The Day I Thought I Was Going To Die

I would imagine there aren’t too many people who’ve had near-death experiences. I mean the real kind, the out-of-body, move-toward-the-light, talking-to-dead-relatives kind of near-death experiences.

Sure, we’ve all had the embarrassing oh-shit-I’m-gonna-die, holy-crap-she’s-gonna-kill-me kind of “near-death” experiences, but there’s one kind that’s in between the real near-death experiences and the socio-professional ones. They’re the staring-death-in-the-face moments, the kind where some action of yours will result in, or has resulted in a situation that could bring you real harm, or even death… and it’s usually brought on by your own stupidity.

It was early 1984. I was at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas, sometime in the middle of the second of three phases of my entry training, the Security Police Technical Training course. Only a few weeks out of basic training, the Air Force wasn’t quite ready to let us enjoy our free time as we saw fit; there were still restrictions on base- and town-liberty privileges. It was a weekend – a Sunday, I think – and though we were allowed to wear civilian clothes, we weren’t yet quite trusted with venturing off base, even though every last one of us had lived our entire lives until a few months earlier off base.

I was in our dormitory day-room, a simple, non-descript room in place for us to relax and unwind after classes and in our down-time.

I don’t remember if I had walked in on the argument, or if I was already in the day-room and the argument had walked in on me, but one of my classmates had gotten into a heated discussion with Airman Johnson over Airman Johnson’s behavior.

I know it sounds like I’m making the name up, but his name really was Johnson. He was a street-tough kid who grew up on the streets on the bad side of Miami. He and I came through basic training in the same class, his bunk across the aisle and a couple down from mine. He had a perpetual sneer on his face, at times threatening, at times mocking, but at all times present, which, when facing the Training Instructors, brought him a lot of grief. To say Johnson had issues with authority figures would be a drastic understatement. He was not used to having to take shit from anyone, and there were times when the Training Instructors had nothing but shit to give. It was a deep-seated, automatic reaction in him when someone got in his face, that it broke into an expression of contempt. It raised in me the question, “If you have that much trouble dealing with authority figures, why join the military?”

But he made it through basic training, and he wound up in my secondary training class, learning how to be an Air Force cop.

I’ve always been a fairly amiable person, despite my general shyness. Despite his tough attitude, Johnson had a likeable quality to him. In conversations I had learned about his rough life, his fights, his victories, a few of his defeats, his experiences on his high school wrestling team. He had an air of the braggart, but an underlying tongue-in-cheek, self-ridiculing personality as well. He was a living, breathing example of the disadvantaged inner-city young black male of the mid-1980s. And where some are little more than a lot of wind and posturing, all it took was shaking Johnson’s hand to know he could back up everything he said about who he was and what he had come from. Though kind of short and of a small build, he was intensely strong; his sinewy, muscular frame hadn’t come from working out at the gym, but from competition and, no doubt, his daily survival. To put it concisely, his was a formidable, intimidating presence. Of course, for me, a gangly, featherweight, white stringbean of a kid from the suburbs, just about everything was intimidating.

So I found myself in the dayroom, an observer of a heated discussion. At question was Johnson’s behavior. I seem to recall the discussion arising from Johnson’s complaint about how the Training Instructors were always on his case. His co-interlocutor had likely stated that Johnson’s attitude was what brought him his troubles, a comment that Johnson likely viewed as an insult or attack, and the heat had turned up.

I was a worrywart in my teens and twenties. I would lie awake nights worried about oversleeping the next morning, worried about whether I’d be closer to the beginning of the chow line or closer to the end; stupid shit like that. I worried that Johnson was getting worked up over this discussion and might do something he would regret. So I opened my mouth and became part of the discussion. My first mistake was to side with the guy who wasn’t Airman Johnson; that just confirmed Johnson’s belief that everyone had it in for him.

Throughout the discussion Johnson had that somewhat mocking, somewhat self-riduling, somewhat half-smile on his face, with moments of fire erupting in his eyes. Before I realized what had happened, Johnson had completely shifted his focus to me. The other guy had stepped back, no doubt ready to throw water on us if need be.

I was seated on the edge of the pool table. Airman Johnson was standing directly in front of me. I don’t remember what it was that I had said, but it reflected my constant state of worry, and my warnings to others that they might get in trouble for doing whatever it was they were doing, and that I wasn’t going to do what they were doing because I didn’t want to get into trouble, ad nauseam.

Johnson, tired of my preaching to him from my pulpit of trepidation, spoke in his mocking tone of voice, and said something to the effect of, “You should worry about your own self, but instead you be cryin’ like a little bitch all the time about what I do…” and he went off on a rant about how much people around him complained about how he acted, and told him how he should behave, how he should wear his uniform, how his actions made the rest of us look bad, and how tired he was of everybody getting in his business.

