DAMAGED GOODS

Chapter 14 from the R.M. Dolin novel, “What Is to Be Done“

Chapter 14: Damaged Goods

History turns on minor moments and ironically, preconditioning doesn’t much matter once the moment goes live. But that really only holds for those who later attempt to truthfully retrace their journey in search of post-moment clairvoyance. For the cast caught up in real time drama, life is persistent movement toward minor moments. We’re like water pausing in a beaver pond on its way down a mountain, allowed to rest as we pretend we’ve found a new normal. But the unadulterated truth is nature can’t tolerate stillness, which is why we’re soon cascading out of control as the canyons bracketing our life narrow to squeeze and push us in unimaginable ways. Broken, beaten, drained; not allowed to rest until we begin again at the next calming pool. This is the logic Jake lays out in his constantly moving mind as he reaches below the bar. “Today’s one helluva example of that,” he sighs looking with disappointment at the random bottle he pulls from the reach. “Thought for sure it’d be green.” He grabs two lowball glasses, the bucket of ice Theresa leaves in the refrigerator each night, and his bourbon.

“Black bottle bourbon,” Dario observes as Jake re-enters the courtyard setting his supplies on their round travertine table.

“Yeah.”

“Can’t fight fate,” Dario sardonically counters, watching Jake mix cocktails; but not watching careful enough to see Jake shorts him by adding extra ice. He throws a flagstone pebble at the array of empty beer cans left behind on the next table over. “Hector and his crew really stepped up, huh?”

“Those boys should be novelist the way they spin stories. Never knew so many heroes were made searching bus stations and shelters.”

“You ever been to the Santa Fe bus station?”

Jake tests his cocktail satisfied he successfully mixed it. “Gotta respect their commitment.”

“They got daughters, Doc.” Dario loses himself to the disappointment of not being the one to find Sympatico, but then suddenly jumps up. “I got something to show you.” As he darts into the darkness of the parking lot Jake relights his cigar and retests his cocktail to assess the rate at which it’s approaching peak performance.

“Check this out.” Dario proudly announces on his return. He reverently sets a hard plastic rifle case on the flagstone. Like a master violinist handling a Stradivarius, Dario carefully removes his treasure, lightly stroking the handsomely inlaid walnut stock before handing it over. “Weatherby Mark Five, Seven millimeter; ‘the’ classic rifle.”

“Isn’t this an elephant gun?”

“Rifle, Doc, we’ve been through this.”

“Okay, elephant rifle?”

“I don’t know, it’ll drop an elk at a thousand yards though, that’s for sure.”

Jake examines the rifle, marveling at the intricately hand-carved stock with rich inlay and deep reddish finish. He imagines a gunsmith working alone late at night in a quiet room under a dim incandescent lamp motivated by the promise of future owners appreciating his artistry. He pulls back the bolt then jacks an imaginary bullet home. “Glides on air.”

“Bullets alone are three bucks each. And that’s loading them myself; which I have to do on account of this bad boy being off the books.”

“How did you manage that?”

“Lonny, you know, the one I’m always trying to hook you up with. He knows a guy whose friends with someone who won it in a raffle. By the time it got sold down to me it was scrubbed. I only had to give seven hundred. The scope alone’s worth that.”

Not appreciating the deal, Jake cradles the rifle to his shoulder sighting across the parking lot to the storage shed finding his target shining in the moonlight. “She’d bore through a padlock like butter I bet.”

“I obliterated a bottle at five hundred yards. You’d miss the lock though. I haven’t fully figured out the ballistics but at a hundred yards you’d hit high. Chance for a rifle like this doesn’t come along that often.” Dario carefully returns his prize to its case, admiring it once more before closing the lid. “When Lonny said he was looking to sell, I was all over it.”

“How many rifles you got now?”

“I don’t know, twenty-five, maybe thirty. Probably eight, could be nine shotguns.”

“Impressive.”

“You should see Lonny’s collection. I need to get you up there. He keeps saying he wants to sell you rye.”

“Get him down to forty-five and we’ll drive up for a truck load.”

“I’ll work on it.” Dario digs through his backpack. “And’ he announces, “I got this for you.” With dramatic flair he proudly produces a pistol. “Smith & Wesson Model 58: four-inch barrel, six round wheel.” Dario grips the revolver’s dark walnut handle admiring the balance. With practiced fluidity, he flips the nickel coated revolver around offering it to Jake handle first.

Jake grabs his gift. While he’s never held this model before, he knows gun experts consider it one of the finest most reliable handguns made. He uses his free hand to roll the stainless-steel wheel. “Sweet, even the sound says quality.”

