Currently Idle

Quien es el muy macho?

July 22, 2006 on 2:05 pm | In Whatever | by Mr. Fidget | 2 Comments

I had an experience yesterday that left me simultaneously a bit shaken, a bit regretful, a bit proud, and a bit confused. I’m not one overly concerned with being real tough, or macho, or the alpha male, or the big dog, or any other description or cliché for the biggest dick in the room. I’m just fairly comfortable with who I am on the manliness scale.

So comfortable, perhaps, that until I just wrote that, I’m not sure I realized that there was a manliness scale. I would imagine such a scale might have, say, Richard Simmons at one end and, oh, who, John Wayne at the other end? I don’t like that. I don’t know Richard Simmons, and I shan’t sit here and assail his masculinity; and I didn’t know John Wayne, but the little that I do know, he was neither my type of guy nor any icon of definition of masculinity. So I neither worry about being a man—or “the man”—or what or who else may be so, either.

I was running a little late to work yesterday. Once every ten weeks our supervisor asks us to be the first guy in the office, at 9 AM. It’s a testament to the blessed nature of my job that getting my ass to the office by 9 AM still unerringly causes me to run late. It is also hopefully a testament to the seriousness with which I take the luxury of rolling in whenever I want the other nine weeks that I motor when it’s my week in the barrel.

So I was on a straightaway piece of road and I got stuck behind a septic tank truck. I had a dashed yellow line, and though the septic truck was moving okay, not overly slow, I had to get a little gas—just a few gallons to get me to work, not even planning to waste the time to fill up—so I swang around the septic tank truck, as there was no oncoming traffic, and passed him in the left lane and then swang back in front of him.

Before I even got back in our lane he blew his horn at me, and I was struck by how some people get so offended when you pass them. I had caused him no danger nor cut him off, but hey, some people are just grumpy assholes. I kept a good eye on my rearview to make sure that he wasn’t the type of guy that wanted to escalate things and start riding my bumper, and I enjoyed an interview with Sebastian Junger on the radio.

I pulled into the gas station about five minutes later, thinking that the septic tank trucker had not made a turn I had made, and began to get my gas. In a moment that can only be described as suddenly, a man was stalking across the gas station lot, from where he had parked his septic tank truck, and he was staring hard at me.

“You know, you drive like an asshole!” he shouted.

He continued walking towards the convenience store of the gas station and I stared hard at him.

“You should know from assholes, motherfucker. I’m not taking driving advice from a guy who drives a shit truck,” I yelled back at him. That stopped him and he cut and turned towards me.

I stopped pumping my gas and stepped towards the front of my car, at which point he saw what I knew he would see: I was wearing heavy work pants, a t-shirt, hiking boots, and my t-shirt was untucked but for the right hand side, which was tucked between the butt of my handgun and my body, lest it dig into my side all day. This half-t-shirt tuck allows the gun to ride clearly visible, along with the shiny gold badge on my waist.

His eyes caught the gun and the badge and he slowed down. I put my hand on my gun and unsnapped the holster and looked at him expectantly.

“You want some of this, you little bitch? You wanna get down with me, motherfucker?” I asked him.

He sneered at me and cursed me out again.

“Fuck you, just cause you’re a cop, think you can drive like an asshole.”

“Turn around and go inside, little man. Go inside the store, you little shit truck driver,” I instructed him.

“Fuck you,” he said again and turned and went into the convenience store.

I continued to gas my vehicle, collected my receipt for the office accounts envelope, and returned to my Sebastian Junger interview.

* * * * *

Okay, I’m sorry. Part of that story isn’t true. I didn’t curse back at the man, and I didn’t repeatedly call him a shit truck driver. The story was true up to this part:

“You know, you drive like an asshole!” he shouted.

He continued walking towards the convenience store of the gas station and I stared hard at him.

Now, this is the truth: I continued staring at him as he walked to the store and he kept staring back at me, and when he got to a certain distance and angle, he saw the gun and badge on my waist, which were indeed exposed well before I got out of the car, because the gun really does dig into my side without a t-shirt buffer.

“You a cop?” he yelled.

I just continued staring at him, giving what I now think was a barely perceptible nod.

“You a cop?” he yelled again. I still didn’t answer, just stared back at him. “Well good, cause I’m gonna get your license plates and make some calls!” With that he went into the convenience store.

