(A short story--unpublished)
Sometimes,
it takes a boy to grow a man.
"Dad,
when is it our turn?" Mark tugged on his dad’s belt loop, his words
lisping through the hole where his front teeth had been.
"Easy,
son. We'll get there when we get
there. That line stretches from here to
"Dum
de dum dum...Hey, look at all those people up there. They look like a bunch of...a bunch of, um,
little spiders or somethin.'"
"They sure do, Markie.” Jim ruffled the boy's sandy hair. "You sure you're not gonna be scared,
now?" he asked, the strength in his voice surprising him.
"No way!
I wanna go vroom! Up in the air like Batman, Okay? You be Robin, Dad."
Jim chuckled, fighting the urge to
run. With a chill wind buffeting his
back, he shivered under the darkening sky.
An engine percolating in the distance drew his attention toward the
gathering blanket of clouds.
Mark
pointed an index finger in the air.
“Look—there’s a helicopter, Dad!
Is that like, um, like the one you used to ride on?”
“Uh, that
was a long time ago.” 1966, to be
exact. Phu Bai. Staring out of the Huey’s open door, staring
into...what? A future back in the world
or certain death in a desolate rice paddy?
“The
Copalicks is going up again.” Mark
tugged at Jim’s shirtsleeve, eyes sparkling.
“When are we gonna get there?”
“Soon.” As he eyed the yellow monster’s ascent into
the heavens, warm pearls of sweat formed on his brow. “Much too soon.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Mark
tugged at Jim’s shirtsleeve again, harder this time. “Dad, whatsa matter? You ain’t listening to me! Are you sick?”
“What? No, I was just thinkin’ about some bad things
from a long time ago.”
Mark
studied the ground, his brows furrowed.
“Oh. You mean, like the time you
and Uncle Steve were shootin’ in our field, and you started cryin’ like I do
sometimes?”
That
was three years ago. Why do kids always
remember the stuff you hope they’d forget?
“Something
like that. But don’t worry; I’m Okay,
now.”
“I
remember another time you started screamin’ when we made that, um,
bonfire. Did you see ghosts in the fire
or somethin’?”
Jim
tugged at his collar and cleared his throat.
How do you explain war to a seven-year-old? He wondered. “Mark, sometimes I remember bad things that
happened in the war a long time ago, and they make me so scared, it’s almost
real again. You see, Daddies can be
afraid sometimes, too. Just like when
that bat got caught in your bedroom and you had nightmares for a long time
after that. Remember?”
“Ooooh,
like that scary?”
“Yeah,
like that scary. Now, are you sure
you won’t be scared to go on this ride?”
Jim feigned a serious expression as he patted Mark’s shoulder.
“Nope. Not if I can hold your hand. Mom says you’re brave.”
“Your
mom’s pretty smart.”
“If you
be brave, I will.”
“Okay,
I’ll do my best.” Jim's green eyes grew
wide and he tried to swallow the lump forming in his throat.
The line
zig-zagged through a maze of rails and ropes, past The Cyclone, around the Stormforce
10, and through the middle of Pirate's Cove.
They'd be standing here at least another half hour, by the looks of
things. Why the hell couldn't
Jim’s
mind wandered back, without his consent, to that day of reckoning so long
ago. His gunship had been hovering over
the drop point, its rotor chopping through the air, like some gigantic
grasshopper. Looking out over the pale,
gray dawn, a similar fear had washed over him.
Needles of adrenaline had shot through his body, a perfect clarity of
awareness enveloping his senses. This
was what it was like to be alive. The
drop point loomed ahead, mere minutes from life or death…
"Dad,
I'm thirsty. Can I go get a Coke?"
"Where?"
"Over
there, silly." He gestured to a
small concession stand in Pirate's Cove a few feet away. "Go for it," Jim said, fishing some
coins from his pocket.
Meanwhile,
the line of patient passengers inched and uncoiled past Pirate's Cove. As Mark
scampered away, the sky grumbled an ominous warning. Shit, looks like it's gonna piss out, soon. By the time Mark returned, Jim was nearing
the entrance chain that guarded their approach to the ride. They watched as anxious riders threw
themselves into the confining spaces with reckless abandon. Some straddled the seats, like a saddle,
while others stood locked in place by massive restraints.