“This is why I wasn’t back until late last night, had to talk Lonny into selling.”

“You were late because you stopped for beers.”

“Come on, Doc, I had to soften him up.”

“Don’t you have to wait three days for pistols?”

“This baby’s so scrubbed, even the Watchers won’t know you have it.” Dario digs a box of bullets. “Lonny threw these in. You know you can’t buy bullets, right? Not even with cash, the Watchers will know.”

Jake nods accepting that as the newest member of a growing group of people responsible for protecting the shrinking number of free firearms he must be careful. “How much I owe you?”

“It’s a birthday present.”

Jake knows Dario’s not taking his money no matter how much he insists. “Thanks man.” He plays with his present while enjoying the evening, the bourbon, and their friendship. The moment unfortunately, cannot be sustained. While Jake’s insightful enough to discern a lot about people from mannerisms and intonations, he’s undisciplined when it comes to boundaries. An unwitting captive of his nature, he probes in ways reasonable people understand are inappropriate. Like a sponge, he constantly seeks information and when none exists, he’ll research it, find someone to provide it, or just derive it. Sometimes, the compulsive need for data comes with unintended consequence. “Why do you have so many guns?”

“Weapons, Doc.” Dario pauses. “They’re a good investment. I enjoy hunting and target shooting.”

Jake continues playing with his present, not realizing demons are starting to stir. “Ya know, for all the years I hunted, I had one rifle and one shotgun.”

“Bet you left a lot of game in the field.”

“I’m a bad shot.”

“You weren’t using the right firearm. When I hunt in cover it’s a 30-30; the slug’s slow but not easily deflected. It’s a 17 for fox and coyotes cause varmints tip over easy and the light slug yields a higher velocity with straighter trajectory. When I need to reach out for big game, I want something like the Weatherby. A rifle’s just a tool, Doc, no different than you having three Stills for your Whiskey, Vodka, and Brandy.”

“Touché.”

“Next time we go golfing, how about we only take two clubs and see if you still feel the same.” Dario’s growing defensiveness.

“I’ll still beat you, even if you use all your clubs, it won’t be close.”

“It’s not right, Doc, I hook you up with casino comps and you don’t even let me win.”

“I try!”

“We Hispanics are bred for work not goofing off at white guy games.”

Jake raises his glass. “No one works harder than you, my friend.”

Content with their thoughts, the boys drift into silence. Like a giddy child on Christmas, Jake plays with his toy letting his mind imagine exciting adventures. Unfortunately, Dario’s personal gravity pulls him toward darker places. Most nights he’s able to avoid the firing line of his past but the thing is, once he starts down that rabbit hole, he’s all in. “Did you know Doc, Corpsmen have won more Medals of Honor than anyone?”

“Guess I didn’t.” Jake apprehensively answers. Military history has come up before, always with consequence.

“First ones killed in combat.”

“Isn’t that against the Geneva Convention?”

“To hell with Geneva!” Dario fires back. “If you wanna break the moral of Marines, kill their Corpsman. I had this guy, Jenkins.” He takes a determined drink of bourbon, then adds as an afterthought. “He was a brother.”

Jake mines his database of late-night conversations but can’t recall a Jenkins.

“Always teasing me with shit like, ‘I’d take a bullet for you, Doc. Not for you, for my brothers. You’re the only one I believe will help a dark green when he’s busted up.’” Dario looks at Jake with an agony reserved for those held prisoner by torments refusing parole. “I had a hundred and fifty guys in my unit, O’Darnell though, he’s the one I remember most. Always asking for sick passes or to have me examine some honey he was hooking up with. Of course I did, I did whatever it took to take care of my guys.”

Jake remembers Darnell, he comes up often when Dario’s diving down a rabbit hole.

“One night in the Philippines, I’m about to get into it with three, maybe four, guys. Ya see, Doc, I had this honey. Best Christmas of my life. It was in her cardboard shack. We cooked a traditional Philippine dinner over a bucket of charcoal. Then read scriptures. Imagine that; here’s this woman, literally living in a house made of cardboard and she wants to read scriptures on Christmas.” Dario stares intensely at Jake, his voice vexing. “So, we did. We knelt on the hard dirt floor, held hands, talked about God, then had crazy monkey sex. Best damn Christmas of my life, even the God part. Of all the girls I’ve been with, Doc; pretty ones, rich ones, girls who could make you forget stuff, she’s the only one I ever loved. That’s crazy, right?”

Jake struggles to overcome the lump in his throat from something making him remember Emelia. “There’s no calculus for love. Can’t plan for it; can’t build a logic around it. It just is what it is and that’s that.”

