SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

In fond memory of Jen whose strength exceeded that of 10,000 men.

– “If you are humble, nothing will touch you, neither praise nor disgrace, because you know what you are.”

– “Yes, you must live life beautifully and not allow the spirit of the world that makes gods out of power, riches, and pleasure make you forget that you have been created for greater things.”

– “One filled with the joy preaches without preaching.”

– “There is a light in this world, a healing spirit more powerful than any darkness we may encounter.”

Mother Teresa

————————

CHAPTER FOUR

What is it about Bruce Springsteen’s music and concerts?

I don’t know. It makes as much sense as music itself. That said, I’ll inflict my thoughts on the subject on you. Brace yourselves. If you have some hard alcohol handy then now would be the time to make ample use of it.

Here we go:

The initial stumble is that music defies understanding. Scholars, scientists, philosophers, composers, and even the greats like Aristotle and Socrates have all grappled with its effects on humanity. They debated and couldn’t agree on anything, and the mystery remains. That’s the problem with philosophers. They sit around and think about whatever it is they want to think about. They have no corroboration and aren’t bothered to test their theories. The great philosophers just blurt out their learned but unverified thoughts.

If you disagree with a philosopher’s conclusion then he (and, it’s always a he) yells at you and calls you bad names.

It’s from this very productive and successful model that our modern day politics is beautifully displayed. At day’s end, no one understands what music is or where it stands in the our nervous system’s heirarchy.

If you accept all the input from those who (in their opinions) know what they’re talking about, human reaction to music is based on everything from frequency modulation, amplitudes, properties of geoscience, belief coherence, spirituality, language, mathematics, higher realms of natural science, cultural practices, man’s ego, vibrations, sine waves, and communal heartbeats.

All those are the openers. There are plenty more from which to choose. Trust me. I checked.

Then there is the question of what music is. As a child, I remember my father and I having very different views on that subject. I mentioned that “Layla” by Eric Clapton was a fine display of musicianship. To which my father responded, “No good fucky-fucky commie bullshit.” It was a gulf in opinion that we never bridged.

Well, Dad and I were not alone in this disagreement.

Governments worldwide do their best to block music identified as objectionable from entering their country. It’s music they believe threatens the regime. What makes one song objectionable but another fine and dandy. It’s a matter of vague assumptions and ridiculous misunderstandings.

Speaking of misunderstandings, those who have spent lifetimes identifying the nature and identity of music determined they didn’t have a fucking clue and died of old age.

So that’s a problem. 

And music is invisible (unless you take drugs*). It appears out of nowhere except it doesn’t appear.

It may be the world’s most ambiguous form of expression.

How does all this relate to a Bruce Springsteen concert? What makes Bruce so unusual and compelling?

Again, I don’t know. It’s murky. There’s the obvious: he’s a fine performer, the band is first-rate, and the songs are unique, believable, and memorable.

One interesting aspect is those concerts contradicted the ambiguity theory above. (We’re talking about concerts in the 1970s and 1980s here.) Each song performed had a concise, singular, and unifying message to which eighty thousand fans could relate—no easy feat considering how enigmatic the songs are. 

Bruce songs aren’t the usual “Can’t get laid, wanna get laid, really gotta get laid, finally got laid, wanna get laid again,” ones that run the emotional gambit from A all the way to B.

Springsteen’s songs, between melody and lyrics, are a pool of darkness, light, optimism, hopelessness, unconditional love, highly conditional love, commitment, ambivalence, and contradictions, encompassing much of the human condition. The listener’s mood has much to do with which aspect of the song rings loudest. 

That speaks well for the songs.

As front men go, he was no James Brown or Mick Jagger. But, through force of will, he turned into one of the great ones. On stage, he alternated between being a party boy, an angry patriot, an irreverent rock and roll showman, an earnest orator, and a dedicated people pleaser. That Springsteen played all these roles believably well was quite an accomplishment. 

In concert, if he wanted you to feel happiness during a song that wasn’t always happy, then that’s where he threw his energy. And it worked. Audiences shared that same happiness, forming a bond with Springsteen and his band. 

The audience did not consist of spectators. They were participants. From this, communities formed.

That’s the best I can conjure. It’s 4 am, and I’m a little flaky, so I’ll go with it.

The first time I heard a Bruce Springsteen song was in 1974. I was at my best friend’s house. His brother raced into the house with Bruce’s recently released “The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle.” He ran to the turntable and said, “Man, you gotta check out the sax player on this record!”

The first song he played was “Kitty’s Back.”

After the first prominent blast of the saxophone, I asked (once I got up off the floor), “Is that King Curtis [on the sax]?”

My friend’s brother looked at the album cover and shrugged. “Clarence Clemons.”

“Who?”

The first Bruce Springsteen concert I attended was on a sweltering summer day in 1975. I was primarily interested in listening to this sax player.