Now, I was running late, and I only needed ten bucks worth of gas, but now I couldn’t leave without a full tank. I didn’t want to encourage further conflict with this guy, but nor could I be sure in my self that I wasn’t leaving with only a few gallons just for expediency; I might worry to myself that I was leaving to avoid the angry driver, and I would not allow myself to to do that.

I filled up the tank and saw him pointing me out to the owner of the convenience store. He walked out as I was finishing with the gas and he yelled at me again.

“You from New Amsterdam? You from New Amsterdam?” he yelled, which is the local state police barracks, for whom I do not work. I think I smiled, though I might have had a blank look, and gave again what I self-perceive as a nearly imperceptible movement, this time a head shake “no.”

I got in my ride and pulled away. I slowed as I passed the side of his truck and rolled down my window, thinking I might say something rude, but I didn’t. I drove off to work, second guessing myself.

* * * * *

As I drove to work, I meditated on what it means to be a man, to be tough, to be strong, to fight back, to stand up, to yell “go fuck yourself, motherfucker!” back at someone.

I wondered if I had handled it incorrectly. Most of my colleagues would have engaged him, and without resorting to finger-fucking their guns for emphasis as I did in my fictionalized version. Most guys I know—correct that, most guys I work with—would have gotten right back in this guy’s face, armed or unarmed. That doesn’t make it right, but my daily culture would have certainly understood a “fuck you” back.

I thought of an older agent I used to work with, one of the more belligerent guys, a man brazenly willing to tell anyone to fuck off at any time, without regard for rank, supervision, or anything at all. He had a gas station incident a few years ago where a young punk yelled at him and they squared off face to face, until the young guy actually tapped him under the chin and went back to his vehicle.

This older agent told the story with great pride at his exhibition of an extraordinary amount of restraint, as he called the state police barracks and had a trooper come over and arrest the kid, who had an outstanding warrant. He told the story in our bullpen and emphasized for us younger guys the lessons learned—you gotta keep your cool. He could have punched the shit out of the kid, and possibly been in the right—the kid touched him first—but he didn’t. He said, you young guys, remember, stuff like this is gonna happen. Keep your cool.

I like to think that’s what I did. I also respected my badge. Not that anyone would know or see, but I wear my badge with pride that I don’t want to denigrate by getting into a shouting or shoving match with some angry asshole at a gas station.

And if I hadn’t been armed, or on duty, or in a work car? I would have handled it the same way. I’m clearly not engaging some raging asshole under most any circumstances, least of all without a gun. And I carry my sidearm off-duty somewhere between never and never-ever.

My wife says I handled it the right way. But there’s a dirty little secret: I was little afraid, the guy scared me a little, and perhaps I didn’t refuse to engage him out of any exalted sensibility of self-control, respect for my job, or healthy self-confidence in my masculinity. I think I was a little afraid, and perhaps, less afraid, I would have yelled back at him. But I chose not to, and I don’t know if I’m mature or a coward.

No. Man’s. Land.

July 22, 2006 on 12:10 am | In Whatever | by Mr. Fidget | No Comments

“Do you see him?”
“I see him.”
“He’s moving funny.”
“He’s riding a bike.”
“Oh, that’s it.”
“Yeah.”
“How old is he?”
“He looks like a fucking child.”
“He’s like, ten.”
“Probably twelve.”
“What the fuck is he doing out there?”
“Out for a ride.”
“I hear that.”

James Ohler and Tim Henderson could not have been more different, in many ways. In thumbnail sketch, Jimmy was an old-money New Englander who should have been at a pricey East Coast college, studying history or philosophy, wearing chinos and penny loafers and a pink oxford, listening to Dave Matthews and drinking bottles of Rolling Rock. By contrast, Tim—T-Dog to everyone, including his mother—was a Southern redneck good ole’ boy, who should, in a better world, have been driving a battered pickup, a can of Schlitz between his legs, a Confederate flag in the rear window, Toby Keith blaring on the radio, gunning down a dirt road late to work at a poultry farm.

