SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

CHAPTER TWO

I’ve attended well over one hundred Bruce Springsteen concerts. Closer to one hundred fifty. My better half and I tried to establish a definite number. After a while, we got bored and decided that playing with the cat was a much better use of our time. 

Seeing the guy that many times is ridiculous. I understand that. On a positive note, instead of declaring “married, filing jointly” on my tax return, I can legally claim my status as “pathetic and probably should be under psychiatric care.”

In my defense, the shows are outstanding.

I have friends who’ve seen him over four hundred times, which works out to approximately fifty full days of Bruce concerts. I should feel profoundly distressed for these folks and concerned enough to coordinate an intervention.

Mostly, I feel envious. 

Bruce Springsteen concerts are not unlike taking a hike up a familiar mountain trail by yourself. You have a pretty good idea of how your walk will go and are fully aware of how it’ll end. The twists and turns of the trail are expected and even reassuring. You look inward, but you’re remarkably mindful of your surroundings.

However, each hike is unique and brings plenty of new insights. The details in those twists and turns are different. In the end, you feel better for the experience. 

I may be reading too much into the entire thing. 

Not that I know anything about hiking. My idea of hiking is walking a quarter mile to the local coffee shop, and the closest thing I get to communing with nature is staying at a Holiday Inn Express.

The last time I went hiking up a mountain was with my niece. It took us a little longer than fifth grade to get up the mountain, and then we went down the wrong side, so we had to climb back up the mountain and walk down the other side. After the first four hours, my knees were swollen, and my hips were locked in place, so I was waddling around like a penguin. Plus, I was exhausted. I spent the rest of the hike staggering over the mountain like Frankenstein’s monster after a ten-day tequila binge. My niece was having a blast. She loves hiking. Oh, she was having a grand old time. For me, the whole thing was turning into a religious experience. The hallucinations weren’t so bad until I saw Mother Teresa looking at me, shaking her head and saying, “Loser.” 

In the mid-eighties, Springsteen used to play quite a few roles on stage. In three and a half hours, he was a clean-cut, patriotic young American, a very energetic carnival barker, a socially conscious man of the people, a class clown, a highly intense moralist, and an extroverted party boy. The one role I don’t think Bruce played on stage was himself. Off-stage, by most accounts, he was aloof, unapproachable, and depressed. The stage was his refuge from himself. A stage is an excellent place to escape the person you are or believe you are. I can attest to that. The light that shines brightly while you’re on stage turns pitch-black when you’re not on it. It reminds me of Robin Williams or Marilyn Monroe. Or me. Back in the day, at least. 

On this tour, the opening song was always “Born in the USA.” It’s sung from the point of view of a Vietnam Veteran who was kicked around as a child, drafted by a government that couldn’t care less about the lives it destroyed, flung into the middle of the Vietnam War, and returned traumatized for life. As the song progresses, he comes to the very reasonable conclusion that, in the game of life, he lost. In the end, he admits,  “I got nowhere to run. I got nowhere to go.” 

However, no one heard the lyrics because the audience erupted with joyous dancing and singing, as with all audiences. Even Butt-Hair was dancing or, at least, attempting as much. Helmet-Head, who had spent the entire day bouncy, silly, giggly, and annoying, stood very still with her arms crossed. She gave a glare towards the stage. 

What’s up your butt, Sunshine? Have you left your cheerleader uniform at home? Can’t find your pom-poms? They couldn’t have gone far. Have you checked your colon? Let’s start a cheer: “You losers ain’t got no class / Come over and kiss my ass / You think things have gotten bad / We just killed your mom and dad.” 

I thought that. I didn’t say it.

At the song’s end, Helmet-Head turned towards the rest of us and immediately jumped back into her happy-happy-joy-joy character and assured us that she was altogether “fine and dandy,” which was another phrase of hers I could have lived without. 

A few songs into the show, the band played “Atlantic City.” Atlantic City is a beach town in the States where a gambling paradise was built in the early eighties. As with artificial paradises, it didn’t take long to become a hell hole. The song’s desperate, down-on-his-luck protagonist must make tough decisions to survive.

There’s a line in the song that gets me every time. The main character declares to his equally desperate wife, “Our luck may have died, and our love may be cold, but with you forever, I’ll stay.” I think it’s a statement of devotion, an acknowledgment that their shared dreams were well beyond their grasp, and an acceptance of a bleak future about which they had very little say. However, the little they could say would be said together. 

That night, those words hit me between my eyes. At that moment, Helmet Head looked at me and smiled. It wasn’t her goofy, cheerleader smile. It was sincere, but I wasn’t sure what she was smiling about.