Dario stares into the lost night sky. He continues his story after a stiff brace of bourbon. “So, there I was, about to mix it up with four maybe five Horis, on account of they insulted my honey. A man’s got to defend that, Doc. It’s not about outcomes like you always lecture, sometimes a man does what he’s gotta do, consequences be damned. Me and those five, maybe six guys are about to throw down when all of a sudden there’s a hand on my shoulder. I turn around and there stands smooth talking Darnell Jenkins.”

The repetitive way Dario twirls his glass while staring blankly into night is all the validation Jake needs that he’s deep in the abyss of his demons engaged in battles that have been many times waged, and many times lost.

“Jenkins slides between me and those boys and just as calm as can be says, ‘Can’t help but notice you Hori mofos have walked yourselves into one unfortunate shitstorm.’ Those Kiwi crackers take one look at all one hundred and fifty pounds of Darnell and just laugh. I for one feel good he’s there, this Saint Louis brother is pound for pound the most tenacious Marine ever. O’Darnell, never loses his cool, he just smiles at those Ginni bastards and says, ‘I know from experience brother Dario’s got this. But I owe him for a jam he got me out of, so I’m here to help. That means his odds just got better. Maybe you don’t think by much, guess that’s what were about to find out. Now, you mofos listen real close cause what I’m gonna tell you, makes the difference between waking up in jail or the hospital. Ya see, my man here’s a Corpsman. Now you may not know what that means, so as a one-time courtesy, I’m gonna educate ya. A Marine, which I proudly am, will give his life to protect a Corpsman. It’s as much an instinct with us as being a dumb ass is for you. Look around, you see all the men watching? They’re Marines, every one of them ready do whatever it takes to make sure you never lay a hand on old Doc here. Bottom line is you maybe best, Doc, even though I doubt it. Either way though, you cannot best the United States Marine Corps.’ Then, just as calm and smooth as can be, Darnell turns to me and says, ‘When you retell this story, Doc, and we both know you will, make sure to mention I was a brother.’”

Jake studies Dario knowing better than to say anything.

“So, I do.” Dario takes another slow sip before falling deeper into his abyss. “He was with me on Falaka Island the morning we get ambushed. I was working on one of my guys whose leg was messed up when all of a sudden I find myself face-to-face with a freaking towel head. He knew I was a medic, but that pig-bastard shot at me anyway. Out of nowhere, Jenkins jumps across the firing line taking the bullet in the one stinking open slot of his flac-jacket. He does though, at least manage to spray that worthless piece of shit. I got to Jenkins right away but there wasn’t anything I could do. Before he dies, just as smooth as always, he says to me, ‘when you retell this story, Doc, say I died with honor.’”

Dario stares at Jake with a torment few can understand and even fewer describe. “You ever hold a man while he dies?”

Jake shakes his head knowing not to answer. “Not just a man, Doc, a marine. He could have asked for anything and I woulda done it. All he says though, is ‘don’t forget to say I was a brother.’ What kind of shit is that?” Jake shrugs his shoulders even though Dario’s too lost to notice. “In that moment, I realize I’ve come to the end of reason. The end of purpose. To the utter end that justifies the means.”

Striving to hold back floodgates of memories and emotions, Jake stiffens himself with bourbon. “Sometimes the darkness in the shadows wins,” he softly whispers.

“To hell with the rat-bastard politicians who sent us to die! If God gave me one C-4 charge, you know what I’d do? I’d set it off during the State of the Union. That’d go a long way to solving a lot of problems.”

Jake’s intrigued by the possibilities. “Could work, you’d want a shape-charge though. One that simultaneously creates an over- and under-pressure.” He considers the mechanics. “I’d shape it in a way that the over-pressure rises into the capitol dome shattering the structure. Then, just as shrapnel starts to blow outward, I’d have the under-pressure implode downward.”

“You could really do that?”

“There’s more effective ways to deal with the oligarchy, but yeah, one well-placed shape-charge and we’re a long way to finishing what we haven’t even started.”

“Sometimes, Doc, I forget the bat-shit crazy-ass things you’re capable of.”

“I’m just saying it’s possible, doesn’t mean I’d do it.”

“But you could, and that’s something.” Another prolonged silence ensues before Dario suddenly jumps up lifting his glass. “To Darnell Jenkins. To the man, no, the brother, who had more courage and honor than the sum of all those rat bastards who sent him to die.” Jake stands but before drinking, they each pour bourbon onto the flagstone, an Eastern European tradition to give fallen comrades the first taste; something Jake learned while working in Russia on nuclear dismantlement.

