The Fishermen

 Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

John's eyes were dry, empty of moisture for today, but his heart wept.  He gazed at the water, and dreamed. The bells and clanging moorings of the sleeping boats played an island lullaby. He fell into a light sleep, subconsciously waiting for his mother’s footsteps on the walkway.  He never heard them. 

In the very early morning, well before the sun was up, the sounds of the fishermen woke him. He heard the scurry of their feet across the wooden piers, and he smelled the strong odor of black coffee that steamed from their tin bottles and cups. And he heard them curse and yell, as they readied their boats and awaited their customers. The cling and clang of hooks and poles and sinkers and line being fitted and spooled, made him anxious and aware.  Closing his eyes, he imagined himself on the deck of a boat, with the white captain yelling for him to make haste and ready all, cajoling him for being late and not fast enough.  He dreamed, and felt warm and safe.

He often heard them tell their fish tales at the local bar, and yearned to be free as they were. Free from filth, free from fat men, free from longing for the love of a mother who did not have to be a mercenary, and, yes, free from the life of paradise that these islands seemed to offer to so many others.

He vowed then, at the age of nine, to be a fisherman.  He promised himself then, to leave every morning to the blue openness.  He vowed then to own a boat, to be the master of his destiny, to captain his own ship.  He vowed then, to kill this new boyfriend in his sleep, and take his mother away from this tiny speck of hell on earth.  As he vowed, he fell back asleep, soundly for the time being.

The Game Ended Late

 Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

The game ended late, past his bedtime, reminding him that the more tired you are the harder it is to fall asleep.

He started with the thoughts; his mind went a mile a minute.

He drafted things in his head: the notice of the special board meeting, the agenda, and the materials for the directors. Then he revised and revised and revised, until he etched final drafts onto his brain.

The final drafts ease the pressure in his head. He relaxes his fists.

He tosses. He turns. He shakes his hands to rid them of the tingle. He sighs, and one of the dogs stirs.

The wind howls and his house talks back. Light fixtures creak on the deck. He hears one spin on its axis, and a bulb breaks.

His knees hurt. There is a ring of pain from the back to front. He feels like they are swollen. It always feels like they are swollen, he allows himself to think. He feels the fullness in his belly, even though he hasn't eaten.

There are bigger problems than his. There are wars; there are inexplicable violent acts; there are others sicker, weaker, and without medical care. So he stops the bellyaching and he stops the whining and he stops the self-pity. It’s hard to stop. Soon, he is right back at it.

September 10, 1969

 Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

September 10, 1969

They never talked about the spelling test at dinner because the Atomic Energy Commission detonated a 40-kiloton nuclear device 8,426 feet below the ground somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Colorado. His dad couldn’t come home for dinner because he had to stay in Washington an extra day on account of the big explosion. His mother wasn't up to going over the words he missed.

The government was blowing up parts of the country. His best friend's dad was burnt to death taking a hill in Vietnam that the enemy got right back. His father was in D.C., doing something. His mother was smoking a Kent. His friend's mom was drinking cheap vodka and shooting smack in an alley in Philadelphia. He was making good grades, looking forward to a bright future.

The Schoolyard

    A car pulled up and stopped. Marty paid attention. He didn't want any trouble.
    The man in the car watched Marty. He opened the door and stepped out. He was young, probably in his thirties, and well dressed. He had a sport coat, crisp white shirt, and athletic looking tie. He walked toward the gate in the chain link fence.
    Marty thought cop. He was scared.
    “Hey, young man.”
    Marty stopped dribbling and looked up.
    “Yeah?”
    “I been watching you shoot. I been watching you at ACC, too.”
    Marty struggled to remember where he had seen this guy.
    “You been watching me?”
    The man nodded.
    “Why?”
    It was warm, and the man took off his coat and flipped it over his shoulder, moving closer.
    “Because you’re good.”
    Then, it hit him. This guy was the basketball coach at ACC.
    The man came closer and extended his hand.
    “I’m Bill Pergament.”
    Marty reached out and shook his hand.
    “Nice to meet you.”
    “Same here.”
    “Can we sit and talk a minute?”
    Marty nodded and they went to the wooden bench.
    “Look. It’s all good. It’s Marty isn't it?”
    “Yes, sir,” Marty said, wondering how he knew his name.
    “I just wanted to tell you that you’ve got talent. I been watching and I know.”
    “Thanks.”
    “And I wanted to ask you something.”
    Bill scratched his forehead.
    “Why haven’t you come out for the team?”
    Marty shifted the ball from his left to right arm.
    “Never thought I had a chance.”
    “Well, you do. A good one. Does that change your mind?”
    Marty was not used to hearing good things.
    “Well?”
    “I guess.”
    “Great. I wrote everything down.”
    Bill handed Marty a paper and stood up.
    “I’ll be looking for you.”
    Bill stood up and slapped Marty on the back. He put his coat on and walked back to the car. He started the engine, and gave a wave as he pulled the car into traffic.
    Marty unfolded the paper. It had the coach’s name and phone number, the time of the first tryout, and instructions on what to bring. On the bottom there was scribbled handwriting, “If you need a ride, give me a call. Coach.”