After listening to Clarence’s saxophone for a couple of songs, I looked at my girlfriend and said, “This guy could knock over Stonehenge with a single solo.”

It was easy to identify Clarence Clemons. He was twice the size of everyone else on stage, enormous and muscular. The guy made his baritone sax look like a toy. To his left on stage was gaunt Bruce Springsteen. Springsteen was dressed like someone who had recently finished changing the oil in his car: a beat-up tee shirt, mismatched sneakers, and jeans that were older than he was. Clarence wore an elegant white suit and hat.

As I said, he was easy to spot.

His presence and personality were essential to Springsteen’s show that night and every show thereafter.  His powerful, soulful sax solos took some great songs and made them extraordinary.

As it turned out, Bruce Springsteen wasn’t half bad himself. I wasn’t aware of his talent as a performer, but I learned in a hell of a hurry because I can’t count the number of Springsteen concerts I’ve attended since that night. It’s a lot. An unrelenting ball of unrelenting energy, he bridged every gap possible between the stage and the audience. He gave it all he had. I had never seen anything like that. I doubt anyone in the audience had.  

On stage, there was an endearing closeness between Clarence Clemons and Bruce Springsteen.  They were a sight to see on stage. Watching their interaction was an important and unusual element of their concerts. It was a purely organic connection between them. Every night, Bruce introduced Clarence as The Big Man. They freely shared the fun, energy, music, excitement, and love between them with their audience.  Especially love. A genuine, fraternal love. One average-sized Italian-American and one enormous African-American. Devoted blood brothers who, together, brought the very bright light of this friendship to their entire audience. Clarence and Bruce. The Big Man and the Boss. There are, of course, plenty of bosses in the world. 

But, only one Big Man.

Clarence Clemons died in 2011

He’d suffered a major stroke.  Appropriately, he didn’t linger in a significantly compromised state. Legend has it Clarence decided to introduce himself to Springsteen by going to the bar where Springsteen was performing, and when he entered the bar, the doors flew off their hinges. Guys like that don’t fade away. He kicked the door open to show up, and he kicked the door closed when it was time to go.

I have quite a few concert recollections of Clarence, but there is one indelible memory I have of him from a 2009 Bruce Springsteen concert in Baltimore, MD. At that point in his life, he was run down and in poor health. A shell of himself, he had arthritis and could hardly stand for more than a few minutes at a time. He stood for his solos, but I could tell it was an ordeal for him. For most of the concert, he sat on a barstool stage right but still managed to cast quite a presence. A smile from Clarence Clemons could light up a small country. He did his best to look happy and engaged, but it was clear to see he was running on empty.

Clarence’s saxophone can be heard often embellishing Bruce’s recordings, but there is a particular song where his saxophone solo is elemental.  Without it, there’d be no song. It’s a long and very challenging solo requiring equal parts power, determination, delicacy, focus, precision, and endurance.

That song started close to ninety minutes into the set. Clemons sat on stage in darkness for the first part of the song before slowly moving to front and center for his solo. He looked exhausted and in pain, but when his time came, he stood and, with what he had left to give, he delivered.

He delivered with majestic power and emotional brute force. The solo was just a few minutes in a show that lasted over three and a half hours, but those few minutes took that concert to an exceptional level. His solo was magnificent. The sound of his saxophone filled the arena and provided ample evidence that one person’s spirit could cast an enormous shadow.

Near the end of the sax solo, my wife whispered, “Look around.” What I saw was thousands of people standing and giving Clemons their complete attention. There was no dancing or talking or milling around or walking towards the restrooms. People just stood still and focused their attention on Clarence Clemons. Almost no one said a word. Now, there were around 15,000 people in this arena, about half of whom were drunk. Plenty of children were included in the 15,000. But they all stopped talking in order to watch and listen. I had never seen anything like that at a rock concert before and haven’t seen it since.

After I stopped scanning the crowd, I looked back at my wife, who is also a Springsteen fan. She looked at me and said, “He earned that silence.”

He did. His body of work with Bruce Springsteen earned it. His performance that night earned it.

Once Clarence’s solo was finished, Springsteen helped walk him back to his position on stage. They had a very long embrace and a brief conversation, and Clarence, clearly exhausted, slumped down on his stool. It was the last time he ever performed that solo on tour.

There was something almost overwhelming about that solo, with the audience’s full attention and respectful silence. Clarence’s effort was mind-over-matter. It’s a memory I hope I don’t lose any time soon.

I found it challenging to get my arms around his death. Not that he was gone from the band. Just that he was gone. Even in poor condition, Clarence showed every sign of immortality.

Springsteen and his band carried on. It took a five-piece brass section to replace one Big Man. Clarence’s nephew took over the sax solos and does a superb job. 

