SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

—CHAPTER ONE—

The next morning, Jen, Vineet, and I hopped on a passenger ferry bound for Parts Unknown.

“Mr. Drew, sir. There are considerations of logistical concerns of which you should be most cognizant, sir, to circumvent concomitant inconveniences, indeed, hindrances in our expedition. Still, these may be of academic interest, indeed. For example, Mr. Drew, our destination is the port city of Massawa, which is possessed with a noteworthy challenge as it is under the control of Ethiopia, who, as you no doubt know, is at war with the Eritreans to whom we have been championing our support.”

“You have got to be kidding.”

“Alternative measures are in place as financial arrangements have, indeed, been agreed upon to capacitate our drive to Nakfa, which is still under Eritrean control, God willing. Many Ethiopians are not occupying Eritrea of their own volition and have indicated the flexibility necessary to assist our efforts as, without our generosity, they would have no money. Should Nakfa have fallen into enemy hands, alternative destinations will be advised. There is an inevitable volatility, indeed, variability in territories captured in times of heavily armed conflict.

“Another intriguing element to our journey is that we shall drive at night. This is, Mr. Drew, to our benefit, as Ethiopian planes are certainly less likely to drop a bomb on us.

“God willing, naturally.”

“That’s just great.”

“Indeed, sir. They may try, but, as you might imagine, their aim is quite compromised because they can’t see anything at night. Additionally, very few pilots know how to fly the planes. In fact, Mr. Drew, it is much more likely for us to be hit by a plane than by a bomb from a plane. I believe there are, indeed, certain lapses in their pilot training program that have resulted in their consistent inability to find a target and hit it. This is one of many reasons Eritreans are beginning to win this war.”

Vineet explained why Ethiopia’s plans to take over Eritrea were rapidly falling apart.

Ethiopia invaded Eritrea in 1961. Ethiopia had every possible advantage. They possessed ten times the number of active soldiers. First, they received support from the Americans. Then, the Soviets sent them obscene amounts of money and military hardware. A drought severely impacted much of Eritrea. Millions of the dollars donated to Ethiopia for famine relief were diverted to the war effort. Ethiopians hijacked grain and medical supplies and sold them to the highest bidder. Eritrea had minimal military capability and nearly no support from any international agency.

Ethiopia still managed to lose the war. In 1991, after thirty years of trying, they gave up and went home.

How could this have possibly happened?

Well, there is no way to over-emphasize the gargantuan scale of sheer stupidity on the part of Ethiopia’s leadership and its military.

Based on Vineet’s barrage of information, Ethiopia’s war strategy was developed and executed by a central command unit of nearly one hundred people, none of whom had any knowledge of waging war.

If you’re old enough to remember the day President Ronald Reagan was shot, then you’ll also recall that his Secretary of State, Al Haig, was staggering around the White House telling the world, “I’m in charge.”

Well, Ethiopia had a hundred Al Haigs.

 These individuals ran in circles, tripping over one another and relying on their ignorance of the subject to decide troop and weapon deployments. There was a lot of infighting, territorial imperatives, backstabbing, bribery, and extortion among those who believed they were in charge. Millions of dollars routinely disappeared. Some of those in central command vanished as well. Failed attempts at organizing were a daily occurrence.

As a result, those fighting the war had no training, no proper direction, and no idea what to do or where to do it.

All of this should sound quite familiar to those who survived life in the corporate world.

By 1985, Ethiopia had lost the plot, and its troops were stuck in the mud. Six years later, they gave up.

Vineet had been speaking continuously for the first hour of the trip. My cup was running over after ten minutes. I tried to break free.

I asked Jen, “Have you ever heard of this guy called Bruce Springsteen?”

“Nope. Is he your friend or something? I never met your friends. Do you know Donald Hudson?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“He’s my friend. You don’t know my friends. How am I supposed to know yours? Can we talk about something…”

Vineet jumped in. “Jen, you should have knowledge of this gentleman. He is an uncommonly well-known musical performer and is, in all respects, quite patriotic about his country. Perhaps we should listen to his songs. I can teach you about…”

It was Vineet’s habit to hastily jump into conversations that didn’t include him and speak directly to Jen while excluding me.

Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. He’s got a crush on the girl, and I am the competition. This will be fun.

I interrupted. “Vineet, I was kidding. We just saw two of his concerts. I was hoping to start some snappy banter…”

Vineet laughed. He tried to sound sincere but failed. He went on to review some of his academic successes. But I derailed his hope of dominating Jen’s attention.

