Playing Fair and Being Kind

As I recently advised my friend Naomi, if she was working today, “the weekend is time and a half and the holiday is double time”. Of course some of these words don’t apply in the workplace now that unions are seen in a bad light. That is another story for another time.
Tomorrow is Labor Day. A long weekend that celebrates the worker and marks the end of Summer. The Winnebagos go heading south along the Maine Turnpike and good old Route 1 starting next week. Yay! We turn our town over to the tourists for a trio of months and now we get it back. I can soon drive to town and find more convenient parking places.
I am doing nothing of great import these few days. I am remembering the efforts of the unions in the grand scheme of things. Unions are necessary to keep the bosses from being  unfair with the work force. Don’t try to tell me that there is a bit of altruism in management. I’ll laugh in your face. I was born in the afternoon but not this afternoon. I’ll leave it at that.

I wrote a short story about a real incident here in town. The scene took place at the writers group regular Tuesday evening meeting last month. I embellish slightly. Not much. I hope you enjoy the tale. There is mention of PTSD. Not much embellishing there. O.K. Here goes. Have a great holiday and be careful out there in traffic. Peace out.
G. M. Goodwin
3 September 2017

MISTER CHOU

Crash was just beginning to read. He was reading one of Don Jorge’s favorite pieces. It began,

“In the beginning, he knelt down on both hands and knees. Using his fingernails he scratched a small hole into the ground. Done, he whispered. I don’t know what I’m doing here. (Or, where else I should be). “

He didn’t finish all of it. He’d gotten to the “Done, he whispered” part when the door to the community center flew open with a bang.

In the doorway stood a portly, graying man of about sixty years. He was dressed in rumpled clothing, shirt partly out of his pants and shoelaces untied. His eyes were sharp and knowing in contrast to the rest of him. He could have been a professor down on his luck. He clutched a few items tucked into one crooked arm, a collection of newspapers and a notebook. His other arm hung by his side.

Don Jorge called out to him.

“Hellooo, can I help you?”

The graying man looked directly at Don Jorge and beamed.

“Hello to you, dear friend. We are looking for the writing group. Would that be yourself?”

He said this in a loud and clear, well articulated manner. The manner of someone who was accustomed to speaking off the cuff and to an audience of any size. Don Jorge was reminded of W.C. Fields. He felt a shiver. The graying man presented himself as one thing but his voice, gaze, and demeanor were altogether alien. Don Jorge took in all of this during the few seconds between the ‘Would that be yourself’ and what he responded with.

“Yes! Yes! Come on in. We are just beginning. Welcome!” Don Jorge was doing a bang-up job of being the good host. He didn’t like this guy.

By now the graying man was completely in the building and for the first time Don Jorge noticed he had a companion. A small Asian man was trailing the graying man by about ten feet.

The graying man turned and said,

“Come along Mister Chou. We’ll join these nice gentlemen for a while. Please come along Mister Chou. We must not hold up the train. Come along.”

Meanwhile Crash was doing his thing. He was observing the pair and letting Don Jorge be the point man. His senses were also setting off alarms. Crash had lived an adventuresome life. He did two tours in Vietnam and after completing his military obligation joined a band of men who lived in small towns near the Mexican border. Nearly all of the men were former grunts with combat experience. They had become part of the clandestine soldier-of-fortune business. Men who had very little to do with the general population. There was nothing of benefit for them physically, philosophically, spiritually, or financially in ordinary life. Through the years Crash had been on both sides of the border and on both sides of the law. His last gig was as an informant working for the ATF in an effort to entrap drug cartel leaders by using the ‘gunwalking’ scheme that was unpopular with ethical officials. Older now and staying out of the limelight Crash was living a simple existence near the ocean and working odd jobs. No one knew his identity except for Don Jorge.

Don Jorge enjoyed listening to Crash’s brief, direct style of poetry. The two of them made up a dwindled remnant of a writers group in a small seaside town in one of the northeast states. Don Jorge had his own dark history. Top secret missions on submarines along cold war boundaries had taken its toll. Excursions beyond test depth and other terror filled episodes were buried deep in his psyche. Both men suffered the slowly fading affects of post traumatic stress. Neither one would call the condition a ‘disorder’. To them it was not a disorder at all. It was the normal response to what each had witnessed or took part in during their respective military service. Both were writing stories and poetry to keep the demons at bay. This writing group was their therapy. Because of the shared demons they had bonded soon after they’d met several years ago.

