This is My Time
by
Michael Hemmingson
Rominna Books
2012
Smashwords Edition 2012
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy
Copyright © 2012 Michael Hemmingson
All rights reserved.
Note
This is My Time is a post-postmodern version of Hemingway’s In Our Time, and while it follows the structure and a few themes, it does not “re-write” Hemingway’s texts.
Acknowledgments
Parts of this little book have appeared in elimae, Fiction International, Forum: Qualitative Social Science, Something Dark, and Western Humanities Review.
Table of Contents
Letter from the Border of Goma, Zaire (1994)
The Palms at Indian Head
Little League
Cinder’s Brain
Social Media
One Last Thing
Elephants
Something Finally Happens
We Are Not What You Think We Are
Dominique’s Story
L’Envoi
No story is anything more than a list.
---William T. Vollmann
Letter from the Border of Goma, Zaire (August, 1994)
At night, the children cried because of the heat, they were hungry and thirsty and could not sleep, and various flying insects bit at their skin like piranha in shallow waters. Those with cholera simply died and their bodies were left scattered like cracker crumbs to rot in the indifferent African sun.
The Tutsi people were trying to across the border into Zaire so they would not face the machetes of the Hutu people, legs chopped off at the knee and: “Now you are short like we are.” Arms chopped off and: “Now you cannot write or practice law and medicine.”
Children without parents wandered around like small zombies and no one paid attention.
Zaire had closed their border; the nation had already admitted large groups of civil war refugees and could take no more.
“Do not let anyone see your water bottle,” a veteran journalist told me, “they may kill you for a single drink.”
The dirty water many of them were drinking, the water they shit and pissed in, was now killing the once proud Tutsi people.
At night, in the distant hills across the border, gunshots were heard. Someone was facing death each time a bullet delivered an echo.
French U.N. Soldiers dug large holes in the ground with U.N. Tractors and pushed dozens of bodies into each hole, mass graves to keep the disease from spreading.
I tried to sleep in the Red Cross tents but it was too hot at night and the screams and gunfire in the hills of Zaire kept me awake. I went somewhere else in my head, back to Los Angeles or San Diego, in the bed of any number of ex-girlfriends, cold and cuddled under blankets, sharing needful desire, the kind of sex where your world is sex and nothing else matters.
“I’ve seen worse,” said a Red Cross doctor.
“This is where the fucking world ends,” said a cameraman for CNN.
“There’s blood in my piss,” said a journalist, “what does this mean?”
That was my voice. I was talking but I wasn’t aware of opening my mouth. Every time I did open my mouth, the thick putrid scent of decaying human flesh and boiling feces invaded, taking camp on my tongue and in the dry flesh of my gums. The flimsy white masks the Red Cross gave me didn’t help much.
Chapter I
The soldiers were drunk with victory. Every man and woman serving in the Tenth Mountain Division was intoxicated from the adrenaline of the first battle with a handful of “insurgents” in the rough terrain of Afghanistan’s desolate real estate. Adam Nicholson wrote in his small, slender notepad: “Al Queda was akin to speaking the Devil’s name, and like any good Christian soldier, it was their glorious duty to rid the planet of Evil.” The army soldiers were uncomfortable having a journalist embedded with them; they had to keep in mind everything they said and did despite Adam’s request that they interact and react as they would if he were not there. Adam felt like an outcast, and he wasn’t an experienced war correspondent, having taken the job because the fellow who was supposed to embed with the Tenth Mountain Division had a stroke three weeks before departure and Adam did the two weeks of basic training that the United States military now required of all reporters who wanted to hump it with the troops. The energy of the kill was contagious and Adam soon was cheering with the soldiers, chanting: “Death to the Hajees, let’s go waste some more Islamic motherfuckers.”
The Palms at Indian Head
When Adam Nicholson was eight, he was hiking with his Uncle Ron in the Anza-Borrego Desert and they encountered a rabid coyote drooling from the mouth. Adam was terrified and pissed his pants. The coyote made a mad dash after Adam, being the smaller of the two humans, and Uncle Ron intercepted the animal, using his two large hands to clutch and choke the neck. Uncle Ron, with ease, ripped out the coyote’s esophagus, then killing it with a blow to the chest, ribs breaking, sharp ends of bone penetrating the heart. Uncle Ron was covered in blood and grinning with a strange and frightening pleasure from the glory of the kill. “Little trick they taught me in ‘Nam, kid,” he said; “when the VC would send trained attack dogs at us.” Uncle Ron had served two tours of duty in Vietnam as a Special Ops Marine.