In 1985, there were eight musicians on stage, including Bruce. These days, it’s seventeen. In concert, the music sounds better than ever. There’s no more rock-God posing, heroic displays of theatrical endurance, or character-developing monologues. He’s still the front man but moves around the stage very little. These days, It’s just music. Music played at an exceptionally high level. 

The shows are great. 

The communities remain intact. 

The concerts continue to be an uplifting experience. 

They’re fun. They’ll always be fun.  

But, sometimes, I miss Clarence being stage right, with a big smile, and having the time of his life.

I started this with the intention of explaining my semi-obsession with Bruce Springsteen’s music and did a fine job of failing miserably. Sorry about that.

Back to Gothenburg…

I felt awkward and self-conscious during the previous night’s show, thanks to being surrounded by Jen, Victoria, and Daniel. They were strangers who were acting weird, and they thought the same of me. 

On the pitch with Jen the following day, I felt free to involve myself in the music. It was a rare level of intensity for me. Jen was much more relaxed and animated, too.

Hi there. It’s the committee. Sorry to bother you during the show, but do you realize that you allowed this woman to know more about you in six hours than you let your parents know in your entire life? 

And look at little old you! Living in the moment and not trying to hide from the world. Welcome to the present. We knew you could do it. 

Well, no, we didn’t. We had no confidence in you. Not a drop. You proved us wrong. You’re still a dipshit, but you did it. 

During the more frantic moments of the concert, I put my arm around her waist so she wouldn’t fall off her makeshift footstool. Her arm was around my shoulder. There were no sparks between us. There was only the warmth of human contact. It was something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

The stadium looked roughed up by the time the second show finished. It was off its foundation and clearly in need of urgent medical attention. It wasn’t entirely Springsteen’s fault. The facility was built by the same firm that did the Ford Pinto. It was only a matter of time. On the other hand, the stadium had been doing fine for over 25 years. Shoddy workmanship aside, I believe those of us in attendance those two nights should take full credit for fucking the place up. 

It makes me proud.

Once the show was over, it took about ninety minutes to leave the stadium, during which we enjoyed a game of can-you-top-this in naughty deeds we had committed in our earlier years. 

I said, “We were forced to take Home Economics for six weeks in eighth grade. I put some good hash in a Baked Alaska, which baked the teacher after she ate some. She was cruising the rest of the day. Also, I torched her grade book.”

She laughed, “How is she doing now?”

“Still on a leave of absence.”

“Once, when I was twelve, I was arrested for slashing a tire on a police car.”

“Aw, no way. I am so jealous. I only got arrested once. For swimming in a public pool at 2 am.”

“Lame.”

“Lame.”

The next endeavor Jen mentioned was occasionally finding the bar her father was in and taking the air out of his tires.

“Cars were in peril with you around. I trust Dear Old Dad never found out.”

“He did.” After a pause, “You don’t want to know.”

She was, no doubt, right. I didn’t want to know what her father did. I doubt it was a loving display of forgiveness. “How did you ever make it from there to right here, right now?”

With a big smile, she said, “You know how.”

“It’s more than that. That’s strength, courage, determination the rest of us don’t have.”

Jen replied with another smile and a head tilt, “Where do you think that strength comes from?”

“Point. In fourth grade, the teacher had all these pills in the top drawer of her desk—tons of speed and narcotics. When the classroom was empty, I put them all in a box and placed them in a different desk drawer. To see her reaction.”

“You were evil! What did she do?”

“Opened her desk drawer, turned white as a sheet, gave us a reading assignment, and tore her desk apart until she found them. She never found out who did it. My elementary school teachers hated me anyway. The feeling was mutual.”

Then, she hit me with one I never saw coming. “I put liquid plumber in Dad’s Whiskey. The day I moved out. I didn’t want to kill him. Just suffer for a long time.” Pause. “No, I did want to kill him.” She looked at me in fear, as if I might hit her. 

“But, you didn’t kill him. You just gave him a memorable stomach ache. If it were me, I’d have made it a point to kill him. That is not an overstatement. At that moment, at fourteen, I can see myself giving him a lethal dose.” 

She looked into a blank space.

Daniel and Victoria were nowhere to be found. The chances of locating them among the sixty thousand were slight. Before the show, Daniel gave Jen a generous amount of money for a cab fare so she could return to his house. We strolled away from Sweden’s triumph in architecture, Ullevi Stadium, which looked slightly tilted, and eventually found a taxi. 

I hopped in the cab with Jen. She appeared bewildered. I said, “I’m just looking out for you. I want to make sure you get back unharmed. I’ll take this cab back to my hotel. It’s not negotiable.”

I was used to the cabs in New York City. The taxis in Gothenburg were in excellent condition compared to the ones in New York City. Other than being yellow, they had nothing in common. 