Buddy, she’s just not interested. Sorry about that, Chief. Not gonna happen. Look at the signs. Pay attention. She leans back every time you speak to her. The woman who depends on eye contact to the point of intimidation looks down when you talk to her. Shoulders: hunched. Right arm: wrapped around her. Left hand: playing with her hair. Smile: forced. Legs: crossed.

Besides, she’s been through the wringer. Let up on the gas pedal.

As Vineet verbally assaulted her, I stared at Jen with a slight grin until she noticed. She did. She succeeded in not smiling, but it was a challenge.

Surprisingly, Vineet suddenly turned to me and asked if I had a girlfriend.

“Um, not currently. Had one. Lasted 90 days—recently ended things due to irreconcilable differences. Turned out we couldn’t stomach anything resembling a conversation. Ugly ending. She got all the jewelry. I got all the penicillin. I consider it a victory. And you? Hiding any young ladies in your basement?”

I assumed this would spur another thirty-minute monologue containing our hero’s voluminous insights on love. However, he disregarded my question.

“Mr. Drew, what was the reason to pursue such a relationship? Healthy communication and spiritual conjunction is a primary contemplation as an antecedent to a romantic endeavor. Why did you aspire to maintain such a relationship?”

“Vineet, do you really want me to answer that question?”

Evidently, he did as he said nothing.

“She gave great headache.”

Jen broke out with a loud laugh. Vineet looked perplexed.

“Vineet, for crying out loud. The only communication we had was with our clothes off.”

Vineet put on a school headmaster frown for all to see.

“If, and it is a monumental if, I stumble into another relationship, then I’ll know to base it on respect, communication, and whatever else might tag along in a healthy relationship. I hope that puts your mind at rest.”

Yes, it did. He was thankful that I saw the error of my ways. He began his following diatribe on those things God says about boys and girls hooking up.

Before he could start, I said, “I gotta go powder my nose, Kids. Save my seat.” I began to walk away.

Vineet asked, “Why do you say ‘if’? It is something you should seek, otherwise…”

I slowly performed a 180-degree model turn. “Believe me when I say that I won’t be seeking it. I’ll wait for it to find me. If it doesn’t want me to find it, then I can live without it. Fair?”

He got a couple of words out before Jen said, “Vineet. Stop.”

“What she said.” I turned back and walked away.

Sanctimonious douche-bag.

There were no dating apps at the time. You couldn’t review someone’s credit report, criminal record, or background or check references. You depended on hearsay and intuition—neither batted 1,000. No one came with a warning label or handling instructions.

You rolled the dice until you hit or walked away from the table.

I know we have tons of dating sites. I haven’t looked at one. I’m sure all the listings are truthful and trustworthy in every way, and no one is misleading anyone. Ever.

A friend recently showed me a couple of people who posted biographies on a dating site. Both guys laid it on way too thick. It was almost icky. I gave my opinion. She gave them a shot. Her feedback on both was “Losers.”

Would it help to have dating sites give factual data, potential relationship side effects, and recommended safeguards ahead of time? I think so.

Something like:

NAME – EMILY PASSAGE

All about Emily:

• 5’7” and 115 lbs.
• 36/24/36 (breast and buttock augmentations are forthcoming)
• Is faithful, humble, supportive, loving, honest, selfless, spiritual, virtuous, kind, compassionate, modest, discrete
• Believes in true love, traditional family values, the sanctity of marriage, and in the purity and innocence of faith in the Lord.
• Does anal

Looking for a man who:

• Loves to listen and not talk
• Is rich, willing to accept abundant criticism and instruction, good-looking, extremely submissive, drives a late model Jaguar or equivalent, owns a beachfront condo, dedicated, comfortable with liberator aids and door swings, amenable to wearing an electric dog collar, immensely generous, liquid to the tune of no less than $350,000, doesn’t mind the sight of his own blood
• Has a proven track record of efficiently locating a clitoris
• Possesses girth greater than 2.67” in diameter upon entry

Potential relationship side-effects include:

• Extreme loss of funds
• Testicular shrinkage
• Irreversible frontal lobe disintegration
• Stage 7 diarrhea (commonly referred to as GISS or Gastro-Intestinal Slip and Slide)
• Yellowish chunks of self-esteem discharge
• Sobriety avoidance
• Fungal infections (see your doctor for an extended list)
• Moral impingement
• Torn groin
• Credit card dislocation
• Delusions of normality
• Virulent remorse
• Debilitating numbness in hands, feet, soul, cognition, outlook, humor
• Loss of self-awareness
• Loss of any awareness
• Developing some or all of the following:
  • Erotophobia (Fear of sex)
  • Gemophobia (Fear of marriage)
  • Gynophobia (Fear of women)
  • Megalophobia (Fear of large things)
  • Microphobia (Fear of small things)
  • Optimophobia (Fear of hope)
  • Existentophobia (Fear of being alive for the foreseeable future)
  • Reflectophobia (Fear of looking in the mirror and wondering how it all went so wrong)

