Archive for the ‘Ken Brady’ Category
Three Salesmen in Defense of Neoteny
Tuesday, February 16th, 2010
So the Michelin Man, Mr. Clean, and the Quaker Oats Pilgrim finally get kicked out of the Luscious Lady Roadside Trip and Strip and literally stumble down the steps to the dusty Nevada parking lot.
Pilgrim falls and lands in gravel. At his age, it shouldn’t be funny, but he gets to his knees, laughing, and puts his dirty hat on backward.
“Did you see the sidewalls on that blond?” Bibendum, the Michelin Man, shakes his head. “Unbelievable.” He leans his white treads against Pilgrim’s Mustang and takes a swig of beer. “Cheers. Now is the time to drink!”
“Hey, Veritably,” Pilgrim says, “did I do anything I shouldn’t have?”
“Of course,” Clean says. “And some things even I wouldn’t.”
Pilgrim, hurt, says, “I have my image to uphold.”
“Didn’t you experiment on kids?” Bib drops his empty, lights up a joint. He takes a drag.
“I had nothing to do with that.”
Clean says, “You paid for the Willy Wonka movie, so I forgive you.”
“And your oatmeal rocks,” Bib says.
“True, Bibelobis,” Clean says. “You’re looking good. Company must be rocking.”
“Company, sure,” Bib says. “But me? I mean, look at me.”
“You look awesome,” Clean says.
“Stopped smoking decades ago.” He takes another drag. “Cigars, I mean. Started running, trimmed down. Got a puppy.”
“I like the puppy,” Pilgrim says.
“Fuck the puppy. Wasn’t my idea. None of that was my idea, you get it? I used to be mean, smart, erudite. They used to know me for my ‘wit without vulgarity.’ You fucking believe that shit?”
“Times change, man,” Clean says.
“Easy for you to say.”
“Me? I’ve got an earring, everyone thinks I’m a pirate. Or a genie. I’m a goddamn sailor from Pensacola. Yeah, I hate dirt, but who am I? A mysterious man to MILFs? Most people think I’m gay.”
“Are you?” Bib says.
“If you’re made of tires, why aren’t you black?”
“I hate that question,” Bib says. “Touché. I used to be a ladies’ man, now I help stranded families and give them parts of my body. I have to keep my hands in sight at all times in public after that Disney groping lawsuit. That ain’t right.”
Pilgrim shrugs. “Wear this get up for 130 years and see how you like it.”
“I’m made of fucking tires. I’ll trade you.”
“Let’s just go,” Clean says.
“Fine, I’ll drive,” Bib says.
“No way,” Pilgrim says. “It’s my car, and I’m going to drive it. End of discussion.”
“My ass,” says the Michelin Man. He pulls a revolver and pumps two rounds into the car’s right front tire. “I ever tell you how much is riding on your tires? No one ever fucking listens to the fat guy.”
He puts the pistol back between two low profiles and stalks off toward Vegas.
Pilgrim slumps against the car. “I’ll get the jack and the spare.”
“Jack?” Clean says. “Who needs a jack? I’m Mr. Clean!” He tries to lift the front bumper of the car. “Yeah, get the jack.”
They look down the road but Bib is already gone.
“He’ll be back,” Clean says. “With a champagne goblet full of nails and broken glass, grabbing tits, smoking weed, living life as only he can.”
“Guess you’re right,” Pilgrim says.
“Times change,” Clean says. “For some of us.
Danger Close
Friday, January 29th, 2010
People who’ve been in combat say you come back changed. Different way of seeing the world, of thinking about life and death, right and wrong. New priorities, skewed brands of patriotism and cynicism. Many ways, you’re not the same person.
I never doubted war would change me. Just never thought it would give me the power to change the world.
Week after rotating back I swear I’m still picking sand out of every possible location, some more unpleasant than others. Two weeks in Seattle before I return to Bragg. Seeing family and friends, but it wears on you when everyone asks about your time in the shit and all you want to do is forget. Questions, comments, stories, judgments.
“It’s a sixth sense,” Belani says. “I know who’s seen combat, who hasn’t.”
Post Street, corner table, rounds of beers flowing. Friends from high school who enlisted around the same time. Different tasks, same war.
“Exactly,” Fisker says. “You know the posers from the real deal right off.”
“I know who’s going to die, who’s going to kill,” I say. Not good party conversation, but it comes out.
“Fuck does that mean?” Belani says.
He’s right, of course. Look around the crowded bar and see who has been in a firefight. Doesn’t take special talent, just recognition. Eye movements, body language. It’s more than that. I can tell who is going to be in a life or death situation. Before it happens. I know the outcome.
“It means he saw too much shit go down,” Fisker says.
“Maybe so,” I say.
Then breaking glass, pissed off man, screaming girl. Know I could intervene, but don’t.
“Don’t want to see this,” I say. I drop a fifty, stand and leave quickly before blood starts flowing.
Two days later, shaking and crying from guilt, I find my calling. On television, announcing a move from the private sector to politics. I don’t know him, his ideals, his goals, his promises.
I know he will kill a lot of people. Hundreds, then thousands, then millions. I know he has to die and I have to do it. Only other possible outcome.
Next day, summer sky, prone on a balcony, his temple in my sights. What makes a man want to kill? Does he see the same things I do? Does he see color-coded right and wrong? Does he see a mandate from God?
Maybe only those who’ve seen enough, lived through enough horror, can become truly powerful. Senses build and fine tune. Dictators rarely start off as mass murderers. Saviors are not born saints.
What will they say about me? Hero or monster? I can’t read that one. Time will vindicate me or it won’t.
I take a breath, let it out slowly, squeeze the trigger.