In Gothenburg, the taxis were late-model Volvos (of course) and meticulously maintained (of course). The interiors were immaculate and smelled like dryer sheets. 

Which brings me to my first point. In New York City, the taxis were not Volvos. Definitely not. They were Checker Marathon A12s made in the 1960s. By law, no cab was ever serviced. Period. No oil change, no new brake pads, nothing. Smoke was emitted from the exhaust system, which was completely rusted. The muffler dragged on the ground. The exterior consisted of dents, scrapes, rust spots, cracked windows, and grease. The interior smelled like urine and was covered with semen-stained evidence and cigarette burns. 

That night, the driver in Gothenburg jumped out of the cab, opened the door for us to get in, and thanked us for allowing him to be our driver. 

I don’t remember any New York cabbies opening the door or thanking me for anything, which brings me to my next point. 

When you flagged down a taxi in New York, the driver would politely introduce himself by asking, “Where to?”

If you had a destination too close for the driver to make much money, he’d say, “Take the fuckin’ train, you fuckin’ hayseed.”

If the driver deemed the trip to his liking, he would say, “Get in the fuckin’ cab already. You want a fuckin’ invitation?”

The taxi driver in Gothenburg was very polite and soft-spoken. He even asked us what radio station we preferred. 

Cabbies in New York were never renowned for their politeness and tact, which brings me to my next point. I don’t remember them asking what radio station I wanted. The radio was broken. Instead, you were treated to a running monologue from the driver. A loud monologue. A loud, ranting, raving, psychotic, deranged monologue. Cab drivers were not models of solid mental hygiene. 

The Swedish taxi driver took us to Daniel’s house. He observed the speed limit for the entire route, used turn signals when appropriate, checked his side-view mirror, and politely let drivers go first at intersections, which brings me to my next point.

If you were on West 57th and 10th in Manhattan and told the cabbie to step on it as you needed to get to JFK Airport as soon as humanly possible, which was always the case with me, then you were in luck because you knew you’d make it on time. A New York cabbie was not going to fuck around. 

New York City cab drivers cut people off, flew through intersections, drove on sidewalks (not making that up), leaned on the horn to get the pedestrians to jump out of the way, and weaved through traffic at full speed. The cabbie didn’t check the side view mirrors or use turn signals. There were no side view mirrors, and the turn signal lights didn’t work. 

As a passenger, you’d have some minor head injuries due to severe changes in gravitational force. You’re the one who told the cabbie to step on it, so the concussions were on you.

Back to Gothenburg…

We arrived at Daniel’s house. Daniel and Victoria weren’t home yet. I told the cabbie to hang tight so I could powder my nose. After gracing the bathroom with my presence, I was about to say goodnight to Jen when I noticed some small, ornate porcelain figurines. They were offensively cute and etched with words you might say to a three-month-old.

I held one. “What’re these? I can’t imagine Daniel belongs to them.”

Jen grimaced. “They’re Vic’s. She takes them everywhere. Awful, aren’t they?”

“Frightening. I won’t be able to sleep tonight. I’m truly sorry you must live with these things around you. A genuine challenge to sobriety.”

Jen laughed. “You have no idea. They’re called Precious Moments.”

Yeah, “Precious Fuckin’ Moments.”

I studied the Precious Fuckin’ Moments. “Victoria doesn’t seem the type who’d go for these sorts of things.”

She laughed. “You know Linus and his security blanket? It’s worse.”

“Would you like me to stay until the young lovers return?”

She shook her head. “You’re sweet. I’ll be fine. Thanks for coming here.”

We looked at each other with no idea what to say. 

I opened the door. “I don’t know if I should say goodbye or thank you. So, thank you and goodbye. How about I find you in a couple of days to see how you feel about my generous offer, which will stand firm until the end of time?”

She smiled again. “Sure. I’ll pray on that one.”

“Well, cheerie-bye. Seizure soon.”

“Cool.”

My mind was still spinning during the taxi ride home. I considered the prospect of going to a country during a civil war. Unarmed, at that. 

Yes, hi. It’s The Committee. Again. Well, you boxed yourself in with this one. Don’t you dare think twice! You’re all in. If she says yes, you are going to Africa, where your chances of kicking the bucket will increase exponentially. Period. End of conversation. 

You, against all historical precedent, found something to live for, even though you may quickly die for your trouble, which is your usual fucked up problem. 

Remember, we, on the committee, will not let you back out. If you do, you’ll be dead, anyway. Stand on your own two feet. Be a man for once. 

PS, you’re still a dipshit.

I returned to my hotel room and fell, face first, onto the bed. Two minutes later, I heard the couple next door return to round two of their death sex.

No, no, no. You two can’t be serious. “Forgive them, Father, for they are not well. You must admit that the guy involved is a serious stud. Impressive, yes? Uh, I mean, impressively not well. I’m sure you’ll agree.”

