Age mates and dervishes. A Baby Boomer inquisition.
By Joel Deutsch
“Miguelito, my man! How about another hit of that optimal Joe of yours?”
Daniel looked down. It was Nick, of course, grinning up at him from behind his droopy mustache. What an outfit! The green beret was Special Forces. that much, he knew. But was it in Apocalypse Now! that he’d seen the tiger jacket on an American military guy in a Saigon bar scene? Or was it The Deer Hunter? Platoon, maybe?
Nick left the empty cup on the counter and lovingly patted one fat, knobby wheelchair tire. “Sorry if I scared ya, man. This baby is a regular fucking Stealthmobile. Silent but deadly. Like a good, lethal fart, y’know? She’s an Invacare T-4. Top of the line. Clincher tires, titanium frame, titanium axle, titanium rims, titanium fucking everything. Fifteen pounds, not an ounce over. Cost Veterans Affairs over three grand. Back in ’67 and ’68, when I did my tour, that kind of bread would’ve bought you almost two VW Bugs. Shoulda had this baby that night my patrol ran into Charlie. Fucking gooks wouldn’t have had a fucking clue. Never woulda heard me coming. Of course, then I wouldn’t need it now, would I.” he brushed off the palm of that glove on his camouflage pants and offered it to Daniel. “Name’s Nick, by the way, man.”
“Daniel,” Daniel reciprocated, whereupon, in a ritual choreography he hadn’t seen, let alone participated in, for something over 30 years, Nick fixed him with a meaningful look, rotated his grip, and bent their forearms upward in the old multipurpose solidarity handclasp, as if they were arm wrestling in the air. Peace, brother. Fuck the war, fuck racism, fuck Johnson, McNamara, Nixon, Kissinger, Wall Street, Madison Avenue, Rock Hudson and Doris Day and John Wayne, , and may the spirit shine on you and bring you all the sex, drugs, rock and roll and sheer foolish courage you’re gonna need to get out of this surrealistic deathtrap world alive.
The handclasp and the signifying eye-lock held steady for a couple of seconds too long for Daniel’s comfort, and he was just about to break loose when Nick let go of his own accord and, grabbing both wheel rims, rolled himself six feet or so in reverse with pumping, powerful backward jerks.
“See me okay?” he asked Miguel.
“Yeah, Nick,” said Miguel, stubbing out a cigarette. “I can see you fine.
“Good. Now dig this.” For a long beat, Nick’s face was a mask of concentration. Then, with a sudden, wrenching movement, one hand pulling, the other pushing, he tipped the chair backward at such a precarious angle that Daniel was sure he would topple over. But just at the crucial instant, Nick’s arms pumped, and the wheelchair whirled completely around, perfectly balanced in its gravity-defying tilt, the rampant tiger on the back of the satin jacket spinning past like a strobe flash.
Nick arrested his rotation and touched down, facing front, grinning.
“¡Bravo!” cheered Miguel, lifting his coffee cup in salute.
“Amazing!” exclaimed Daniel. He had seen neighbor kids pop wheelies on all sorts of bicycles. While strolling the Venice boardwalk past the sunglasses vendors, chainsaw jugglers and boom-box Karaoke acts, he had watched skateboarder kamikazes in a concrete play area on the beach fly upside down coming off vertical walls. But he had never remotely imagined someone doing a standing 360 in a wheelchair and settling back to earth with Olympics-quality grace.
Nick acknowledged the praise with a quick seated bow, and rolled back up to the counter. “Been working on that one all week,” he said proudly.
“How do you keep the beret on when you do that?” asked Daniel.
“Hairpin,” grinned Nick, tapping one edge of the hat. “And don’t give me shit about it. Hey, you mind handing me down the coffee, so me and Miguel don’t have to do the stretch thing again?”
“No problem,” said Daniel, passing the cup over.
“Thanks, man. With me way down here, and Miguel not having much of a reach, it’s kind of a hassle. Some pair we make, huh? A crip and a midget.”
“You can call yourself a crip, if you want,” Nick,” bristled Miguel. “But I’m not a midget. A midget is a freak in a circus. I’m a dwarf.” Brow furrowing, eyes unamused, he reached for another cigarette.
“Roger that, little buddy,” said Nick. “Dwarf. Right on. You got it. It’s just words, man. I don’t like to get hung up on words, but I can dig where you’re coming from.” he sipped the coffee, then held the cup out to Daniel. “Actually, man, I gotta get back to my work. Think you could bring it over there?” he asked, gesturing toward his computer.
“Sure,” said Daniel, taking the cup again. Nick executed a smart wheelchair about face and rolled over to the table, redocking himself like a space shuttle. By the time Daniel reached him, Nick had locked the wheelchair’s brakes, brought his dormant laptop back to life, and was lighting a cigarette.
Nick was smoking Marlboros, Daniel could see by the red and white pack on the table; his lighter was an old brushed chrome Zippo, the indestructible model virtually fetishized by soldiers in Vietnam and two wars before that, and by Daniel, as well. Back in the day.
Standing there holding Nick’s coffee, he thought about his own Zippo, the one he had carried around from 11th grade until the day he quit, finally succumbing to Sheila’s withering disapproval when Melanie was born. He recalled the lighter’s dull gleam, the chunky weight of it in his hand, the pungency of the fluid, the ratcheting of the serrated spark wheel against the protruding red nub of flint, the small, fat whup! Of detonation when the wick caught flame. The metallic ping of the lid snapping open, the hard and final clack of it slapping shut. He had never thrown the thing out, but had kept it all these years like a family heirloom. He wondered if he still had the Zippo somewhere, in one of those not-yet unpacked boxes on his living room floor.
