Tim O'Brien - The Nuclear Age

“Just a thought.”

He released my arm and stepped back.

“I’m a doctor,” he said, “I can’t—”

“No problem.”

“A crazy world, but I can’t fake it. Tell your dad I’m sorry. Don’t blame him for asking—leaning hard. I’d do the same myself. Tell him that.”

“Sure,” I said, “you’re a doctor.”

In my bedroom, as I finished packing, there was the feel of a performance gone stale, too many rehearsals.

“Bag money,” my father said. He slipped a thick envelope into my pocket. “Tens and twenties, hard to trace.”

“Unmarked, I hope.”

“Slick as a whistle. Ran it through the scanner, it’s clean.”

My mother folded shirts; my father sat on the edge of the bed, head down, hands carefully pressed to his knees. Now and then he’d take a quick peek at his wristwatch.

“You know what this reminds me of?” he said. “That TV show— I Led Three Lives . Herb Philbrick, remember? That trench coat of his. Always pulling up the collar and ducking into phone booths, sweating to beat holy hell. Remember that?”

“Richard Carlson,” I said.

“Yeah, Richard Carlson. Subversives everywhere. FBI agents, too, all over the place, in the closet, under the bed. And that poor slob Philbrick, the way he’d slink around in that damned spy coat, just sweating up a storm—like a flood, I mean gallons —the guy couldn’t turn it off.”

“I’ll go easy on the sweat,” I told him. “No trench coats, either.”

My father smiled.

“Comrade,” he said.

Late in the afternoon I took a shower and dressed up in my new clothes. There was a short picture-taking session, fierce smiles straight at the camera, then my father said, “Ready, comrade?”

The ride down to the bus depot was almost jolly. We talked about David Janssen in The Fugitive , how it was the greatest TV program in history. My mother said she’d start looking for me in the next episode.

We were tough people. Scared, a little dazed, but we followed the script.

When the bus rolled up, my parents took turns hugging me.

“Postcards,” my mother said. “Don’t forget.”

“Invisible ink,” I said.

“Microdots under the stamps.”

My father turned away. It was a wobbly moment but he didn’t lose control.

“One favor,” he said. “Keep that hair trimmed.”

“For sure.”

“What I mean is, we’re proud of you. Not a single thing to be ashamed about.”

He kissed me on the forehead.

“Pride,” he said, “and love, that says it all, cowboy.”

I made Chicago at six o’clock Monday morning. Thirty-five hours on the run, and already I was feeling the side effects. Stomach problems and a crushing headache. I splurged on a cab out to O’Hare, ate breakfast, spent a half hour in the men’s room, then popped an aspirin and made the hard walk up to the TWA counter. “Johnson,” I said, and felt a telltale grin coming on. The girl didn’t look up. Her lips moved as she counted my tens and twenties, then she cranked out a ticket and waved me on. It was almost a disappointment. Over and over, during that long haul through North Dakota and Minnesota, I’d played out the various scenarios. A cop asking for my driver’s license, a Herb Philbrick sweat, then handcuffs and fingerprints.

“Gate Twelve,” the girl said. “Safe trip.”

Too ordinary, I thought. The effortless takeoff. Tweedy seats and canned music, the flight attendants with their rubber smiles and toasted almonds. It was unreasonable, of course, but I felt cheated. I wanted something more. A clot in the fuel lines. An instant of daffy panic. I wanted contact with my own emotions.

But the plane nosed up through a pale morning sky, banking eastward, leveling off at thirty thousand feet.

Automatic pilot, no pain.

I levered back my seat and slept through to Boston. It was a purring sleep, like the engines, not even a bad dream.

At Logan, Ollie Winkler was there to meet me at the gate.

“Well,” he said, “you look like snot. Green and rancid.”

There was no hugging or handshaking. We collected my luggage, took an elevator up to the main ticketing area, dropped quarters into a vending machine, and sipped our coffee standing up near a window.

“I kid you not,” he said, “you look sick. Like fried oysters. Real nice haircut, though.” He grinned and put his nose to the window and watched a plane lift off. “So anyhow, welcome to the depths. Depths—underground, get it? I’m real keen on the lingo.”

“Watchdog,” I said, “that’s another good one.”

Ollie shrugged. “Sarah, she goes in for the spook stuff. You ask me, it’s too James Bond-y, slightly paranoid, but I guess that’s her style. Like right now—today—I’m not even supposed to talk to you, just drop messages. Screw it, though. I figure you got to go with the normal flow, otherwise you start… Listen, maybe you better sit down.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Worse than sick. Dead fuckin’ oysters.”

I let him lead me over to a bench in the main lobby. Jet lag, I thought. I closed my eyes and leaned back while he filled me in on his doings since graduation. Most of it I already knew. He explained how the McCarthy business had gone bust after California. Clean-cut candidate, clean-cut defeat. “Tidy Bowl Politics,” he said, “it makes you yearn for the pigpen. Crack a few skulls, you know?”

“I do know. Like RFK.”

“Right, Bobby. Messy shit. Didn’t do much for morale.”

“But you stuck?”

“Oh, sure, me and Tina both. The holy wars.”

Ollie was silent for a time. He’d lost some weight, and he seemed taller now, and stronger, and a little more subdued. He wore a buckskin jacket and boots, but no cowboy hat. At the crown of his head, I noticed, there was evidence of aging. After a moment he sighed, snapping his fingers, and talked about life on the campaign trail, mostly the disappointments. “The Windy City,” he said, “that was an eye-opener for all of us. Yippies here, Dippies there. Turns out clean-cut isn’t trendy. No offense, I do love that haircut.”

“And now?”

“You know. Politics as usual.”

“Meaning?”

He looked at his fingernails. “The chef, remember? I said it before, you got to break some legs. Three years ago. Nobody listened, but I said it.”

“You did.”

“Now they’re listening.”

“Sarah?”

“Oh, sure,” he said, “especially Sarah. Sometimes I almost wonder… Anyhow, you’ll see. She’s got some rude new friends.”

“Who—”

“Three fucking years ago, I said it. You heard me, right? I said it.”

“Yes. What about these friends?”

Ollie stood up. He unwrapped a stick of Juicy Fruit, folded it twice, placed it on his tongue, and chewed vigorously. “Just pals,” he said. “Concerned citizens, you might say.”

“Bad-weather types?”

“Sure,” he said, shrugging, “you might say that, too. Vigilantes. Various shades of dread. The network, it’s your basic franchise principle, like Kentucky Fried Terror. Independently owned and operated, but you can always count on the Colonel.”

“Happy arrangement,” I said.

“I guess. Let’s eat.”

We ordered sandwiches at a stand-up counter. Ollie reviewed my itinerary and told me the hard part was over. Like when a little kid starts walking, he said, the first few steps were tough, he understood that—sort of seasick, everything moving at weird angles—but in a week or two I’d get the hang of it. A month, max. He said to treat it like a business trip, a vacation, whatever. A big country, he said. Not to worry about Uncle Sam. Don’t start seeing ghosts. Paranoia, that was the killer. Just follow the rules of the road, he said, then he listed them for me, how I should avoid strangers, stay cool, keep my nose clean. Never jaywalk, he said. Be a good citizen. Then he laughed. “There’s nothing like crime,” he said softly, “to keep you honest.”