Recommended safeguards during the relationship:

• Wear a medical bracelet at all times
• Advise first responders of the subject’s whereabouts
• If you have a dejection lasting more than four hours, then go to your nearest emergency room
• Keep Penicillin within a three-foot radius
• Bring a blindfold and cigarette to couples’ therapy
• Drink eight ounces of grain alcohol twenty minutes prior to any contact with the subject
• Keep the subject away from children
• When the relationship is complete, do not taper off (immediate withdrawal is necessary)
• Get a prenup
• Advise next of kin before each contact with the subject
• Remove sharp objects
• Get a living will
• Get a dead will

Back to the boat ride to Massawa…

Jen must have said something to Vineet because he ceased all inquiries into my personal life. I nodded to Jen as an expression of my gratitude.

After a long silence, Vineet jumped into his next subject of great interest to us all: his health issues.

Awwww, come on! Stop. No mas! Don’t know. Don’t want to know.

“Yes, yes. My many doctors marvel at my pain tolerance. But, my restorative path is still in progress…”

Blah, blah, blah. He’s trying to impress our hero with his exemplary determination to overcome the pain and torment.

“…and I am to receive a colonoscopy. I’m vastly unfamiliar with this procedure.”

I can’t resist.

“Would you like some details on a colonoscopy? I can tell you all about it.”

Yes, indeed, Vineet would like that very much.

So, I told him. My explanation went along these lines:

You drink a glass of something called “prep.” It smells like formaldehyde and tastes like swamp water after someone emptied a can of Lemon Pledge in your glass.

The cramps go from zero to a thousand in under a second, leaving you five seconds to do something about it.

Hopefully, you’ve deployed some good light reading in the bathroom; I recommend “Les Misérables” and “Anna Karenina” because you’re going to be there for a long, long time. Make sure you have installed an industrial exhaust fan, stocked four full cans of room deodorizer, stacked nine rolls of toilet paper, added a pillow to mute your crying, set aside pads of paper to record your thoughts for the repeated visits to the psychiatrist, and have a radio to hear the events of the day, as it will be your only connection to the real world.

Your entire intestinal tract quickly turns into an amusement park water slide, except, instead of using water, it’s waste from the sewage pipe that exploded in your front yard.

Your hope, your faith, your reason for living, your future, and your very soul rapidly leave your body via your ass.

You sound like a burn victim forced to attend a twenty-four-hour physical therapy session but with more screaming.

You stare out the bathroom window and beg for a life where no room smells this bad ever again. You wonder if it’s all a bad dream, except your subconscious would never come up with a nightmare that was so hideous.

The following day, you see a former cult leader who, after being fired from an In-and-Out Burger for defecating in the chocolate shake machine, became a doctor in this field because no one else would ever consider doing something so hideous, so lewd, and so awful. This is when he commits a medical procedure.

The sick bastard duct-tapes one of those little surveillance cameras to one end of a radiator hose, shoves it up your colon and through your entire digestive tract, takes pictures to put in your family photo album, makes a movie of the experience, and shows it to guests when it’s time for them to leave the party.

Eventually, you’ll regain consciousness, look at the ceiling, wonder how you gained twelve inches around your waist, and come to terms with the idea that it’s because the sick bastard stuck the end of a balloon in your shredded ass and released the air.

You pass all that air, along with fifteen other poor dumb slobs who were also abused.

The whole room sounds like a combination of a New York City traffic jam, a hundred party favors, air horns, jackhammers, and fifteen Grandpas trying to get up from their easy chairs.

Some of those around you sound like the guy from The Fly: “Help….help me…”

Others sound like the radiator hose was never removed: “No way out…no way out…”

And one guy, in tears, singing, “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!”

The sick bastard who caused all this shows you pictures of the little adventure and says, “See this polyp? See? Look. It’s right there.”

You look away and reply, “I don’t see anything. I don’t want to see anything. I don’t care anymore. I want my mommy.”

He gladly lets you know that this polyp is something you and he will need to keep an eye on.

You respond, “I will never keep an eye on this thing.”