The graying man introduced himself. Neither Crash nor Don Jorge would remember his name. He was not genuine in his behavior nor in his affectation. He was over stimulated by the readings of the evening and his elated commentary made both of them look at each other several times. He was a creepy sort and none of his complimentary mutterings penetrated the veneer Crash and Don Jorge wore as armor in such situations as this.

Mister Chou sat separate from the large round table that held the other three men in a sort of valence. He was the odd man out, sitting quietly several feet away in his own world. Don Jorge glanced in Mister Chou’s direction once or twice every few minutes. The way the graying man addressed Mister Chou Don jorge guessed the he was limited in some ways in taking care of himself. Or maybe he was a trained assassin with super-human capacities and murderous skills. Don Jorge kept one eye on Mister Chou.

Meanwhile, the graying man was responding to a direct comment from Crash. Crash had kept his eye on the graying man. As soon as he had gotten comfortable in his seat Crash said to him with a piercing stare,

“Who are you?”

Crashes words were almost menacing. Don Jorge shot a look at Crash and their eye contact spoke it all. This guy was an intruder and not to be trusted. Both men waited for the graying man’s response. The graying man stumbled a little on his words but he regained his composure and gave an evasive reply that he was a writer and then changed it to he was a writer of editorials. He mentioned some newspaper from some small town in Ohio or Indiana. Neither of them were listening to the words as much as listening to the graying man’s tone and watching his body language. This guy was not going to pull anything on these two.

Crash and Don Jorge settled into their usual pattern of reading and listening to each other. Apparently the graying man had nothing although his notebook looked worn and when he opened it the pages were filled with pencil and pen lines of writing visible. He had nothing to share but he was still aggressive in his responses and continued to pry and dig for further explanation to all that was read. Don Jorge and Crash were building a resentment toward him. His heretofore described affectation and his occasional admonitions to Mister Chou were grating on the pair. This was not the usual writers group.

Don Jorge no longer carried his throwing knife and he was fully aware that Crash didn’t pack his FN P90. The situation in the community center was tense in his estimation. He was beginning to worry that the two of them were not going to be able to handle the graying man and Mister Chou. He looked at Crash to get an indication of how things were going there and he felt worse. Crash was now engaged and smiling and making jokes with the graying man. Mister Chou was beginning to stir. Don Jorge was tryng to access the increased danger in the room. He figured he’d be able to incapacitate the graying man with a well aimed punch to the neck or throat. Maybe use his loose leaf binder like a sickle. He would have to rely on Crash jumping Mister Chou. Mister Chou might be the key to the whole shebang. Don Jorge began to wish they would leave. On cue the graying man turned in response to a muttering from Mister Chou.

“Yes, Mister Chou. We will be leaving soon.”

And to the others he asked, “How late does the supermarket stay open?”

Mister Chou was up now and he was shuffling out of the inner room toward the exit. He made good time for being so slow. Don Jorge watched him motoring along undeterred by the graying man’s words of admonition.

“Wait a minute, Mister Chou! Don’t go out yet!”,

he called.

The graying man was now urgently picking up his newspapers and notebook and trying to get his jacket on all at the same time. His wicked affectation had disappeared and he was in a mild panic. He hustled after Mister Chou and as he did he tried as best he could to say goodbye and to wish them well with their writing. His affectation was fully recovered for that part. Don Jorge watched in relieved humor. The both of them were out the door and they could be seen crossing the dark parking lot side by side but at least ten feet separated them.

Don Jorge went back to the table and took his seat. Crash and he looked at each other in wonderment.

“What the hell was that?”, exclaimed Don Jorge.

“I don’t know.”, from Crash.

“You didn’t like him did you.”

“I didn’t trust him”, clarified Crash.

There was a long period of quiet as the two rearranged their sheets of paper on the table.

“Jesus, what a pair, huh?”

Crash shook his head signifying agreement and started picking up his collections of writing.

Don Jorge slid into his coat and stared toward the front of the community center, at the windows. He too shook his head. He said, “What a pair!”

G. M. Goodwin

3 September 2017