| “Go to Ditmars Boulevard. Turn left. Goddamn it, turn off that fucking disco music. Here—turn right here. Find a parking spot. Stop right here! Park!” section of bumfucknowhere (in the middle of nowhere) Queens called Long Island City. Before my eyes adjusted section of bumfucknowhere (in the middle of nowhere) Queens called Long Island City. Before my eyes adjusted (in the middle of nowhere) Queens called Long Island City. Before my eyes adjusted from the bright July summer Queens called Long Island City. Before my eyes adjusted from the bright July summer sunshine to the subdued from the bright July summer sunshine to the subdued darkness of the bar, I’d lost sight of Jack. As my night vision began working, the image of his white jacket, white shoes, and white hair with the ruler-straight part slowly came into focus. He had taken up an observation post, standing at the far end and last spot of the long workingman’s bar, which was a far cry from the more upscale places where I envisioned him hanging out when he buddied up with the Yankees in Manhattan. The possibility that Big George the XO had gotten wind of Jack’s firefight with Vijay and was looking for his purchasing manager who’d taken a UA (unauthorized absence) didn’t seem to (unauthorized absence) didn’t seem to bother my boss as he conducted visual recon (patrolled for enemy didn’t seem to bother my boss as he conducted visual recon (patrolled for enemy movements to gain bother my boss as he conducted visual recon (patrolled for enemy movements to gain information), armed with a (patrolled for enemy movements to gain information), armed with a beer in a glass. Next to him was a bottle of beer on a napkin, presumably for me. , armed with a beer in a glass. Next to him was a bottle of beer on a napkin, presumably for me. beer in a glass. Next to him was a bottle of beer on a napkin, presumably for me. “That’s for you, Michelle.” I needed to quickly adjust my mind to Jack the Marine and not Jack the purchasing manager, I guessed, because he’d reverted to calling me Michelle. “Thanks, Jack.” I said. We sipped our beers in silence in the overly air-conditioned midafternoon darkness, but I could tell that something was still gnawing away at Jack’s gourd. I wondered if Vijay had triggered his mood in some way or whether something else, less obvious to me and deeper inside of him, was the cause of his angst. Although I was becoming accustomed to most of Jack’s tough-guy demeanor, I was certain that there was much more to his complex emotional composition. But rather than try to figure him out that moment, I settled for feeling that it was fun to be out of the office in the middle of the afternoon having cold beers in a dumpy bar with my boss, the same guy who went out drinking with sports celebrities and movie stars, if the stories I heard morning after morning back at the puzzle palace (HQ) were to be believed. One morning the previous week, Jack had told me that he’d been out with legendary boxing champ Jake LaMotta and then had drinks with Academy Award winner and tough guy Jack Palance. Toward the end of his hungover soliloquy, I’d thought that he’d said something about being with Hungarian actress and Manhattan socialite Zha-Zha Gabor and that she called him “Yak, dahling,” her strong Eastern European accent making it impossible for her to pronounce his first name correctly with a J. The Zha-Zha Gabor story made his other celebrity tales sound even more fantastical. They were great stories, but I still had no concrete proof from the pissed-off man now drinking beer in a lowbrow Podunk bar instead of in his “charming Manhattan,” just a stone’s throw across the East River from where we were. I bit my tongue when my crumb catcher wanted to say, Sir, is everything all right? The consequences of a role- reversing question such the one I’d almost blurted out was too much for my ground-pounder (infantryman, grunt) mind to handle. Jack was the CO, the big swinging dick. So I stuck the neck of the beer bottle in my soup cooler to plug up any clueless dumb-ass words that might be looking to di-di out of Private No-Name (a Marine private who wears no rank insignia) Michelle’s weak-willed lower lip. |
| The Expeditor (continued) |