It was two hours of continuous thudding before I went to sleep. 

The following day, I took another immaculate taxi to the west end of Gothenburg. We ended up at the corner of  Hälleflundregatan and Södra Flundregatan. I remember writing those streets down, thinking there had to be a joke somewhere. I walked to the coastline, bought some coffee, sat on a rock at the edge of the North Sea (or whatever body of water is between Sweden and Denmark), and pretended to be a man of great thoughts and insights. 

I had none, of course. Great thoughts or insights, that is. I sat on the rock for seven hours (except for fika breaks and wading in the North Sea). One question recurred all day. “What are you doing?” 

That was the recurring question, you understand.

I knew the residual money from the commercials I did a couple of years ago would dry up within a year. At this point, a grownup would make some life decisions—the sorts of decisions and plans you’d make for the next sixty years. I didn’t do any of that. Other than the recurring question, I thought, “Huh.”

There was no thunderbolt of insight. Nothing was resolved, no wisdom obtained, no message received, and no divinations found. Seven hours later, all I had was, “Huh.” 

Well, hi there! Guess who. The Committee is back. Aren’t you the lucky dipshit? Yes, you are. Was there a point to sitting on your ugly ass for seven hours? Don’t answer. Rhetorical. Has it occurred to you that you should call somebody and let that person in on your little plan? Have you ever thought of loved ones who’d be interested? Rhetorical, again. You have no loved ones. They wised up years ago. 

She better say yes to the Eritrea idea. Otherwise, you will have to think of something, and based on the last seven hours on the rock, your thought process leaves a lot to be desired. 

Due to stupidity, I walked back to the hotel. The walk itself took two hours. Well, it would have taken two hours, except I had to stop by a couple of bars to investigate the quality of Swedish beer. Every Swede I met spoke English better than most Americans. 

I noticed that the natives avoided eye contact until they had a conversation. I received a relentless, unblinking stare whenever I spoke with one of them. I felt like Joe Frazier getting George Foreman’s stare-down before their first fight. It was intimidating. It may have been their way of getting me to buy a few rounds. They succeeded. We had polite conversations, but their eyes were scary as hell.

I returned to the hotel and slept well because the two people next door were in wheelchairs. 

I don’t have a Plan B. It’s going to Africa or going to Hell. Hell doesn’t sound like much fun. Well, neither does Africa.

Here’s hoping she says yes.

At 9 am, the phone rang. I hesitated to answer it, thinking someone, somewhere, had found me—not that anyone was looking for me. I answered. It was Jen wanting to know if I was busy at the moment. 

I chose to sound exceptionally busy. “I most certainly am! You have no idea. I’ve got my Whiskey tasting in five minutes. I need to write letters of apology to everyone I met yesterday. I’ve got surgery scheduled for 10 am. Then I must meet the Royal Family for fried pickled Herring over blood pudding. Did you know Sweden has a monarch? The guy’s probably named Lars. I should find out before I meet him. What was the question?”

Almost whispering, she asked, “Are you always like this?”

“Yes, during normal business hours and by appointment only. Would you like to set an appointment? Of course, there is a small fee. No checks. As it is summer, I’m sure you’ll understand there is a premium on-season rate. How’re you?”

“Great. You know…great.” Her volume remained low.

After a pause, I asked if there was something wrong.

“Don’t want Vic and Dan to hear. Have you thought more about flying to Asmara [Eritrea’s capital] with me?”

“Flying with me.” That’s a good sign. 

“I thought about the notion that I haven’t changed my mind. I’m all in if you are. I forgot to mention that I’ll pay my way. I’m not going to cost you or your mission dime-one.”

“I know you told me. I want to hear it again. Why do you want to come with me?” 

“Come with me.” Two for two. Jolly fucking good.

“Good question. I’m glad you asked. You have a dangerous job, and I want to help keep you safe.” Pause. “You’re looking for my motivation, which is selfish and self-serving, and what I’m not looking to accomplish while I’m there. Safe bet?”

“Well, yeah. You know.”

“Right-o. I am not looking for a relationship—a boy-person and a girl-person arrangement. Being devilishly handsome, fun at parties, and winning ‘best listener’ in high school notwithstanding, I don’t want an intimate relationship with you. It’s not you, it’s me, which I’ve heard more than once, but in this case, it’s true. I don’t want an intimate relationship with anyone. Ever. Never. Never, never. No how, no way. Every relationship has become a vast, disgusting pool of burning yellow, fungus-crusted, oozing, toxic, muddy nasal discharge. So far, so good? There’s more.”

“Where did you come up with that? Yeah. So far, so good.” 

