Robert Mason - Chickenhawk - Back in the World - Life After Vietnam

I got my slides back from the camera shop and mailed them home. I called Patience and told her we were ready for the next leg of the trip. She knew what that meant and her voice sounded fearful. So did mine, I guess. I was jumpy, nervous, abrupt. I just wanted to get it over with. “I’ll be seeing you in a couple of weeks,” I said.

“I love you,” she said, her voice breaking. “Be careful.”

“I love you, too. Two weeks; maybe three. I’ll be home.”

We met Ireland back at the dingy. It was five in the afternoon, so we went into the Islander and had some beers. I ordered chowder.

While I was waiting for the food, I spotted somebody I knew. Impossible! I tried to slink down in the chair, but he saw me and walked over. It was Cal Fisher, a guy I went to art school with. He and I had been pretty good friends back then. Patience and I met him and his wife when we lived at married student housing. His daughter, Carol, and Jack had played together. He sat down on the bench next to me and I introduced him to John and Ireland. I could hardly talk. John picked up on my panic and told Cal how we were down here delivering a yacht to some rich dude, taking another one back up. Cal nodded. I could tell by the way he looked at John that he knew what we were really doing. The Islander was crawling with pot smugglers. Even I could tell who they were. We had a lame conversation for a few minutes. He was working in real estate. He got up to leave. He said good-bye to John and Ireland. When I stood up, Cal moved close to me and whispered, “Bob, what are you doing here?” He gave me a knowing smile and left.

I thought, what am I doing here? I could’ve gone into real estate, too.

John announced that we were going to have one last party before we left. A fucking tie-one-on party. I said maybe we should be cool, unobtrusive.

Even Ireland thought I was being paranoid. It ended up that I took the dingy back to the boat with the stuff we’d bought and John and Ireland stayed to party. They said they’d come down to the beach, close to the Namaste , when they finished, and yell for me to row out and get them. Fine.

I sat in the cockpit of the Namaste , alone for the first time in weeks. I watched the boat next to us, a legitimate yacht. I wondered what people did to get that much money legally. We had seen a two- hundred-foot yacht moored by the fuel pumps manned by a crew of twenty sailors, all wearing beige uniforms. One of them told us the owner lived on the boat by himself. A Bell Long Ranger helicopter, painted to match the beige and brown trim of the yacht, perched on the fantail of the boat. Now, how does one man get that much money? Just the helicopter cost more than a million dollars. I wasn’t jealous; I was just bewildered. I thought I was a pretty smart guy, but making money just seemed to be beyond my talents. These people, the yachts, the big houses, intimidated me. I thought I was getting a taste of what the blacks on the island felt.

I made some tuna fish salad and ate in the cockpit. I lay in a lawn chair, chewing my sandwich, staring at the stars. They weren’t as bright in the yacht basin as they were when we were out to sea. Too many lights.

At about ten, I heard hoots and yells in the darkness over at the beach; had to be John and Ireland. I climbed into the dingy and rowed over. I heard a lot of laughing. They were thoroughly drunk. When the dingy got close enough, Ireland jumped in. John leapt, too, but he missed and fell in the water. We pulled him in, sopping, over the side.

John sprawled across the dingy, laughing, having a really good time.

Ireland was staring up the beach. “C’mon, Ali, let’s go!” he said.

“What’s the problem?” I said.

“Aw. This Juan.” Ireland sighed. “He started a fight at the bar. Hurt a guy.”

“Fucker damn well deserved it!” John yelled. Then he laughed.

Ireland kept staring up the beach, toward the hotel.

“Police?” I said.

“Maybe,” Ireland said. “I don’t think anybody knows where we went, though. We ran out through the hotel and circled back.”

“Jesus,” I said. “What a fuckup. Our last night, and you get in a fight?”

“Hey, Ali.” John laughed. “Best night to fuck up is the last night.”

I stayed awake long after John and Ireland were asleep. This was getting too nutty. He misses his watch. He starts fights. He’s too stubborn to admit that he’s wrong when he is. Cal Fisher knows what we’re up to—how do I know Cal’s not a cop? Or knows a cop? How the fuck can we keep making so many mistakes and pull this off?

I’m leaving. Tomorrow. Then a pang of guilt hits me.

Who’ll stand my watch?

Who’ll stand my watch! Are you kidding? Who cares! You could hire a chimp to do what I’m doing. It’s not my fucking problem. Tomorrow, I’m calling Patience and telling her to send a plane ticket.

What’s she going to use for money?

Borrow it from somebody.

Who? The only guy who’d lend you money is on this boat with you.

Somebody will.

Okay. You quit. Then what? Go home and look for work?

My book. Books. I’m working on two.

Your books are a waste of time. Mental masturbation. Be real. You’re no writer. You’re as much a writer as Elliott is a fucking rancher. No one’s going to buy your book. Can’t you read between the lines of those polite fucking rejection letters? You’re not a writer; you’re not anything. You’ll be lucky to get a job mowing yards, pumping gas. And then John and Ireland will cruise through High Springs in a few weeks; maybe they’ll stop and let you pump gas for them, pockets bulging with cash, saying, Too bad, Bob. They gave us each a fifty-thousand bonus, too. Dammy! Wanting; having. Here, take this—they stuff a couple of twenties in your pocket—little something for you, Bob. Buy some shoes or something, eh? Bye, Bob. They hustle off in new Corvettes, leaving ten dollars’ worth of rubber on the road, loose bills fluttering out the windows.

Better poor than poor and in jail, I say to the other voice that lives in my head and argues with me. Tomorrow I’m leaving. I’m no fool.

The other voice laughs.

I was grim as death the next morning. John noticed, but thought I was just pissed at him for last night. He said he’d been an asshole. I nodded.

We hauled the anchor and motored over to the fuel pumps to top off. I jumped on the dock while John and Ireland helped the fuel guy get the hose to the Namaste’s tank. I wandered over to the two-hundred-foot yacht and stared at the bow. A few chips of paint were missing and silvery metal gleamed through. This was a stainless-steel hull? Two hundred feet of stainless steel cake with a helicopter topping. I hated this man.

Why’re you stalling? My bicameral companion said.

I’m going. Just have to say good-bye first. Just pissed at this rich guy. Two hundred feet of—

“What’s up, Bob?” John said behind me.

“Nothing.”

He must have read my mind. “You know, Bob, this is the point of no return. When we leave here, we won’t touch land again until we get home. This is it.”

What’s he think? I’m scared? I may be leaving, but I’m not scared. “I know. Just woke up feeling shitty, is all. I’m—”

John nodded and went into the dockmaster’s office to pay for the diesel fuel. I stared at Ireland, my mouth muttering, “Gonna quit.” He shrugged and glanced down at the water. John came out of the office and jumped aboard the Namaste . They looked at me, heads cocked. I looked at them.

I walked over to tell them, Sorry, I’ve had it; I’m quitting this stupid mission. You guys’ll need my share for new tires anyway—

I stared at John. I remembered the things he’d done for me, like buying me the typewriter—everyone deserves the right tool, he’d said—lending me his car or truck in the middle of the night and never complaining, lending me money and never mentioning it. I watched Ireland pulling in the bow line. He turned and looked at me expectantly. I could hear him saying, Whaty wrong, Ali? He was hardworking, funny. He was loyal.