Eventually,
father and son stood in front of the Apocalypse. A teenage attendant clad in a green and white
uniform asked Jim for his glasses. Oh,
shit. This is gonna be worse than I
thought. Handing her the wire rimmed
bifocals, he ushered Mark into one of the pods and waited while another
attendant locked them into a secure position.
The pod creaked and shook, beginning its slow ascent. Jim closed his eyes. Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed by
thy name...
"Dad, we're finally shooting
up. Mark waved at the crowd and hugged
Jim.
A
thunderclap split the heavens as the first cold droplets of rain fell on the
anxious riders. Just my luck Mark's
birthday had to fall on one of the coldest days of the summer. Shivering in his prison, Jim winced at the
jagged bolt of lightening that pierced the afternoon sky. Another rumble of thunder echoed throughout
the theme park's confines.
…As the
helicopter pirouetted and began its slow descent toward the target area, shades
of mauve streaked the steel gray dawn.
Bursts of machine gun fire pierced the stillness and a sudden explosion
of artillery engulfed the Huey in a burst of flames "We're hit!" the pilot
screamed. Momentary panic segued into a
well rehearsed kick in the ass as the pilot prepared the slick for
auto-rotation. His hands engaged and
released the rotor blades, stabilizing the wounded bird, like a surgeon in a
M.A.S.H. unit…
The
Apocalypse rose into the air, a majestic piece of engineering marvel, dragging
them into dizzying and uncharted heights.
Jim’s tortured mind imagined Viet Cong hiding behind bushes and in the
tall grass—an unseen enemy aching to put a bullet in his brain. Instead of the
tall swirls and spirals of The Cyclone and the evening crowd at the Pirate's
Cove, he envisioned choppers dripping with blood and maimed troopers screaming
on the ground.
A hush
surrounded them. The air smelled of
ozone and cordite. Jim had only enough
time to look down at the pinheads below for a few crazed moments.
"Dad,
I gotta pee."
Darting a
frantic glance at his son, he replied:
"I know how you feel," and squeezed his legs around the
saddle. Thank God for small favors.
At that
instant, they fell, their unfettered legs billowing out as the world dropped
into obscurity. Jim's stomach plunged,
the sudden loss of gravity sickening him.
"Oh, shiiiit!" he screamed.
"Aaaaaaahhhhh!" Mark's mouth fell open and a smile as wide as
they were high lit up his face.
…Jim’s boots slammed on the Huey’s imaginary
brakes as an explosion rocked his world.
Each sickening lurch sent screams of terror through his parched
lips. "McQuaid! Holy motherfuckin' shit! We’re goin’ down! The Huey's distress vibrated through his
aching fingertips; his head bounced against the slick’s hull. A chorus of terror swept through the rest of
the troops—a terror that was not denied and could never be forgotten.
"Hang
on, boys! I got her. We're almost there." McQuaid
yelled. The slick jerked and gyrated
like a bucking bronco, at last plummeting down and sliding its skids into the
mud.
"Drop
point, boys. Grab your gear and
go." As the pilot hovered over the
rice paddy, wind gusts flattened vegetation and sent rippling waves through the
water. Jim pried his hands off the open
doorway and crossed himself, grappling at his backpack for the M-60. Got it!
He dropped into the swirling water outside the Huey, thrashing in
desperation. More gunfire exploded in
the bushes. A C-130 lumbered
overhead. As the dragonfly shielded him
with its silvery wings, he peered out of its shadows at the parachutes,
dropping like billowy, white jellyfish spreading their tentacles and enveloping
his comrades in their clinging arms. All
around him, they floated to a halt on the exposed bed of rice. Footsteps ran toward him...
When The
Apocalypse slid to a gentle stop, the world came swimming back. Jim opened his eyes and stumbled out of the
seat, trembling and thankful that the rain hid his tears.
"Dad,
that was awesome! Can we go on it again?"
The
absurdity of the idea made him shiver; gooseflesh dotted his arms like the skin
of a freshly plucked chicken. For the
second time, he wondered how to explain war to a seven-year-old. Jim grinned and shook his head at the boy’s
eagerness. “Only if you hold my
hand.”