At this point I saw the tables turn. Suddenly Airman Johnson was doing exactly what he had accused me of doing. I seized the opportunity to put this feeling into words, to put Johnson in his place. I wanted to turn his own phrase, “cryin’ like a little bitch,” back on him, because, admittedly, it had hurt me when he said it. The words formed in my head: “Now who’s cryin’ like a little bitch?” I just waited for him to take a breath. And when he did, for the life of me, I experienced a major brain fart:

“Now who’s cryin’, bitch?”

In a flash Johnson’s self-mocking expression disappeared, replaced by rage. In a greased second his nose was a millimeter from mine, his eyes burning into mine, words pouring from his lips. I don’t remember what he said to me in those moments. The only two things I remember in that moment were the death glare in his eyes and the stream of thought running through my head: “’Now who’s cryin’, bitch?!’ Where the hell did THAT come from?! Now I’m going to die!”

I gather that the only thing that saved me from being cracked like an egg was what I can only guess was an instinctive reaction, which was not to react at all. I sat rigid, stone-faced, and I stared right back into his eyes, giving the best rendition of a street-tough glare I could give him.

Johnson finally ran out of words and we glared at each other menacingly for a few more seconds. I can only guess at why he didn’t snap me in half like a twig. I’m certain it wasn’t that he had never sized me up and was unsure whether or not he could take me. More likely, he weighed the consequences of putting me in the intensive care ward and determined he’d rather not spend the rest of his Air Force career in a military prison.

Johnson stepped back and said something dismissive, like I wasn’t worth his trouble, and he walked away. Only then did I realize that, until his departure, he and I had been alone in the day-room for several minutes. His original opponent had cleared out when I made the ill-fated retort, no doubt to call 9-1-1, or to go make splints or something.

Alone in the day-room, my stoic expression finally broke. There were no mirrors nearby, but I’m certain the new expression read incredulity, and I’d bet I was whiter by several shades than I had been when I sat down on the edge of the pool table!

“Now who’s cryin’, bitch?!” WHAT THE HELL?!

I walked to my room on rubbery legs and lay down on my bed, and I worried about dealing with Airman Johnson the next day and for the rest of the training cycle. I don’t remember if it was immediate, or if it took a few days, but Johnson and I made amends. I don’t recall who approached whom first to apologize, but I do recall that when I apologized for calling him a bitch, he responded with his usual expression of half self-ridicule, half contempt, so I don’t know if he truly accepted my apology or trusted that it was sincere.

I suppose it’s obvious that I think about him from time to time, and I wonder what ever became of him, of his career in the Air Force. I suspect that his attitude and his mouth got him into trouble before too long – it seemed inevitable that he would have been kicked out before the end of his first tour of duty. But who knows? Maybe he’s Colonel Johnson by now….

No Wind In My Sales

I am not a salesman. But then, neither is Mrs. Farrago. Whatever it might be that requires dealing with strangers or the public or people on the other end of a telephone line, Mrs. Farrago isn’t it. Neither am I, but if I don’t do it, Mrs. Farrago makes we wait another week before I get another look at my testicles in the jar that she keeps hidden away somewhere.

Mrs. Farrago’s father -- let’s just call him Papa Swiss -- who lived with us for four years, decided almost all on his own to move out to an assisted living facility about a mile from our home. Now that he’s living in a place where his every need is tended to, he’s decided he no longer has a need for his car, which he has left parked in its handicapped reserved space in front of our house. We should have asked if the assisted living facility facilitates auto sales….

So, Mrs. Farrago and I are stuck with selling Papa Swiss’s car. And, in case you don’t remember reading the first paragraph of this post, that means that I'm stuck with selling Papa Swiss’s car.

It’s a nice enough car. It’s pretty basic, with manual locks and windows, automatic transmission, power steering and power brakes. The problem I saw from the outset is that, though it’s a Toyota 4-Runner, it only has a 4-cylinder engine, and it’s 2-wheel-drive. Until I saw this vehicle, I would never have guessed that a) Toyota would make a 2-wheel-drive version, or b) anyone would have bought a 2-wheel-drive version of a 4-Runner.

And that brings up the issue of making it look desirable. Without lying. The smartest thing we’ve done with it is park it at the local supermarket/strip mall/plaza with the “FOR SALE” sign pointed at the street. We moved it there today and received four phone calls within the first 90 minutes. But then I have to talk about it.