Then, he tells you to schedule a follow-up for three months.

This is your cue to leave. Still wearing the little transparent backward bathrobe, you head to the nearest bar, order a bottle of gin, sit silently with the other fifteen survivors, and dream of returning to those innocent days of childhood.

I think that covers the high points.

Okay. I didn’t put it exactly like that. But, I thought the truth, with some exaggeration, was appropriate.

Vineet failed to see much enchantment.

When we were an hour from Massawa, silence was reigning. Jen and Vineet stood at the starboard side, staring at the horizon. Their jaws were locked.

I noticed that, once I committed to going to Eritrea, I wasn’t inclined to fill the long, quiet moments anymore. They were there for a reason, and doing anything about them was no longer my job.

The hazards in my near future occupied my thoughts. The dangers in the past were, at least for the moment, dead and gone. I was surprised that I was more excited than worried.

What’s it like to be frightened for your life? How do you act when you believe your life expectancy is about an hour? Can I do what I promised? Yes, I can. No committee will be here to say otherwise. I’m not a Class-A fuck up. Not today.

These two are going for a reason. So am I. Consequences be damned. They’re here because these are the instructions they received from God. Well, God didn’t twist my arm. The marching orders I received came directly from me.

The ferry docked on an island connected by a long bridge to the mainland. We waited in silence until an hour past sunset. A trio of trucks pulled up beside us. Two were carrying supplies. One was carrying humans. We quickly tossed our worldly belongings into a supply truck and hopped into a covered flatbed. Around fifteen people were already in the car.

As we sat, Vineet shoved his way between Jen and me.

She’s all yours, Chief. But it’s gonna be a long and disappointing ride. Just remember, as Confucius says, “The journey of a thousand miles can end very badly.”

We were instructed to hold off on conversation until we cleared the city and had moved onto dirt roads that the Ethiopians weren’t actively monitoring.

Now, we were in enemy territory. How were we able to get out of there unscathed?

One reason goes back to the stupidity at the top of Ethiopia’s chain of command and the lack of direction issued to its soldiers.

No one knew what they were supposed to do.

So, in many cases, they did nothing.

The second reason spoke volumes about the Ethiopian government’s treatment of its soldiers. Their standard of living was horrendous.

The Ethiopians who had been captured by Eritreans and placed in POW camps had a better quality of life than those who weren’t captured.

You are encouraged to reread that previous sentence.

It’s true.

I am not kidding.

Well, once word got out that you were better off being a prisoner of war, the soldiers were, as a rule, happy to accept bribes instead of defending their country.

We did encounter an Ethiopian check point. The driver told us to be cool. Jen looked petrified.

The gentlemen blocking the road insisted we could go no further. It was a matter of enforcing the law and protecting the public. The guards-armored would never turn a blind eye. There would be no negotiating. We would never be allowed passage for anything less than $150. US. Small bills.

Dammit, it’s a matter of honoring a moral standard, thank you very much. There are times when one must stand one’s ground!

Okay, fine. $75. Get moving.

Once we were all off the beaten path, we started talking. It was an interesting mix of people from Canada, the US, India, West Africa, and Ireland. They were affiliated with large agencies and international church organizations. I was struck by the scale of the entire operation.

For unknown reasons, I envisioned us joining some rinky-dink operation with failure all over it. On that score, I was dead wrong. This was the big leagues, as far as I could tell.

Everyone was friendly and down-to-earth. There were no zealots, no one displaying their burden of moral superiority, no college juniors majoring in French Lit  ready to make Socialists of us all, no one holding a Bible and yelling at me, and no one who arrived because “I guess no one else cares so, as usual, I’LL have to be the one who makes all the sacrifices, does all the work, saves all the poor souls, and suffers more than you people ever will.”

There was plenty of laughter, bad jokes, and good-natured exchanges.

We stopped so we could make use of the great outdoors. I heard Vineet talking to four people.

Oh, you guys are screwed. Good luck in the psych ward. Unless you kill him. Then, good luck in Cell Block C.

We jumped back into the truck. I made sure that Jen and I chose two open seats next to people on both sides to annoy Vineet. He sat on the other side of the truck, watching to ensure I didn’t try anything naughty.

The conversation picked up. The flatbed had enough light to see two men and two women seated together. They spent a little too much time gawking at us. Those were the ones Vineet talked to during our pit stop.

