The Mentor (13 page)

Basically,
there are only two types of "lessons."

The first
is a learning arc.  You study or have exercises,
lessons
, then later test
your new knowledge or skill.  In the end, you might get a grade or a
trophy or a merit badge, whatever.

The other
lesson
is really “revenge.”  You first affected someone else in some way—you've done
something to somebody, said something to someone, or said something about doing
something to someone's sister.

Now, they
feel wronged by it, and want to teach you a
lesson
.  The lesson in
these cases are all the same:
Whatever you did, don't do that again
. 
How a person went about teaching this kind of lesson could be a myriad ways
(ie. drowning in van, burning in lava).

If my
lessons were the former, some series of tests, for the life of me I couldn’t
fathom what the tests were about.  It really didn't seem plausible that
I'd inadvertently been dropped into the Student Assassin “learning track.”

Sure, the
latter seem to fit me better.  But, not only did I not know the guy but it
didn't, ultimately, feel like "revenge."

Racking my
brain, I couldn't put it together.

Now,
despite being late morning on the Big Island, my body was on Atlanta time. 
And, I'd learned in recent years, pensive introspection usually is best when
accompanied by a six pack of beer and a peer group.

But while
the latter was not readily available to me, the former I'd spied earlier in the
fridge.

Contrary to
popular belief, beer can spoil just like milk or meat.  Allejo had already
been so kind-- I’d hate to see him suffer the embarrassment if company were to
come over and find that his adult beverages had turned.

Egad!

Later, by
the time I'd constructed the smallest pyramid possible from beer cans--two on
the bottom, one on top-- (and working dutifully to fortify the structure) my
mind had finally begun to unclench, and I felt myself nearly taking full
breaths again.

My mind
wandered, and I wondered what it had been like for the guys on the
Enola Gay
.
 

It had to
have been a long flight, and they couldn't have just been thinking the entire
time,
"Well, we're about kill 150,000 people with an atomic device… I
wonder if this will have long term ramifications beyond the war?"

There had
to have been moments during periodic equipment checks, vector recalculations,
maybe quick chats as they shared a packed lunch of cheese and meat--
providence's deep breath before the scream-- when they were just men flying a
plane, marveling at the beauty outside their windows.

Farm houses
pass by far beneath them.  

Around
those, a carpet of small, lush fields-- tended to as dutifully as one bathes a
lover.

In many of
those fields, crops in regiments awaiting deployment to a nearby market.

All this
while a horror quietly passes above, unseen.

The best
parts of life may be those expressed in the parenthetical.  

Sure, the
most
important
moment of Lt. Tibbets' life was piloting the bomber over
Hiroshima, as the paint on its snout spelling out his mother's name drizzled
away in the headwind.  

But, in the
years after, he may have better remembered sharing a beer with his crewmembers
the night before.

Or, looking
back at his life more broadly, maybe it had been the curve of his wife's naked
hip, where he'd trail his fingertips until his eyes got used to the darkness, maybe
it was there, those things, that better defined
his
life
for him
.

As I sat
there in the home of a man I didn't know, who'd given me a place to stay
without a second thought, after the tortuous encounter with a man who I also
did not know, but seemed to only desire for me the worst waking moments that
could be imagined…  I felt, in that very moment, like those crew members
sharing a quiet, pleasant, satisfying moment or their pilot remembering how his
wife, thousands of miles away, was the only home he'd truly ever known.

I was safe,
warm and, briefly, happy to forget the ugliness of the world outside the warm,
groovy cocoon I'd slipped into.

Unaware of
when I'd crossed the boundary, I passed from my beer-and-jazz-soaked peaceful day
to the blunt edge and comfortable confusion of daydream.

I'M TOO
TIRED TO lift myself out of the hospital bed to go to Ruthie’s funeral, and I'm
embarrassed that on her last day above ground I can't be there to at least say
how fucking sorry her brother is.

The nurse
comes in and he (
He?  I remember it had been... or maybe not
) looks
at me and seems to understand my struggle.  He's kind enough-- or maybe,
as he's older, experience has given him a sixth sense about these things.  He
doesn't bring up the funeral.

“Hello Dexter,”
the young nurse sa-- no that's not right-- he's an older gentlemen, now. 
Thin.  With the sort of beard a lot of baseball players have.  “How’s the
head?”

“Fine.
 My guts got scrambled not my head."

"Good,"
he says.  "They'll want that memory.  Such an amazing gift, it'd
be terrible if you lost it."

"Oh,"
I say.  "Yeah, slowly.  It's… what?  What did you
say?"

"Listen,
they'll come for it," he says, rain soaking his face.

"What?
 
What
are you talking about?"

He looks
down at his wrist watch.  “They'll be here soon, I'm so sorry.  I don't
know what to do."  The bed linens are adjusted on either side of my
neck, and I'm suddenly pinned down, can't move.

"You're…
hurting me.  That's too tight, I can't--"

"
You're
the only one!
" 

His voice
has turned tinny, the sweat off his face falls in sheets.

"Only
one!  It could be so good but, no, not for them.  
You don’t know
them!  
Not them.  They can’t get it!"  His voice hurt
my ears and was the sound of screeching tires:
"No, Christ, not
them!"

AN HOUR
LATER, I can’t tell if my trembling is a result of the pain or the dream.
 

As the
rational part of my brain tries to piece it back together, I can’t help but
push it back down, back below the surface-- I don't want to know.

Time to go.

It took me
only a few minutes to dress, clean up my mess, then leave a note thanking
Allejo for his kindness (and his beer).