“Yes, it’s a ’97…No, it’s a 4-cylinder…I AM talking about the Toyota…Yes, automatic…No, no, just 2-wheel drive…Yes, I know it’s a 4-Runner…Well, they made at least ONE with 2-wheel-drive…Sir, I’ve never worked for Toyota, so I have no idea why they did it….”

But that’s not the hardest part of it. I hate haggling. I’m not good at it when I’m the buyer, and I’m not good at it as the seller, either. What’s worse, it’s not even me I’m haggling for!

It’s not in pristine shape. It has about 84,000 miles on it, and it has a small, creased dent in the passenger side front door. With these factors taken into account, we’ve researched the fair market value of the thing. So, let’s just say we’re asking $5000 for it. Okay, we really are asking $5000 for it. It’s fair-market range is $4500-$5500. I just don’t know how long to hold out for it when they make their “best” offers. I feel like I’m sucking the life out of them when I say, “Sorry, fifteen hundred just isn’t enough. I want more, MORE!”

I just hope some kid with accommodating parents comes along and really, really wants it for his first car, or an old guy much like Papa Swiss considers it a great deal, because I don’t think anybody else is going to find it worth their while. As a Toyota, people want something with more power and take-off speed than a 4-cylinder will give them. As an SUV, people want the confidence and stability in Chicago rain and snow that 4-wheel drive will give them. I just don’t believe in the product.

That’s three strikes against me.

Okay...Okay...All Right...

How much of our time is spent reminiscing? Were they really the good old days, or do we only remember the good parts of the old days, and the rest of them sucked just as bad as today’s days do, and a couple years down the road we’ll look back on something that happened this week as one of the good old days?

I don’t know what happened to trigger this memory, but it was funny then, and it brings a chuckle to me every time I think about it.

I was a Thespian in high school, a “drama jock,” if you will. I lived and breathed tech theatre for all four years. Our high school auditorium had quite a sophisticated stage, so much so that several professional productions were staged there each year. The benefit to being so involved with the mechanics of our stage was that, when these professional productions came in, they had to hire local hands to work the stage. The school didn’t trust just anybody, so we students were handed roughly 25 to 35 minimum-wage hours for the week to help set-up, rehearse, and tech the performances.

My best friend since 4th grade is Lu. His full first name is Lucio. My family always had the hardest time pronouncing his name. “LOO-she-o” was the most common mispronunciation. Also common was “LOO-che-o,” or “loo-CHEE-o,” which was understandable, coming from a family used to Italian pronunciations. But Lucio is Mexican. I struggled to correct people on the proper pronunciation, but Lucio and his mild speech impediment didn’t help…when he said it, it sounded more like “LOO-she-o” than anything else.

It took more than 10 years, a stint in the military, and living in a college dorm for someone to come up with a convenient solution and just start calling him “Lu.”

But I digress. Lu and I were hired by one of the professional shows in town. I was up in the rear of the auditorium, in the follow-spot booth, and Lu was operating the lighting board backstage. The stage manager with the production was talking to all of us on headsets and running through our cues as we neared the start of the show. It wasn’t that he was mispronouncing Lu’s name like so many other people did. He had misheard it all together.

“Lucien?”

“Yeah?” Nobody on the stage crew had the balls to tell the guy he was saying the wrong name, but we all knew who he was talking to.

“At the opening curtain, lights up full,” said the stage manager.

“Okay,” said Lucio.

“After the second song, we’ll fade to a blue wash.”

“Okay.”

“The fourth song starts with just the follow-spot, but then we’ll fade up on my cue with an orange cyc.”

“Okay.”

“The fifth song is a medley.”

“Okay.”

“The first part is lights up full…”

“Okay.”

“Then the tempo changes at the second part and we go to a red wash and cyc…”

“Okay.”

“Uh…Lucien?” said the stage manager.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to say, ‘Okay,’ after everything I say.”

There was a pause of a few seconds.

“All right.”

Everyone on headsets giggled through the rest of the evening, and Lu and I still laugh about it today.

ode to squirrel, dead

you hunted nuts on ground, in trees
all the summer long
ignoring dogs and cats and bees
even birds of song

the sun crept south, the days grew short
thickened you of fur
never did you tire of work
winter prepped you were

we found you here beneath the bough
your life all but gone
what lay you down we did not know
what deadly deed was done?

you breathed your final, gasping breath
looking at the sky
like humans as they face their death
were you asking, “why?”

who gets your nuts, your final stash?
is some squirrel heir?
do squirrel colleagues take your cache?
is that somehow fair?

we laid your furry corpse to rest
trash bin for your bed
no grave for you, we thought it best
no last words were said

o, squirrel, where’s your furry soul?
heaven, if you will?
or is it where your corpse did go,
out to the landfill?