During the song, Butt-Hair and Daniel were making googly eyes at each other, secretly holding hands, and making the occasional quick, kissy faces. I found this sight nauseating. They were acting like fourteen-year-olds. However, they happily enjoyed each other’s company, so who was I to pooh-pooh their special love?

Helmet-Head got teary-eyed again during the next song, “The River,” which is a first-person recounting of someone who has managed to fuck up his entire life. She was looking weepy.

I told her, “It’s okay. It’s a sad song. You’re allowed.”

It was too late. She had already reverted to her bubbly and ridiculous persona for the remainder of the first set. 

Sweetheart, dump all this infantile, simple-minded, overactive, shallow, up-with-people crap and pretend to be a normal human being. 

I desperately wanted to say that.

“Thunder Road,” the final song of the first set, concluded with Springsteen running into the open arms of his sax player, Clarence Clemons, for a long kiss and embrace. Butt-Hair frowned at the sight of this and muttered something about this behavior, setting a bad example for the young, impressionable Swedes in the audience. She wondered why famous musicians insisted on encouraging their fans to “turn into homosexuals.” Butt-Hair wanted to know my feelings about it. 

What is it with people like you spending your waking hours hyperventilating about what the rest of the world is getting up to in bed? Get a hobby. Get a life. The rest of the world doesn’t care what you think. Please give it up. Then, shut up. 

I smiled, shrugged, and replied, “It’s not like they’re having sex on stage. I wouldn’t get too torn up about it, and I’m sure the young, impressionable Swedes will get over it.”

Butt-Hair, with Helmet-Head in tow, immediately stormed off to powder her nose, which was a relief because it meant I didn’t have to sit with Butt-Hair and Daniel playing slap-and-tickle to my left and Helmet-Head to my right telling me all about unicorns and rainbows and candy canes and just shut up, Honey.

While the young ladies were off doing whatever they were doing, Daniel and I bantered a bit about his new-found love interest. Daniel was taken by Butt-Hair, so I figured it’d be best not to give my honest assessment because I found her to be a judgmental bitch. Plus, I had forgotten her name. I mean, I knew her name wasn’t Butt-Hair. Although, I didn’t rule it out. She could have been the daughter of one of the numerous low-life, amoral Hollywood actors who’ll do anything to keep the public’s attention, and if it means cursing their children with names that will ruin their prospects for a happy childhood, then kid, too bad. That’s the price of fame.

Daniel said the girls facilitated quite a change in him. He assured me he was a Christian through and through. He wasn’t making heavy weather about it: no over-explaining or justifying. There wasn’t any Amway song-and-dance, and no salesperson would be knocking on my door. None of the usual signs of pretense. He thanked me for modifying my behavior to avoid offending anyone’s tender sensibilities. I was glad he noticed. 

I’m pretty good at reading between the lines, and I can usually find the pony under all the horseshit. I spent the first half of my life burying myself under enough horseshit to fertilize the Sinai and still have enough left over to create a new political party. I know what to look for. I found Daniel to be genuine. 

“I’m glad you found each other. She’s beautiful. Striking.” I was being nice. I didn’t like her, although no one said I had to like her. On the other hand, we didn’t have to talk about her, either.

So, it was my turn to change the subject. “Not that you need to tell me, but…Africa. Wha’ ‘appen? And what is up with her agonizingly happy lil’ friend?”

“Jen? You don’t know her. You may think you know her. But you don’t. Trust me, you don’t.”

Okay, the name’s Jen. Useful information. She’ll always be Helmet-Head to me.

“Don’t you get seriously ill of all the giggly-touchy-feely slop? Sorry. Anyway, Africa. Wha’ ‘appen?

Daniel said he didn’t want to talk about it. 

“Fair enough. Will give that one a miss. Sorry.”

Then, Daniel told me all about it. 

Daniel, who had a habit of doing this, decided to join a foreign aid agency on a trip to distribute food and supplies to people who couldn’t afford to buy either. He hooked up with some agency, and off he went to Ethiopia. Specifically, a little place along the Red Sea called Eritrea. This is where things get untidy. According to Daniel, Eritrea, even though it was already in Ethiopia, was being invaded by Ethiopia. 

(Think about that for a moment. Imagine the Good Ol’ USA of America invading Maine. We send out our troops and kick Maine’s ass. What’s the point? We’ve engaged in some stupid activities in this country, but we haven’t invaded ourselves. Yet.)

Invading yourself makes no sense, of course, and if something makes no sense, then a government is usually involved. In the case of Eritrea, many governments, as the United Nations managed to slither into the fold. In 1950, according to Daniel, the UN decided it would be a brilliant idea to take Eritrea, an independent country, put it in Ethiopia, and create some half-baked federation between the two, which meant Eritrea would no longer be a country. It would be part of Ethiopia but would maintain its sovereignty. Daniel said Eritreans were promised independence and autonomy. Unfortunately for the citizens of Eritrea, the promise came from the United Nations.

