Scoot asked.
“She’s good. Too good for me.”
“Man, you’re really feeling sorry for yourself today. You keep saying that kind of shit often enough, and she might agree with you someday.”
“Maybe she should, Scoot.”
“Hey, knock it off. She’d be lucky to get you. And you’d be lucky to have her. Look, I gotta go—this pity party is getting too crowded for me,” Scoot fired back.
Scoot’s straight talk put a different spin on things for Timothy. He nodded slowly.
“Thanks, Scoot. I appreciate you stopping by. Want some coffee?”
“No way. That sludge looks worse than the oil I drain from my bike. Look, Tim, I want you to do me a solid.”
“What’s that?”
“Lose the attitude. It doesn’t wear good on a guy like you. You’ve always been a guy from the light side. Don’t let the darkness blind you.”
“You’re right, Scoot. Thanks.”
They exchanged fist bumps. Scoot kick-started his motorcycle and the windows shook. He cracked the throttle and left some rubber on the street as he rode away.
Timothy sat at the table. What can I do to make this work? He sipped the sludge and a name popped into his head: Father Schmitt, the dean of students and a former Army chaplain. When Tim started back to school, Father Schmitt had a meeting for all the veterans who were attending that semester. He told them if they ever needed anything, they should reach out to him. Maybe he can help me with tuition assistance.
Timothy went down to the basement.
“Fred, how long do you guys think you’ll be here today?”
“Probably four o’clock, at least,” Fred said.
“All right, I have to go out for a while. I should be back in a couple of hours.”
“No sweat,” Fred said. “If the gas company guy comes by, I’ll sign the papers for you. I know those guys and they cut me some slack.”