Instead, due to a perfect storm of lies, half-truths, irrefutable truths, obfuscations and crystal clear realities, decisions, defaults, paths taken and paths not taken, Jimmy and T-Dog were together, dressed nearly identically, doing roughly the same job, on the ninth floor of a building on the eastern outskirts of Tikrit, Iraq, a building which four years earlier housed a mid-level government bureaucracy devoted to agriculture, and which now belonged exclusively to Jimmy and T-Dog. Instead of a college boy and a country boy, they were both now Marines.

Jimmy was a sniper, armed with a sixteen pound bolt-action M40A3 rifle with a five round magazine and a 12×50 reticle scope, which, in combination with having graduated in the middle third of his basic sniper class at Camp Pendelton nine months earlier, meant that Jimmy was capable of finding a target one thousand yards away—ten whole football fields end to end—and putting a .308 caliber bullet in that target’s face or chest, which would then leave the target’s body through a grapefruit-sized hole in the back of his head or body, along with, presumably, his soul. T-Dog was Jimmy’s spotter, who was armed with a standard issue Colt M-4 .223 rifle, a pair of powerful binoculars, and a range finder to assist Jimmy both in sighting his targets and confirming kills.

Jimmy and T-Dog had been partners since sniper school, and had lived in this office building with only one another for company for a month, seeing only one member of a small resupply team who came by once a week with food and water. Their days were spent unmoving, clad in handmade ghillie suits, in an elaborate redoubt that they had constructed in what was formerly a corner office for a government bureacrat, and which offered a broad and expansive view of a wide swath of desert and dust. It was the eastern approach to the city, and it was a no man’s land, and it was their job make sure it stayed that way—no man’s land.

Jimmy and T-Dog were responsible for ensuring that no insurgents launched rearguard attacks against the platoons already operating inside the city, and twenty four hours a day, sleeping in shifts and working the overnights with night vision goggles, they constantly scanned the rough network of roads, decrepit shantytowns, dry canal beds and bombed out trucks on the horizon before them to ensure that no living thing approached the city. They moved only to urinate or defecate and to eat twice a day, at which time they escaped into the relative cool and freedom of the hallway behind the office. Though their job was to locate, observe, and exterminate any insurgent who might try to creep into the city, they also carried the traditional sniper’s worry—a countersniper would make their position and put that grapefruit-sized hole in the back of their heads. It made for a perpetual unease.

“What’s a child doing out here riding a bike?”
“Beats the shit out of me.”
“What kind of bike is it?”
“Looks like some piece of shit mountain bike.”
“Yeah.”
“That ain’t my sweet Kona.”
“That ain’t my sweet Fisher.”
“Probably some piece of shit Chinese piece of shit from Wal-Mart.”
“Wal-Mart?”
“Fuckin’ Iraqi-Mart.”
“My mom doesn’t let me shop at Wal-Mart. Says they treat their workers like shit.”
“Yo, my mom works at Wal-Mart.”
“Oh. She like it?”
“No, she fuckin’ hates it.”
“What is this kid doin’?”
“I don’t know, it looks like he’s . . . oh, shit.”
“What?”
“Aww, shit.”

The boys had scored their first confirmed kill a week earlier. A convoy of vehicles screamed along a rutted road leading directly into the eastern access point of the city. They were ragged trucks, not the shiny white Suburbans that were the trademark of global aid groups, American intelligence, or diplomats. Jimmy and T-Dog presumed they were insurgents; they clearly weren’t legitimate, and if they weren’t legit, there was only one option. T-Dog called in an airstrike and was notified that an Air Force sortie would bomb the shit out of the caravan in less than fifteen minutes. Once the roar of the bombers was audible, Jimmy put a few rounds through the windshields of the trucks in the front. They went careening off the road and halted the entire convoy; when the airplanes arrived, they dropped five hundred pound bombs on the trucks and the boys watched through binoculars as the insurgents were incinerated. One bailed and ran several hundred yards away from the trucks and wasn’t killed by the bombs. Jimmy shot him as he ran.

“I killed him.”
“No shit, son. Nice work. Real neat work.”
“I killed him.”
“I know. It’s all right, Jimmy. You had to.”
“I killed that poor motherfucker dead.”
“Yeah. Your first confirmed kill.”
“Yeah.”
“Nobody ever told him.”
“What?”
“Don’t run. You’ll only die tired.”
“Yeah.”