Dario downs what’s left of his bourbon. “Do you know anyone who’d take a bullet for someone else? If you know a Marine, you do.”

“Or a Corpsman,” Jake adds.

“Right on.”

The two friends settle back to their chairs before descending into silence, each lost to personal thought. “He was just joking ya know, he didn’t do it for the brothers. He’d have done it for any of us. That’s how it is, Doc. In combat, we’re all brothers. I was as close to my dark greens as any of my light greens; closer to my guys than my real brothers. That’s messed up right?” Jake thinks about responding but before he can. “Now they freaking give medals for joy-stick jockeys. How’s that heroic? Boots on the ground, Doc. Only they should get medals. Only guys like Jenkins. Next, they’ll be calling Watchers heroes.”

Dario stares into the night collecting his thoughts. “After Falaka, I gave up my Geneva protection, those pork-packed pieces of shit were gonna shoot me either way and I wanted to at least shoot back.” Dario stares blankly into the black infinitely deep stillness. “I vowed to kill at least ten towel heads to make things right.” There’s a long pause. “And I keep my promises.”

Jake knows from previous evenings that while Dario may be present, he’s not here and the only thing that can be done is to sit quietly, giving him his space. “It felt, I don’t know, comforting to have a weapon when we went out. Made me closer to my guys. Maybe that’s why I have so many now. It’s messed up, right? You know me, Doc. I drive an old truck. Live in a crappy house. I don’t put much value on anything other than my colt. I don’t collect guns so someday I can make money. Shit’s gonna hit the fan, Doc, it’ll happen all at once from out of nowhere like that morning on Falaka. When it does, I’ll need all of them.”

“Shit is flying toward the fan,” Jake states, “that’s for sure. Having an arsenal won’t help though, not for what’s coming.”

“When East Coasters get hungry, Doc, they’ll come west.” Dario pauses. “Some guys drink to deal with demons, some do drugs, or tomcat around. I collect weapons.”

Jake knows once Dario’s demons are out, they build in cascading waves of unintended consequence. “I have to go,” Dario announces jumping up.

“What about our meeting? The boys will be here any minute and there’s a lot to discuss.”

“Can’t Doc, I gotta take care of my colt.”

Jake catches up just as Dario hops into his truck. “Thanks again for the pistol. Sorry about dredging up memories.”

“It’s okay, Doc, this time will be different.” Dario lets the engine rev a couple of cycles. “Make sure you put that pistol someplace safe.”

Jake nods giving Dario room to back up. He watches his taillights disappear only to reappear as the truck rises and falls down the driveway. “We know how this ends,” Jake mutters as he walks back to the courtyard.

Based on past performance, Dario will retreat into isolation as he battles to put demons back in their dungeon. Before reemerging he’ll gamble heavily at the Wind River and get in a fight somewhere; either the casino, the VFW, or work. Jake picks up his pistol considering the extent to which everyone’s damaged. In Dario, the desperation’s clear. In Sympatico, it’s just as deep but profoundly different having yet to be explored triggers and coping mechanisms. In himself he understands there’s cause for concern he’s just not ready to confront.

“If everyone’s damaged,” Jake wonders settling back in his chair, “where does that leave us?” He breaks down his logic. “If one subscribes to the philosophy that a dog smells his own shit first, only I can diagnose my damage. Then again, if you believe you can’t see in yourself what’s obvious to others, how the hell can you know the pathology of your condition? And if you can’t, you can’t ascertain the extent of the mitigation measures required.” Jake’s mood grows sullen as he further assesses his status. He tries to remember the Serenity Prayer but can’t. He’s nonetheless convinced if he could it would support his conclusions.

“Pretty freaking messed up,” he sarcastically concludes while opening the ammo box and slowly loading the revolver. “Dario’s right.” Jake jams a round into the last empty chamber. “It is comforting.” He slaps the loaded cylinder into its housing and sets it on the table staring at the pretentious pistol. “If everyone’s damaged, and we can’t measure our damage, we can’t get right, right?”

He spins the ammo wheel just to hear the sound of bullets clicking past the hammer, chamber by chamber. “Sweet, exactly how a revolver should sound the instant you realize your life’s shit and there ain’t shit you can do about it.” He places the pistol flat on the table and gives it a spin. The revolver rotates several cycles stopping with the barrel pointing away at a thirty-degree angle. Jake grins at fate’s subtle statement. “Not now, eh?” He takes a moment to enjoy the simplicity of his analysis. “Another time perhaps?”