The memo from the UN to Eritrea was, “So, like, the whole thing is, I mean, you do whatever, okay? It’s cool. Like, you do you. The pressure’s off. You don’t have to worry about being a real country. You’re in Ethiopia, which is great. So, you can just be you. And just be out there, you know, doing whatever. So, it’s cool. And, you know, Ethiopia is all good with it. They’re excited to, uh, not get involved in your stuff, as such. And we can keep it loose. Kinda just out there. In a tubular kinda way. You’re good. Independent. Completely. No question. This will be great. Pretty much. And we got your back. Honest. We promise Ethiopia won’t mess with you. The UN will always be there for you. Forever! We promise. Always and forever!”

All seriousness aside, I have no idea who thought this would work, and, of course, it didn’t. After ten years of Ethiopia’s harassment, Eritrea said, “Adios.” 

Ethiopia said, “My ass.” 

So began the invasion of Eritrea. I’m guessing the UN boldly stepped up by issuing a memo to Eritrea stating, “When we said ‘forever,’ we didn’t mean THAT ‘forever.’ Sorry for the inconvenience.”

That was in 1961. Daniel’s trip was in 1985, and Ethiopia was still trying to take over Eritrea. Twenty-four years seems like a long time to invade a country the size of Ohio. Especially when it’s not a country and is already in your country. Ethiopia was ten times the size of Eritrea, had twenty times the population, and its invasion was generously funded by the Soviet Union. However, after twenty-four years, Ethiopia still couldn’t leave the parking lot with its invasion.

So, what was the major malfunction? I mean, come on. The theory I expressed to Daniel was Ethiopia was taking the Soviets for a ride to keep the Russian money flowing. The Ethiopian government knew the Soviets wanted Eritrea for themselves. I figured Ethiopia couldn’t have cared less about Eritrea. They liked getting boatloads of money from the USSR, so they, the Ethiopian government, pretended to invade Eritrea.

However, Daniel felt the invasion was genuine, but the Ethiopian army kept stepping on its collective dick every time it tried to accomplish anything. The Ethiopian military’s tactic was to send a bunch of mercenaries to random Eritrean villages for the sole purpose of committing hideous war crimes against the villagers and, once they were done, running away. If you bet on Ethiopia, then that strategy was a little disappointing. Plus, it wasn’t the best way to win the hearts and minds of the locals, as the level of atrocities committed by the Ethiopians against Eritrean citizens would have caused Joseph Stalin to hide under his bed and whimper for his binky. 

That was where Daniel met Helmet Head and Butt Hair. Helmet and Butt were part of a team of Christian missionaries who distributed food, medicine and spread the Good News to those Eritrean villagers willing to listen, which, thanks to the Ethiopian mercenaries terrorizing random Eritreans, happened to be about everybody. More than once, Daniel and the mission team became caught between invading Ethiopian gangs and Eritrean villagers scrambling for safety. 

In the chaos of one such instance, Helmet was separated from the team, stepped into a dwelling to hide, and found herself face-to-face with four armed Ethiopian thugs.

I can’t imagine the thoughts racing through her mind other than the terrifying realization that she’d been caught with her pants squarely around her ankles, with nowhere to run, had no one coming to her rescue, and needed to come to terms with her immediate future, which was looking, to be mild, bleak.

As you can guess, she was dragged off somewhere and tossed around like a rag doll among the four fine young men. Daniel started giving me details of her kidnapping.

“Fortunately, you found her. Or someone did.” I interrupted. I didn’t want to hear the details. 

“We didn’t find her. Two days later. You won’t believe this, but the four mercs who kidnapped her. Two days later. Brought her back. Right? They patched her up. Carried her back. “

“Huh? I’m guessing that’s not usually how these things go.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. They sell the women they kidnap. End up as sex slaves. They break them. Right? The girls get locked up, and they….”

“Happily, that wasn’t the case here. Sorry.” Interrupted again. “Did someone intervene, or did she negotiate on her behalf?”

“She prayed.”

“With ample justification, how did…..?”

“The whole time. She sang worship songs. Recited Bible passages. Right? And, praised God.”

“While being gang-banged by a bunch of animals? Who then brought her back and said, ‘Have a nice day?’ Sorry.”

“See. I knew you wouldn’t believe it. I didn’t. Believe it. Then.”

“I’m not getting my arms around this one. And you witnessed them bringing her back.”