I walked to
a nearby hotel, went in a side door, climbed a flight of stairs, then another
and took the elevator back down.   The nice woman at the desk pointed
me to the airport shuttle.

The shuttle
was free, but I tipped the guy two cans of beer (I'd borrowed from the house,
an I.O.U. in their place) since I didn't have a dime on me.

Naturally,
I ended up wandering the airport for about four hours because Pavan forgot
about the time difference.  He'd booked my flight for three o’clock that
afternoon, which was actually ten in the morning locally.  

My seat was
already over the Pacific Ocean by the time I made it to the airport.  I had to
rebook, so I sat around for another couple hours looking pitiful until they
could get me the jump seat on a later flight.

Circling
the airport terminal over and over and over, I was reminded of a theory I have
about airports and, specifically, air travelers.

In an
airport, any airport, every grown man or woman has the capacity to turn into a
five year old.  All it takes is one cancelled or missed flight, and you’re
a toddler.  Because you’ll sleep
anywhere
you can lie down.

Window
sills, bathroom stalls, the floor behind a ticket counter, handicap ramps…
anywhere you can get just a few minutes of blissful, escapist sleep.Businessmen,
career women, captains of industry, game show hosts, it doesn’t matter—you
spend more than two hours in an airport, and you’d slap the funny hat off the
Pope for a carpet square.

Wandering
the tiled halls, I came across a small, very clean corner of the airport where
a young woman stood by an x-ray machine.  What struck me about her, first,
was that she was skinny.  About a third the size of the rest of the airport's dream
team who'd been giving me the stink-eye for the past few hours every time I
walked by.

And,
honestly, as TSA security went, she was a knock-out.

Actually,
as knock-outs went, she was a knock-out.

I only had
hours to kill--
just
enough time to investigate a pretty girl.

As I
approached, she looked up.

"Charter
flights," she said, smiling.  Funny thing, too-- it was a real smile.
 Hmm.  She hadn't worked for the TSA very long, it would seem.

"How'd
you know I was going to ask?  Your machine read minds, too?"

"No,
you don't have any luggage.  People coming through here have at least a
carry-on or roll-away bag.  Or someone else carrying their carry-on or
roll-away bag."

"Ah,
hold on," I said.  "I thought no one else was supposed to handle your
luggage in an airport.  They got those terrorist-trapping questions when you
buy a ticket all about that."

"Oh
yeah," she said and lit me up with a dazzling smile.  "That doesn't
include rich people."

"They
never say that part."

"Oh, don't take it
personal."

"I hadn't," I
said.  "Until you said I shouldn't, you know, take it personal."

"Sorry," she
said and shrugged, then laughed again, having fun with it.

She cast a
look at the guard who was leaning against the wall, but he didn't even
acknowledge her.  If it had been anyone else
but
a member of the
crackerjack TSA security force, I would have guessed he'd mastered the ability
to sleep while standing up (
Now
, I've heard that on the Serengeti,
hippos have been known to do this.  Not trying to equate the fine
gentleman to a mean, fat water cow, but if one were to make that connection,
coincidentally, one would not be far off).

Here in
this quiet corner, where the charters boarded, there were no shuffling lines of
people willing to trade their dignity for a seat on an airplane. No one was
taking off their shoes, no one was being wanded (at least not
before
getting on the plane).

And at the
moment, no one was there at all.

"I see
this line of work keeps you terribly busy."

She leaned
back, looked down the long tiled hallway-- no one heading our way-- and rubbed
the back of her neck with the palm of her hand.

"The
flights aren't very big, for the most part.  Mainly two- and three-seat
jumpers.  The All Star break," she said, her eyes going a little
wider, "that's a different story.  Half the sky is football team
charters."

She
straightened and her red lipstick split into beautiful white teeth.

"Aloha,"
she said, and I stepped back and out of the way of a departing, bleary-eyed
businessman who apparently hadn't seen me standing there. 

He handed
her his ticket, moving slow.  Very slow.  

She
continued:  "I hope you enjoyed your stay in Hawaii."  

From the
looks of it, he seemed to have enjoyed it more than he'd been prepared for. 

"Take
this hall-- it's longer than it looks, trust me-- and you're the first right,
two gates down.  Enjoy the flight."

Nothing,
not even a grunt.

As he
walked away, staggering a little, a thought struck me.

I waited a
moment to let her customer float out of range.  Then, I pointed at the
machine next to her.

"Hey,
he rolled that bag through the metal detector.  Metal handle, metal wheels.
 And by the look of him, probably a steel flask in the coat pocket,"
I said and earned another smile.  "I think Oddjob over there needs to
come and recalibrate your machine."

The big
fellah didn't flinch.  He
was
asleep.  And standing.
 Impressive.

"They're
charter flights.  They don't have to go through metal detectors or x-ray.
 This machine is here for overflow if things get really hectic at the main
terminal.  I'm certified on it," she looked it up and down, "but
I'm not certain I know how to even turn it on."

I grabbed
an empty soda can out of the trash and walked through the machine.  Nothing.

Oddjob
said: "Don' do that."  

No.
 Not sleeping.  And, now, a degree more scary.

"Sorry,
sir.  I just… I thought I saw a kitten," I said and slipped back
through.  "So, how do they rate?  No metal detector, no
x-ray."

"It's
their plane.  They own it or their business does.  They can bring
whatever they want on board."

"No
way."

"Yep,"
she said, smacking the "p" particularly hard.  Kinda sexy.
 But by this time, she could have winged out armpit flatulence, and I
would have found her sexy.