“Just put it on the table, anywhere, man,” said Nick, typing a few more characters and hitting enter decisively. As Daniel set the cup down, he looked over Nick’s shoulder. INT. HOOTCH—NIGHT, he could make out, flush against the left margin. A few years late for another Viet Nam screenplay, he thought, rechecking his watch. It was edging toward six, now. Time to try that exit line again. Everything was starting to vibrate with caffeine super clarity like a shimmering digital video of itself.
“Nick,” he said, “I think I’m going to just split for home now and try to cop a few hours of sleep. Good meeting you, man. And good luck with the writing trip.” It was amazing, he thought, how easily the old hippie-era patois came back to him, just like that.
He turned, meaning to catch Miguel’s attention, wave goodbye and make his exit, but felt a sharp, restraining tug on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
“Hey, man,” said Nick. “Don’t just cut out on me like that. Talk to me. I’m a writer. And writers are curious types. Give me a chance to get to know you a little. Sit your ass down for a while and shoot the shit with me.”
“I’d love to, Nick,” Daniel lied, “but the truth is, I’m not a night person, and I haven’t slept since yesterday. I have a long way to go, and I’ll be lucky if I don’t nod off at the wheel.”
Nick was unmoved. “Nobody’s a night person, man, until it becomes necessary for them to be a night person. And then they are. So maybe you weren’t a night person before. Maybe Miguel wasn’t a night person. Maybe I wasn’t a night person, either. But that was another time, man, another world. Another life, y’know? And now you’re a night person. So deal with it, is what I’m saying.
“Yo Miguelito!” he called over at the food truck. Give Daniel here some more coffee. We can’t let him get on the road half asleep, man! It’s a matter of public safety!”
Daniel’s nerves were already so frayed from the endless refills Miguel had been pouring him that it felt as if all it would take would be one more sip to wreak some serious neurochemical damage. “No, Miguel,” he countermanded. “No more coffee for me.”
And then to Nick, more firmly this time, “Really. Seriously. I’m not putting you on. I’ve got to get going.” He tried to pull his arm away, but Nick’s grip on his sleeve didn’t relent. He pulled again, harder, and this time succeeded in breaking free.
“Shit, man, I Just wanted to ask you a couple things, is all.” Nick was almost pleading. The shift of tone unsettled Daniel, felt creepy. Daniel thought he could detect moisture in Nick’s eyes, thought he saw the soul tuft quivering.
Nick flipped open his wheelchair’s brake levers and rotated around to face Daniel. “One question,” he says. All I wanna do is ask you one simple question. Would that be okay?”
“Okay.” Daniel blinked wearily, smoothing his sleeve. One question.”
“That’s the ticket,” said Nick. “Now just tell me this. How old are you?”
“My age? I’m 57,” said Daniel, wondering if Maybe his bedroom would be cool enough to let him sleep for a while. And he had to piss again, really badly. How long ago had he gone over to the men’s room behind the station? An hour? Two hours? Time was falling out of place.
“Same as me,” nodded Nick. “Right in there with the rest of us. Age cohort, they call it. Everybody’s the same age now, give or take. You, me, the President, the last President, Mick Jagger. Speaking of which, you seen that cat on stage lately?”
“No,” said Daniel. he hadn’t been to a rock concert since the old days up in the Bay Area. The Fillmore auditorium, the Avalon Ballroom, Winterland. It was not without keen nostalgia that he still could recall the light show montages pulsing on screens behind stages,, the electric roar, the press of bodies in the standing-room only audience, the sweet reek of pot smoke, and of course the music. He’d seen the Dead, the Airplane, the Butterfield Blues Band. He’d even seen chuck Berry, already historical rock canon retro at the time, open for Janis and Big Brother. Now he received a couple of popular music channels with his cable service, but never tuned in to watch the videos for more than a few seconds on his way to other destinations. He didn’t like how old it made him feel.
“Well, I have,” Nick said. “Just a few years ago. Wiltern Theater. I must be some kind of masochist, driving all the way down to L. A. for that. Depressed the living shit out of me. Ugly little pouty-mouthed fuck is still prancing around like a corpse that’s been embalmed with steroids. Jumpin’ Jack Flash, my fucking ass. More like Jumpin’ Jimmy Hoffa, or one of those other dead guys.”
That’s it? That’s all you wanted to know? My age?” Daniel knew that his annoyance was audible, and he was too tired to care.
“No, no, man,” said nick. “That’s not the question. That’s the question I needed an answer to so I could ask the actual question.”
“Which is?” Daniel bit, knowing he shouldn’t, but he was too weary to resist.
Nick plucked a smoldering Camel from the cluttered little ashtray, took a deep drag, crushed it out. From behind his flipped-up computer screen, he produced a half-empty pint of Johnnie Walker Red Label, poured a dollop into his coffee, then held the bottle out to Daniel.
“Thanks,” said Daniel, shaking his head no.
“Your loss, my gain,” said Nick, recapping the bottle, returning it to its hiding place and stirring the Scotch into his coffee with a plastic spoon. Taking a swig, he fixed Daniel with a prosecutorial look.
“The question, my friend, is did you ever serve? “
“You mean in the military?” checked Daniel, just to be sure.
“Bingo,” said Nick. “Well, did you?”
“I was in college. College and then graduate school.”
Nick nodded. “So they laid, what was it, a 2-S on you? The student deferment?”
“Yeah,” confirmed Daniel, in prudent revision, the actual story being a little more complicated. A lot more complicated, actually.
To be continued…