Tim O'Brien - The Nuclear Age

I was in control. Over the next two months, every Monday, I stationed myself at the same spot in front of the cafeteria. It was a feeble exercise, I realized that, but in conscience what does one do? Take a stance—what else?

I was alone until early December.

A frigid Monday, another noon vigil, then Ollie Winkler tapped me on the elbow and said, “Bombs.”

I knew the voice.

A couple of years earlier, back in chem class, we’d shared a Bunsen burner, but that was the full extent of it. Ollie was not my kind of person. Very short, very plump. A Friar Tuck facsimile in a white cowboy hat and fancy high-heeled boots.

He gestured at my poster with fat fingers.

“This bomb shit,” he said, “a catchy tune. Who do we assassinate?”

He straightened up to his full height—maybe five foot two. His smile seemed thin. “Just narrow it down for me. Plastic explosives? Time bombs? You got to name some names.”

I was candid with him. I told him to fuck off.

Ollie flicked his eyebrows. “A sense of humor, ace, it goes a long way. Bombs, though. I guess you could say I’m halfway intrigued.” He winked and tipped up his cowboy hat. Circus material, I thought. Not quite a midget, but there was obvious evidence of a misplaced chromosome. “What I mean,” he said, then paused again. “I mean, you’ve had your one-man show out here, but maybe you could use a helping hand, so to speak. If I’m interested, that is.”

I nodded.

“That’s wonderful,” I said, “just don’t get interested,” then I turned and left him standing there.

But ten minutes later, in the cafeteria, he waddled over to my table and put his tray down and made himself at home. The wise thing, I decided, was silence. I opened up a book called Minerals of the Earth and studied the cubic structure of thorianite.

“The problem,” Ollie said cheerfully, “is nobody likes you.”

Thorianite had a specific gravity of 9.87. It was soluble in nitric and sulphuric acids. It had a hardness factor of 6.5.

“I mean, you prance around with this holier-than-thou outlook. Don’t even talk to nobody. And this bombs-are-real bull—people just laugh. You want results, you best retool your whole piss-poor attitude.”

I took a sip of lemonade.

Thorianite, I noted, often contained traces of cesium and lanthanum. The largest deposits occurred in Ceylon and the Soviet Union.

“You want to be laughed at?” he asked. “You want that?”

“Morons,” I said.

Ollie rubbed his nose. “Don’t I know it? Hayseeds. But like I said, results is the bottom line.”

“And?”

“Kick ass. Find yourself some allies and start punching tickets. Riots, maybe. Whatever’s necessary.”

“Allies,” I said. “Like you, I bet.”

“Maybe. First we talk.”

I snapped the book shut. The cafeteria was jammed with the usual lunchtime crowd. Behind me, a radio was booming out House of the Rising Sun , and there was the clatter of silverware and triviality. No one knew. At the next table Sarah Strouch was showing off her thighs to a linebacker named Rafferty.

I folded my arms and said, “So talk.”

“Straight?”

“However,” I said. “Quick would be nice.”

Ollie straddled his chair and spent the next several minutes outlining my character flaws. Too conceited, he said. Too wrapped up in myself. Too smug and pompous and high and mighty.

“I could go on,” he said, and smiled, “but you get the drift. And now this bomb nonsense.”

“The truth,” I said.

“Oh, yeah. Truth. The war, right?”

“Partly. Other items, too.”

He shrugged. “Shrapnel, I know. You made your point, that’s why I’m here.”

“The point, Ollie.”

“Action. We team up.” He waved a pudgy hand at me. “In case you haven’t noticed, you and me got a lot in common. Two birds of the same fucked-up feather. Losers, that is. But I’ll tell you a basic fact. Losers sometimes get pissed. They get impolite, sometimes. That’s how revolutions happen.”

I put my coat on.

“Well,” I said, “it’s been fun.”

“Like in Moscow, 1917. Losers banging on winners. They didn’t wave no signs, they cut throats.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Losing sucks,” he said. “Losers lose .”

He removed his cowboy hat and brushed the brim with the back of his hand. His voice had a squeaky, hollowed-out sound, like an old 78 recording.

“So anyway,” he said, “let’s brainstorm a minute. Let’s say, for instance, we drop this peaceful-protest crud. Winning-wise, it don’t create the right impression. You got to wake people up—get their attention, basically—which means you blow a few socks off. Rig up some ordnance. Let the wreckage speak for itself.”

“Not interested,” I said.

“You don’t talk bombs. You show bombs. Scorch City. I guarantee, nobody laughs. Don’t hear jack.”

Then he listed some recent developments.

He talked about C-4 explosives and white phosphorus and the killing radius of a Claymore mine. A technical whiz, I thought, but what impressed me most was his little-man ferocity, and that gremlin voice, and the way he managed to present his own freakiness in a fairly convincing context. Sitting there, half listening, I was reminded of those old B movies with midgets dressed up as cowboys—the hero and the outlaws and the Shetland ponies—all midgets, but they play it straight, so after a while you begin to think that’s how the world is, it’s pint-sized, it comes at you in small doses. With Ollie Winkler, however, there was the added dimension of danger.

I finally stood up.

“One personal question,” I said casually, smiling at him. “When you were a kid, I mean, did you ever fool around with chemistry sets? Like testing nails for their iron content?”

He gave me a stare.

“Maybe so,” he said. “What if?”

“Just a question.”

“Yeah, but so what?”

“Fine,” I said, “don’t get defensive.”

“I’m not defensive. What if , though?”

I nodded soberly and picked up my tray.

“Those nails,” I said. “I’ve always wondered. Iron or no iron?”

Ollie slapped a fork against the palm of his hand. There was a pause, then he chuckled and rolled his shoulders.

“Super wit,” he said. “Chemistry sets, I like that, very shitty-witty. And here’s another funny one: What’d the chef say to the terrorist? There’s this chef, see, and there’s this jerkoff terrorist—real namby-pamby, can’t get no results—so the chef says, he says: Listen up, asshole. You don’t make a revolution without breaking a few legs.”

A week later he joined me on the line. He was carrying a home-made model bomb. “Audiovisual device,” he said, “like in show-and-tell.”

It wasn’t friendship, just an alliance. Two of us now—me with my poster, Ollie with his bomb—and together we established a makeshift front against the war. It was entirely my show. No broken legs, I told him, and although there were complaints now and then, he generally played along.

“You’re the boss,” he’d say softly, “but the time’ll come. You can mark it on your calendar.”

I didn’t let it influence me.

Slow and steady, I thought.

It was a routine. All through December, then time off for Christmas vacation, then the brittle cold of January. Long hours on the line, stiff fingers and tenacity. There was schoolwork, too, and exams and humdrum classes, but there was also a subtle new sense of command. I slept well. Fluid sleep, smooth and buoyant, a plush new laxity in my bowels. I was healthy. I was almost happy.

The only drawback, really, was Ollie Winkler.