In six months in Iraq, Jimmy and T-Dog found that they held very little in common. They disagreed politically. They disagreed both about the purpose of the war they were waging, the reasons it had been started, and how and whether it should be stopped. They disagreed about books, music, movies, cars, and television shows.

The little they did share in common was a desire to go back to their homes, an appreciation for girls and beer, and a passion for mountain biking. They were randomly assigned to one another as sniper and spotter in sniper school, and it did not take long for them to determine that the other would not be, in the civilian world, a friend, or even, quite possibly, someone the other would acknowledge hanging out outside the Piggly Wiggly or at a frat kegger. In fact, it wasn’t until the second week of scout/sniper school, during an eight mile movement to learn stalking and tracking, along a narrow foot trail, that T-Dog whispered “this here’s some sweet singletrack, baby.” Jimmy’s ears perked up and when it was reasonable to do so—as the chief warrant officer leading the stalk had moved ahead several yards—he whispered back to T-Dog.

“You like singletrack, T-Dog?”
“You mountain bike, son?”
“Dog, I’m all about mountain biking.”
“Sweet, son.”

They made it back to the barracks and thereupon discovered that they shared a passion for riding sweet singletrack, gnarly downhills, lung-busting climbs, scenic views, launching over logs, drop-offs, hydration packs, Clif Shots, baggy shorts, oversized jerseys, Oakley sunglasses, Crank Brothers pedals, and riser bars. They discovered a number of differences, as well, including an affection for full suspension (T-Dog) and an affinity for singlespeeds (Jimmy) that the other didn’t share, but from one whispered comment on a mossy trail was born a connection and depth of trust that neither thought he would ever share with the other. Thereafter everything from training runs to hunter/quarry ops became fodder for a running commentary on how each would appreciate, navigate, ride/jump/bunnyhop/barrel over any obstacle they passed.

“I’d pop that log.”
“I would too. And I’d hit that rock right there for a little off-camber launch.”
“Nah. I’d build up speed and flow into this little roller here, though.”
“I’d pedal right through this.”
“I’d soul my way through and then shoot out the other side, churn up this mother right here, pick a line right around this boulder and mountain goat my ass right up this.”
“Fuckit, I’d be walking here, son.”

And on they went, from California to Iraq, bypassing the architecture of the ordinary soldier’s camaraderie, built on boasting about cars, females, and beer, and instead found a soft place in which they could share thoughts and dreams of a passion which wasn’t competitive, or built on bragging, or lying, or fronting machismo. Their conversations laid clear that Jimmy would be most likely to do a fifty-mile “fun” ride, and T-Dog would be most likely to contest the Sport class downhill. T-Dog would never ride a singlespeed, and Jimmy would never do a dual slalom. But they had no doubt that together, given an afternoon, their bikes, and some Clif Bars and water, they would have a great time out in the woods.

“Why you say ‘oh, shit’?”
“Jimmy, you ain’t gonna like this.”
“What are you seeing that I ain’t seeing, T-Dog?”
“Look-ee what’s peaking out his backpack.”
“What is it?”
“In Alabama, I tell you, the quads tear the trails up, so for singletrack, we gotta hide the entrance to the trails. We walk in an’ we walk out, just like stalking, leave no trace. Carry the bike in and then we ride so no hillbilly four wheeler follow me in and ruin my trail.”
“That look like ordnance.”
“You would love my local trails outside Montgomery, son. I’m gonna take you there, you’ll see. Miles and miles of sweet ribbon singletrack, roots, logs, rocks, rollers, pitches, huff-a-puff climbs, gonna burn your little New England ass to the seat, Jimmy.”
“T-Dog, do you think he’s got shells in that backpack?”
“We’re gonna hit the trails, ride for like, four hours, then we’ll catch up with my sister and her horny little girlfriends and go the bar downtown, play pool till closin’ time. Listen to some Allman Brothers, yeah. Some Skynrd. ‘Eat a Peach”"
“Dog, talk to me. What you see in that backpack?”
“Those are shells, son. You gotta take the shot, now. Line it up, I’ll check the minutes.”
“That’s a fucking child, man.”
“You got nine hundred yards.”
“I’m not shooting a child, T.”
“Tell me about your favorite trail. Mine’s called Hot Pussy.”
“You ain’t got no trail named Hot Pussy.”
“I call it that. It’s all bends and curves, it’s like four bowls linked together, up and down and up and down, just like a fine ole’ girl, big ole’ curves, a nice big ole’ ass, big ole’ titties, a little something fat to slap anyway you got her, from behind, on top, side to side. That’s what this trail is like, sweet curves any way you run it. Eight hundred and fifty yards, son. He’s carrying a ton of ammo on that there bike.”