“The urgent question is why. I have nowhere else to go. I have nowhere else I want to go. Then there’s this minor issue: For a long time, I haven’t cared about anyone, anything, especially me. Now I care. I want, or need, to help fulfill your promise, which includes ensuring you don’t get hurt again. Or killed. The world needs you in it. I have a superficial understanding of you and your spiritual motivation. My investment is in helping you continue what you’re doing.  And why are you whispering again?”

She put her hand over the phone’s speaker. “I don’t want Vic to hear me. She’ll flip out.”

“I thought she’d be thrilled.”

Jen sounded like she was rolling her eyes. “She’s so ridiculous, you know? ‘What’s he up to? He’ll take advantage of you. He must have a secret agenda. He wants to sleep with you.’”

I laughed. “Wow, I made a wonderful impression. Suppose I wanted to sweep you off your feet. In that case, I’d send you red roses, take you on a gondola ride in Venice, feed you chocolate strawberries and champagne during your massage in Bali. Then we’d balloon ride over the Maldives and frolic along the cliffs of Moher while I tell you how much I love watching romantic movies like ‘The Dirty Dozen.’ After which, I’d beg. Instead, we’ll be going to a war zone where the most romantic thing to do is avoid being killed. I promise to do my best to help you keep your promise.” 

“I’ll break it to her gently.”

“That’s a ‘yes’ to my fine idea? Well, thank you. Excellent. I appreciate it very much.”

She insisted, “I appreciate what you’re doing.”

“I appreciate what you’re doing more, so I win, ha-ha.”

“Mister Funny Man. Can you have lunch with us?”

“The long answer is, as you know, I have a rigorous schedule today. I’m due to present my thesis called ‘The Indirect Variance Between Theoretical Obtuse Matrices and Political Immorality in 19th Century South Vietnam Which Didn’t Actually Exist in the 19th Century, So That Part Is Pretty Theoretical, Too, When You Think About It Which I Try Not To.’ Then there’s that darn lunch with Lars or whatever he’s called. Is he a king? Should I bring a gift? I’ve got an ‘I’m with Stupid’ tee shirt. That work? Probably should wash it first. The short answer is yes. Fika lunch?”

Jen, still whispering, listed all the unfortunate things that could happen to me in Eritrea and asked if I had second thoughts. She painted a truly unpleasant picture. 

“Daniel gave me the hideous details. I’m not taking anything you say lightly. It scares me, but that seems like a healthy reaction. Wait! There is something important, so please shoot me as straight as you can. How’d you rate the room service?”

She laughed. “On a scale of one to five? Zero.”

“Works for me. I’m in.”

Jen, now at regular volume, said, “Okay. Great. We’ll call you back soon as we know where we’re going.”

“The lovebirds are close by, yes?”

“Yeppers!”

“Do you have to act all happy-happy-joy-joy again?”

“Yeah, well, you know.”

It was my turn to whisper. “I shall make silly faces at you just to show that I know that you know that I know you’re putting on an Academy Award performance. That help?”

“Oh, yeah! That’ll be cool.”

“You’re starting already.”

“Yeah, you know.”

“I am so looking forward to this. I shall stand over the phone until you call.”

“Mister Funny Man.”

She rang off. 

Well, this just got real. I’m going to get my ass shot off. I wanted this. No, I want this. 

I turned on the television. Swedish TV programs were ghastly. The sitcoms had one laugh track repeated every thirty seconds, even if no one was talking. The dramas revolved around two cops, or a hospital, or two cops in a hospital fighting crime and syphilis. Sometimes, the hospital was on a boat. Other times, the two cops were older women who fought crime by knitting. There were plenty of game shows. The contestants were all genetically defective. One game show was like “Name that Tune.” The problem was the songs were played by a big band who didn’t know how to play the songs. The game ended in a zero-zero tie. Another game show had contestants perform pantomimes. No one could figure out the point of the pantomimes. The game ended in a zero-zero tie.

After ninety minutes of Swedish TV, Jen called to tell me where to meet and to fika with them. It was the same place that had the tire-sized cinnamon rolls. 

Once I arrived at the cinnamon place, I spotted Daniel and Jen seated at the exact location where Jen and I sat the day before. Jen sat with her knees up and grinning ear-to-ear. Daniel gazed at the ground and asked, “Why are you going to Ethiopia with Jen?”

“To meet women. And good morning to you, too. May I sit down and fika myself for a moment?” Daniel waved, and Jen was slowly shaking her head. I sat and drank some coffee. 

I continued. “Yeah, it’s time to settle down, have a normal life, get married, have a couple of kids, a dog named Machete, a white picket fence…”

“I’m serious, right?! What’re you doing? You can’t go.”

“Why not? We better make this a quick conversation. I am meeting with the King of Sweden later today. Lars Something…wait, it’ll come to me…Lars the Distended! That’s it! You know, they have a monarch in Sweden.”

Daniel was avoiding all eye contact. Jen was covering her face to avoid laughing out loud. 