“Uh-huh. Exactly. The mercs who took her. Four murdering rapists. In two days. Right? Came back, Born-Again Christians. All four. Begging for forgiveness, begging God and Jen. She converted them. Right? Then they turned themselves into the [Eritrean] police. And she did.”

“Did what?”

“Forgive them.”

“You’re joking. They kidnapped her at gunpoint. They raped her. Repeatedly. Slapped her around. Repeatedly. During this time, she sang gospel songs and thanked God for her abundant good fortune. Really? No, wait. Sorry. There’s more. She forgave them. And, no, wait. There’s even more where that came from. She converts them. From Saul to Paul, or do I have that backward? Okay, good. They find God, patch her up, give her tea and sympathy, bring her back, apologize, and fall on their swords. All within forty-eight hours, give or take. That a fair reading?”

“I know you don’t believe me. I was there. Right? When they brought her back. All of it. It was real. Most real thing I seen in my life. It was a miracle. Right?”

“Well, maybe not up there with the Jets beating the Colts, it’s….. I’m sorry, that was wrong. It certainly sounds miraculous. Sorry.” I felt like a fool trying to make light of all this.

“Me and Vicky. As soon as we could. We took her to a hospital in Gutenberg. Twelve days. In hospital. She screamed and cried. And prayed for twelve days. We stayed with her. Right? They’ve been staying with me for the past week. She’s going back in a few days.” 

“What?!” I was loud enough to turn quite a few heads. 

“We tried. Talking her out of it. No one can talk her out of it. Right? Me and Vicky can’t go with her. Not yet. Vicky needs to go back to the US to see her parents. Her father’s dying. My passport expired.”

“She’s going by herself?”

“I know. I know. She won’t budge. She’s going back. She promised God. She said that. Now you know. Right? That’s who you’re dealing with.”

“So, what’s with all the fake happy-happy-joy-joy crap? Sorry. She’s in a good mood, given the circumstances.”

Daniel snapped, “Look. It’s her way of trying to keep it together. Right? So, don’t….”

“Oops, here they come. Did we have this conversation?”

“No.”

“Will they figure out we did?”

“Just be cool. Right? Don’t mention Africa.”

They looked much more relaxed. Butt-Hair was anxious to discover what Daniel and I were discussing during their absence. 

“Oh, trading war stories, none of which Daniel and I can repeat until the statutes of limitations have expired, what with the arrest warrants and all.”

The girls looked very concerned.

“Kidding. I’m kidding. No warrants. Sorry. Honest.”

They both tried and failed to appear amused.

Butt-Hair, sorry, Vicky, seemed to have lightened up quite a bit. I was about to ask Jen if she pulled the large stick out of her friend’s whatnot. Luckily for all involved, Bruce started the second set.

The concert was, as expected, great fun. However, I spent most of the time keeping an eye on Jen, wondering when the rubber band would snap and hoping I wouldn’t be around the day she’d climb the tower to gun down as many people as possible.

It’s only a matter of time. After what she’s been through, it’s only a matter of time. 

After the show, Daniel and the girls announced they were too tired to go out and play. We walked for about a mile to Daniel’s car. The three would return to his place, and I would walk a few blocks to my hotel. Just before they hopped in his Volvo (imagine my surprise), Daniel walked over to me,  gave me two tickets for the following night’s concert, and casually announced he and Vicky would be joining Jen and me at the show.

I felt blindsided. 

Understanding I wouldn’t be receiving this news well, he spouted off the name of a restaurant where Jen and I would have dinner before going to the stadium for the next day’s concert. He quickly got in the car and closed the door. They waved.

I was displeased and didn’t take kindly to them dropping Jen on my lap. After hearing Daniel’s description of Jen’s adventures, the previous month and observing her behavior, I didn’t want to be responsible for entertaining her.

Psychotic? After what she’s been through, I can’t imagine otherwise. Deranged? Who wouldn’t be? Did she go nucking futs from the experience? Two days of the worst possible hell, she’s walking around like nothing happened. Who recovers from something like that in a few weeks? No one I’d trust.

I walked back to the hotel, dreading having dinner with her, and reviewed all the possible ways the whole thing could turn into a dumpster fire.

Okay, I’ll make sure the restaurant hides all the knives. Forks. Must hide those. No glassware. Plastic spoons and sippy cups for the Chardonnay. 

Oh, calm down. We’re just grabbing something to eat. She’s not crazy. She’s courageous. More courageous than I’ll ever be. And she was traumatized. And she is dealing with it in her own way. So, shut up. And be nice.

Dinner will be fine.

Boring but fine. 

I was right on the “fine” part,  at least. 

—END OF CHAPTER TWO—

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