The Insurance Exam

"A big pinch," and then the needle plunges into the fattened vein.

"That wasn't too bad."

"Good."

Vials fill with red syrup.

"Now I need just a little sample...."

"I'll try."

Finally, liquid in the cup.

"Success?"

"Yep."

"All finished."

"Great."

"You were a quickie."

Hamburger Hill

    Tony didn’t know Shorty’s father. He just knew that he was in Vietnam. Shorty bragged on him. He was proud of his dad, the warrior.
    Tony seldom saw news about the war, but if his father and mother weren’t in the room, he caught glimpses on the 6:00 news. It was nasty stuff.
    It was Wednesday, and Tony had a baseball game. 
    Far from South Jersey, the 2/4 Marine Battalion was engaged in a fierce fight with a North Vietnamese Army division. The fight was over a piece of dirt. At first, the hill of dirt only had a number: 937. Later, they gave it a name: Hamburger Hill. Sounds better dying over a piece of dirt if it has a name. Shorty’s father was in the 2/4. 
    At the field, parents took places in the bleachers, finding shade from the lowering sun. Dads sat with dads, and moms sat with moms. A few lone men came to the games, too. They said they liked watching the kids play, but everyone knew they came to check out the moms.
    They chatted about this or that. Some complained about the new mayor. What the hell was he doing with the intersection by the school. Idiot. Some talked about whether the team had any chance to make it out of the regional. Some gossiped about what small town people gossip. The lone men tried to catch a peek up the ladies’ skirts. It was an ordinary May evening.
    The first pitch was hurled to Tony; Shorty’s dad was in the fight of his life, over hill 937.  He and his buddies were outnumbered three to one.
    Shorty’s dad was crouched down, trying not to get shot in the head; Tony singled to left field, knocking in the first of the five runs his team would score that inning.
    Tony was in line shaking hands with the opposing team; Shorty’s dad popped his head up to see air support.
    Encouraged by the planes over head, Shorty’s father took up a position in the brush southeast of the Hill. All of a sudden, the planes were gone. It was quiet.
    His sergeant picked four men to push forward into the paths between the smoldering thatch huts. They moved through dead, burnt bodies. Every so often, a hog, a cat, or a dog emerged from the rubble and startled them. The sergeant and his men walked with pronounced vigilance, listening as each boot landed a step closer to the smoldering residue. Each knew the next step could be the last.
    Sweat poured down Shorty’s father’s face. He did not dare move to wipe it off. It dripped into the dirt and made mud under his chin. His hand held fast to the gun and he squinted against the sunshine. The sergeant held up his right hand and his men stopped hard. The sergeant looked back across the space between him and the hole in the ground where Shorty’s father crouched. Before the sergeant could lower his hand, a bullet pierced through his helmet; he fell to the ground and the marines around him dove for cover. All hell broke loose. Brutal fighting erupted, shattering the morning. Snipers were everywhere, and tracer bullets flickered in disorder around the ambushed marines.
    Shorty’s father was firing, emptying his gun into the village. He couldn’t see the enemy. He fired indiscriminately in the direction from which the deadly shot had come. He was shooting at ghosts.
    Shots rang out from behind Shorty’s father. The Viet Cong surrounded him. A VC soldier who had stolen a flamethrower opened the weapon on the dirt hole. Blood curdling screams penetrated the morning. The fiery blasts burnt Shorty’s father beyond recognition. Six of his comrades met the same fate. There was no telling the white from the black.

Dinner 1969

The talk was about his sister going off to college. She was starting her second year at Rutgers. His dad was telling her not to use drugs, not to hang around with the freaks, not to listen to the crazy talk about the marijuana. He told her to stay away from the anti-war crowd; he said you could be against the war without taking over buildings. It was hard to enjoy dinner.