Ah, he put the word on them. “Yes, yes, this rogue colonialist is, indeed, here to divert the sacred path of my Divine love and lead her to a life of obtuse obfuscation. It is, indeed, part of his devious initiative to render null and void my raison d’être. I shall be reduced to a desolate and unfulfilled life of bereavement and pathetic attempts at self-pleasure. I beseech you, my friends, to monitor his activities and advise me should he endeavor to rest his hand on one of her boobs.”

They’re on a boob watch.

All four were wearing the uniform of the day. Since my time in Sweden, I couldn’t help but notice the dress code among like-minded Christians. The women wore baggy shirts, long dark skirts, gym shoes, no makeup, and long hair. The look, to be mild, was unattractive. I assumed that was intentional. The men had short hair that must have been trimmed with a machete, god-awful razor burn, button-down shirts that were either two sizes too small or three sizes too large, extra-wide pants that were precariously held up by a large belt, white socks, and blue shoes.

Specific Christian religions do that. Have this dress code, that is. I figured that out later.

They’re part of the same tribe as Vineet and Jen. Don’t tell me their job is to be the sex monitors. Why do they get all spastic and judgmental about everyone else’s sex life? Because they’re not allowed to have sex. They aren’t permitted to think about it. Therefore, that’s all they focus on. If you have sex regularly, you don’t obsess over it. It’s like coffee in the morning. It’s one of those “nice to have” options in life. However, coffee seems to be a little more rewarding at the moment. I strongly advise that all four of you spend 48 hours in a hotel room with two or more highly trained and experienced professionals. That should calm things down.

I’ll suggest it to them later.

All was hunky-dory until folks started sharing their war stories. The stories weren’t bad, but they were the last things Jen needed to hear.

As people spoke, she leaned forward, rested her head on her forearms, stared at the floor, stiffened, and quietly cried. I rarely know how to respond in these moments. My instinct is to offer some kindness and support, but I recognize that some things I might say or do could make matters worse.

Saying something like “It’s gonna be okay” or “You’ll be fine” is insulting. It’s usually well-intentioned but consistently insulting. Hearing people ask what they can do to help is frustrating because they know the answer is “nothing.”

I knew what was on her mind but had no intention of mentioning it.

I whispered, “Would an arm around your shoulder help? You can lean my way.”

She nodded and partially fell in my direction.

“You’re welcome to talk. Only if you want.”

I leaned forward and brought my head close to hers in case she had something to say. Jen didn’t move, so I spent the time staring at the floor or closing my eyes and nearly falling asleep.

She didn’t cry out loud, but I guessed anyone paying attention would notice that she was crying.

Thirty minutes later, I looked up and saw the unsettling sight of five uncomfortably close crotches. They belonged to Vineet and his four new friends standing over us. I don’t know how long they had been standing there, but since they hadn’t tried to intervene in case I indulged in a boob-grab, I assumed their intentions were good.

I gave them the universal wait sign (the index finger in the air…works every time).

As quietly as I could, I told Jen, “Vineet and four colleagues are here to offer support. Would you like them with you, or could you do with everyone giving you some space?”

“They can stay.”

She extended a hand for Vineet to hold. The two women put their hands on her shoulders, and all started whispering.

I sat up and leaned away from the humanity. Everyone was crying. Then I realized I was in tears, too. I slapped one hand over my mouth and turned away.

One of the two gentlemen crouched next to me. “K, Mate? You awe-right?”

“Me? I’m fine. Feel bad for her, is all. She’s had a hell of a rough ride.”

“Yeah, so I gath-uh. She’s pulling through, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s as strong as an ox. When the time comes, she’ll be fine.”

They, the four strangers, and Vineet were supportive. No one, thankfully, was giving Jen unhelpful advice, offering spiritual insight they didn’t have, or telling her what she needed to do “to get over it.”

They’re being nice and letting her know they care.

They stayed with Jen longer than I cared for. I was ready to get up. Jen said something to them, and they went back to their seats. She leaned back and stared ahead. After a prolonged silence, she said, “Strong as an ox, huh?”

“That’s my unprofessional and heroically uneducated assessment. But I’m standing by it.”

We sat comfortably and quietly, lost in our own space.

Jen closed her eyes and, I thought, had gone to sleep. “How’s your faith in humanity?”

“Leading market indicators are unexpectedly positive.”

I spotted Vineet staring at me.

Chief, she’s not the reason I’m here. I am. I decided this. It’s all very selfish, son. I’m here to see if I can resurrect myself from my deep grave. It’s my chance to live.

God’s the reason she’s here.

She’s the reason you’re here.

But, I’m the reason I’m here.

I’m doing this for me.

Damn, this feels good.

—END OF CHAPTER ONE—

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