“You know this is serious, right? I told you how bad Ethiopia is.”

“You did. Jen gleefully embellished your information. You also told me you and Victoria tried to talk Jen out of going alone, and she wouldn’t budge.” I paused. “Are you and your better half going with her? No. No, you are not. So, the process of elimination indicates…”

Daniel chimed in. “We can’t go…”

“And I can.” I took a long breath. “If you were going to travel with her, I wouldn’t have said word one. You won’t be with her, so…”

“Because we can’t!”

I stared at Daniel. “Right. Right-o. Message received in full. I heard you the first, second, and third time. You wish you would. You can’t. Therefore, you won’t be there. The point is, when she hops on the slow boat to Africa, you two will not be on it. But…I…will. And I will do what I can to keep her alive and kicking so she can finish what she promised to do.”

“What makes you think you can protect her at all? You have no idea…”

“No, I don’t. I can try. That’s the extent. And can we stop talking about Jen like she’s not right here?”

Jen was biting her lip in an effort not to laugh.

Daniel temporarily relented. We talked about the shows. That was fun. We spoke of Sweden’s tax policy. That wasn’t. Jen didn’t contribute much. She made eye contact with me and showed that Daniel had successfully gotten under her skin.

Out of nowhere came Daniel’s heavy artillery. “You don’t even believe in our mission. Right? You don’t believe in God. You told me you don’t believe in anything.”

“Did Victoria put you up to this?” I paused. “Thought so. If my memory serves, and I believe, for once, it does, you didn’t believe in God, either. I clearly remember your views on religion just a few years ago. They weren’t favorable. Who knows, I could see the light under her tutelage. Perhaps I’ll become a Buddhist. Anything is possible.”

“Okay. Right? Everyone on the team. They’re not gonna be happy. They are big-time religious. Right? You don’t fit in with them.”

I shrugged. “I’m not going there to please them. And I do believe in something. I believe in what Jen is doing. As I told Jen, who’s sitting right here, the world is better off with her doing what she needs.”

Daniel piped in. “You want to sleep with her?”

Then I hit back. “For crying out loud, she’s sitting right here! Here’s an idea. Since Jen is right here and we’ve been talking all about her, let’s ask the source directly, shall we? Yes, I think we shall.” I turned to Jen. “Explain to the committee, please, in your own words, without fear of recourse, with a clear conscience, and while the stars are in alignment, what you might do if yours truly tries his luck with you?”

Jen smiled and shook her head. “Shoot you in the kneecaps.”

Glaring at Daniel, I said, “Shoot me in the kneecaps. Do you believe that? Have you ever been shot in the kneecaps? Let me tell you, it’s not an experience to be recommended. Come on, if I wanted to get laid, I wouldn’t go to a civil war in Africa. I can find a willing participant right here, right now. Two, if I so choose. I’m going with her because you two aren’t. You tried to talk her out of going by herself. Well, you needn’t worry yourselves any longer. So, thank goodness…” 

Daniel looked at Jen. “We just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

After a five-second silence, I stood up, indicating I would get more coffee. “It’s not your decision to make. It’s Jen’s and Jen’s alone. While I’m getting my coffee, please share your worst fears with Jen. Tell her everything you know about my devious and soulless self. No detail is too small.”

I turned to Jen. “You need to know what could go wrong with me by your side. Hey, I’m evil. What you have before you, me lady, is a scumbag. Total. Beneath contempt. A potential viper in your den. I am capable of dastardly deeds, as we reviewed last night. Plus, I’ve got plenty of baggage. We discussed that, as well.”

With a tilted head, I looked at Daniel. “If she wants me by her side, I’m all in. The only reason I’ll be there is to keep her safe so she can keep her promise and do what she needs to do. If she tells me to take a hike, I will. Reluctantly. It’s her shot to call—no one else’s. Talk with Jen, who, for your convenience, is right here. Let her know the worst. Who wants coffee?”

No one did. Daniel was getting frustrated. I knew he was there at Victoria’s request.

She wanted to be here. Knowing she’d get torqued off, Daniel told her to stay home.

I walked away. Looking back, I saw Daniel walking to a pay phone.

He’s going to get an earful from his girlfriend—poor guy.

Jen caught up to me. “Vic asked him to do this. I’m not sure what to do.”

I smiled. “Well, Dan’s got a point. I could be that viper. You only have my word to go by. However, I agree with them; returning alone is a terrible idea. Go with someone willing to look out for you. It doesn’t have to be me. It has to be someone. My offer stands. I’m not changing my mind. So, that’s good.

“You won’t forget to break one of those Precious Moments figurines, will you?”

She laughed again. “Oh, I will.”

Yeah, Precious Fuckin’ Moments.

I fika’d up and returned to the table with Jen. Daniel was still on the phone.

I smiled. “How do you suppose that conversation is going?”