Jimmy bit his lip and sighted his scope on the boy. He watched him as he continued to careen crazily and Jimmy realized for the first time that the weight of the materiel on his back was what was making him bob and weave on the bike, not the rutted roads. He acquired a bead on the front wheel and went through his ritual, exhaled, emptied his mind, became one with his rifle, gently feathered the trigger. His shot rang out and upon recovering from the recoil he sat back and scanned the horizon with naked eyes instead of immediately reacquiring a sight on his target as he had been taught.

“You done knocked him off his bike, Jimmy.”
“My favorite trail is called Rolling Thunder. It used to be called the Log Jump Trail but the little local access group thought the name sucked, which it did, so we made a sign and re-named it.”
“The little fucker’s getting up again. Trying to wheel the bike.”
“You would love New England riding, T-Dog. You bring that five inch front and back squish machine up by me, you’ll be like pudding on our trails. I’ll take you on Rolling Thunder. No less than forty log crossings, everything from four logs built up you need to get up and over, to little four inch saplings you can bunny hop, everything you can imagine. Nothing but long climbs, logs, roots, moss, steep downhills, you’re gonna love it. We got a microbrewery, makes the best damn beer from scratch out in the barn behind the bar, beer so rich and good it’s like eatin’ a loaf of fresh bread. Little Grateful Dead on the stereo, maybe play some foosball. Have another pint of porter, Dog.”
“Jimmy, the little fucker’s running now. Dumped his bike and he’s still moving right towards us. He’s at eight hundred twenty yards.”

Jimmy acquired another sight and exhaled again.

“We’re gonna do a few this time, Dog.”

He shot four rounds in rapid succession eight feet in front of the running boy. The child fell to the ground and cowered and didn’t move for several moments.

“Come on now, son. Turn around and go home to Mama.”
“Come on, boy. Drop the bag and go home.”
“Go have some hummus, pal, little babaghanoush with Mom, now.”
“Yeah, go eat some pita, kid. Be a normal fuckin’ Iraqi kid and go eat some pita and throw rocks at soldiers, okay, kid, come on.”

The child could not hear them, and did not listen. He eventually got up and scanned the buildings at the edge of town as if he might make out the sniper’s nest. At this point he rationally knew that to advance forward was to invite death. The front wheel of his bicycle had been mangled beneath him and the sniper had then either missed him quite poorly or chosen to shoot ahead of him. The boy looked at the gutted buildings ahead of him and thought of the rotten road, the bombed out trucks, the skinny goats behind him. He wanted to take a step backward, wished that his bicycle would still ride, wished that he could get on it and dump this heavy backpack his uncle had given him and simply ride, ride without hands, ride without worry, ride without fear, ride with the wind. His uncle promised him virgins in the city. He stifled a tear and sniffed snot up into his nose and looked defiantly at the horizon. He moved forward.

“Oh, shit.”
“He’s like, twelve.”
“He’s twenty.”
“He won’t be twenty for ten years, Dog.”
“You know what you gotta do, Jimmy. Eight hundred yards.”

James Ohler sighted the boy in and focused the crosshairs of his thousand-dollar scope on the boy’s chest. He was wearing a Nike t-shirt, with the famous swoosh and the legend Just Do It. Jimmy began to empty his head of all effluence, aiming for the Zen calm that the sniper teachers counseled. You’re not taking a life, they taught; you’re saving your brothers’ lives.

Just Do It. Just Do It. Jimmy noticed how thin and narrow the boy’s chest was, thought back ten years to when he was eleven or twelve and skinny as a rail, just like this kid. He remembered how he wished then that he could be buff and muscular, like Will Smith in Bad Boys. He noticed that the kid had ratty sneakers on, and was sweating, and his pants seemed to be made of some rough hewn material. He watched as the boy’s thin chest heaved from the exertion of his running.

Just do it, he thought. Just do it. Let all the other thoughts drift away. Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do? Just do it.

Jimmy pulled the trigger and the boy’s chest exploded.