I received a nose twitch from Jen.

We both laughed.

Daniel returned, claiming urgent matters at home needed his immediate attention.

Looking at Daniel, I said, as sympathetically as possible, “Please discuss it. I’ll respect her decision. I know you will, too. I need to run, also. The King’s emissary has arrived. Gimme a shout.”

As they left, Jen turned back. “Call you later?”

“I shall stand over the phone, quivering in anticipation and eagerness.”

She’s not changing her mind.

“Mister Funny Man.” She turned to leave. 

She didn’t change her mind. She called me that evening to tell me as much. I don’t remember ever looking forward to being in the middle of a civil war before.

Summer’s here. The time is right. Off we go to God knows where. I’m going in blind. This will be a chapter in the book.

Well, hello. The committee. We are back! Lucky you. We thought of the George Patton movie when George gets in some private’s ear. “You’re going back to the front, my friend. You may get shot, you may get killed, but you’re going up to the fighting. Either that, or we’ll stand you up in front of a firing squad. You’re going to the front.”

I’m going to the front.

Not long after that, we departed for the long trip to parts unknown. My life would never be the same.

—THE END—

Next Chapter 

* Speaking of drugs, in the early 1980s, I attended a concert in Boston with an eccentric gentleman named Jerome, a classical music snob. The Boston Philharmonic performed Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in a posh, hoity-toity concert hall. 

Jerome insisted I attend. “Come on, Sonny. Time we culture you up. Wear your Sunday best.” 

“Scarf and jock strap?”

“Hell to the no. Suit and tie.”

“Do I have to take a shower, too?”

“Know how?”

“Not really. Can you help me?”

“She it.” 

This was back when concert attendees wore “proper” attire – suit and tie for men and evening dresses for women. It was nothing like today, where people stagger in wearing pajamas, gym shorts, and a “fuck you” t-shirt, or the same clothes they wore when changing the oil in the car. 

We met at the entrance of the concert hall and walked in. Jerome motioned me to a remote area on the terrace and indicated it was time to smoke a little something before the concert. 

Jerome could get some serious stuff: opium directly from the poppy flower, exotic strains of weed, top-shelf peyote, and the like. Short of flying directly to the sources, I have no idea how he got the stuff. He ran a chemistry lab for a pharmaceutical company. That helped. For this occasion, he had some hashish that, according to Jerome, came directly from the monks in Nepal. It was a chestnut brown ball that had the consistency of chewing gum. 

Jerome called it a Temple Ball.

I glanced at it. “Looks like camel shit.”

“Well, Sonny. It’s some type of shit.”

He took a small knife, peeled a slice of the hash, put it in a pipe, and lit it up. 

We smoked the camel shit quickly to not draw attention to ourselves. 

Jerome said, “We better find our seats any kinda way before we get too altitudinous. Nome sane?”

“I believe I do.”

We sat five rows from the stage. 

We sat, camel shit having taken hold, and stared straight ahead while waiting for the concert to start. 

Jerome mumbled, “Shit’s off the chain. On God, this is the Twilight Zone.”

I looked at the ceiling. “Stupefied. Deep fried. Mortified. Set aside. Carbohydrazide. Tell the monks excellent job on the camel shit. Are we on Pluto?”

“Can’t conversate on the Camel Shit Ship. See you on the other side. Carbo, what?”

“Don’t remember.”

The house lights turned off. 

Taking in Beethoven’s Ninth while high on camel shit is quite a profound experience, especially watching the musical notes emanating from the instruments and mouths of the singers. 

The Symphony is intense without the involvement of camel shit. With it, you’ll be on Pluto with the rest of us. 

Once the performance was over and the house lights turned on, all the audience members quietly left the music hall except for Jerome and me. 

We sat and stared at the stage with facial expressions, saying, “Did that just happen?” We looked like Cheech and Chong in the movie, where they were on a road trip and were too stoned to realize that, for the past hour, the car had been sitting on the median strip.

After a very long pause, Jerome, still staring blankly at the stage, opened our learned dialogue with a slow, “Sum bitch.”

With the same blank expression, I replied, “Fleeble monk, fish-dancing on bumfuzzled brouhaha…haha… cleat-noob and a diphthong with camel shit on rye, no mayo.” 

“Me, too. What are we supposed to do now?”

“Wamble.”

Jerome slowly turned to me. “Here? Right now?”

“Heep-neeble.”

After a pause, Jerome, still staring at me, replied with the always insightful and intriguing, “What?”

Completely glazed over, I looked at Jerome and, without drooling, said, “Aha, piffle-puggle. Pap smear en regalia tochter aus Elysium, wir betreten feuertrunken.”

“Is that from Beethoven?

“Who?”

Jerome smiled, sat back in his chair and nodded. “Et tu, Brute. Et tu…”

I don’t remember anything after that.