Adam was now eleven and he accompanied his Uncle Ron for another kill. Adam’s father, Bill, came along. Uncle Ron intended to murder the bartender at the Palms at Indian Head, a resort hotel in Borrego Springs, California. This bartender, so the story went, had forced Uncle Ron’s daughter, Adam’s cousin Mary, to have sex. Wendy was sixteen and a virgin; the bartender was thirty-five and was known to sleep with many women, whether they wanted to or not, it was all the same to the guy.
“I still say we go to the Sheriff,” Adam’s father said.
“And do what? He said/she said. Trial, legal technicalities. When your daughter is raped, you take vengeance by your own hand,” Uncle Ron said.
“How about maiming him instead of killing him?”
“No. He’s a dead man. What is it, Bill? Having second thoughts on backing me up?”
“No, we’ll do this, you’re my brother and my niece was violated,” Adam’s father said. “Just having reservations about bringing my son.”
“He has to see this; he has to see what men do.” Uncle Ron said to Adam, “Family sticks together, kid; we protect each other and we avenge one another when an injustice is committed against our flesh and blood.”
The sun was high in the sky and the wind was blowing dust around. Far away, Adam could see rain clouds heading toward the desert.
The two men and one boy walked into the hotel. There was no one around, as if people had cleared out, knowing that a human storm was coming. Uncle Ron led the way into the bar.
“Where are you?” Uncle Ron said loudly. “I know it’s time for your shift; I know you’re working.”
There was no bartender behind the counter. Uncle Ron reached behind the counter and grabbed three beers, handing one to Bill and one to Adam. The beer was cold in Adam’s hand.
“He’s eleven,” Adam’s father said.
“We were drinking when we were eight,” Uncle Ron said.
Uncle Ron and Adam’s father slugged down their beers in one gulp. Adam sipped at his; he had only tried beer once, sneaking a can from the cooler.
They went around the counter and into a back area where cases of beer and alcohol were kept and lead to the kitchen. There were no cooks, no employees of any kind.
“Shit,” said Adam’s father.
A man’s body lay on the floor. He was tall and had shaggy blonde hair and his body was surrounded by blood. A chunk of the man’s head was separated from the man, and there was a pistol on the floor near the man’s right hand.
“Goddammit all,” said Uncle Ron. He kicked a case of beer with his steel-toed boot.
Later, outside, Adam and his father watched the coroner remove the body, placing it in a long shiny black bag. Uncle Ron gave a statement to the Sheriff.
“Why is Uncle Ron so mad?” Adam asked his father.
“Because he didn’t get a chance to take out revenge on the bartender fellow.”
“Why did the bartender shoot himself?”
“He knew what was coming, and I guess he felt suicide was better than what your uncle had in mind.”
“What? Why?” Adam was confused.
His father said, “Your uncle would have slowly tortured the guy for hours, maybe days, making sure he experienced a thousand times more pain than your cousin did.”
“Is that what Wendy wanted?”
“It’s what your uncle wanted, and when your uncle wants something, there’s no getting in his way. In the afterlife, your uncle will probably torment the bartender fellow’s soul.”
“The bartender was a coward,” Adam said.
“A coward in many ways,” his father said. “Raping a helpless girl, getting her drunk like that, and then killing himself to escape justice for his crime. He’s in Hell now, Adam. Heaven doesn’t let souls like that beyond the pearly gates.”
“If Uncle Ron went after him in the afterlife, then Uncle Ron will also be in Hell.”
“Your Uncle Ron has been destined for Hell since he was your age.”
“Are you?”
“Let’s not talk about Heaven and Hell, all right, Adam? Let’s talk about suicide. Know that real men never kill themselves. Real men face their mistakes and failures, just as they face joy and success.”
Adam didn’t want Uncle Ron to go to Hell and wondered if there was a way to save Uncle Ron’s immortal soul.
Uncle Ron was done talking to the Sheriff. He walked over to Adam and his father and said, “Let’s go get real drunk.”
It was a day of many firsts for Adam: he saw his first dead body, he saw his first splattered brains, and he experienced his first wild drunk and horrible hangover.
Chapter II
Down from the jungle and into the towns flow the rivers with the heads and arms of gorillas, followed by the heads and arms of Tutsi people, missionaries, Catholic priests and nuns. The machetes are working overtime, a journalist from England said with a sardonic tone. Next: chopped and drowned infants, small faces caught in silent screams. The animal rights organizations complained about the inhumane treatment of the endangered gorillas at the hands and machetes of the Hutu soldiers and said nothing about the Tutsi children and Tutsi body parts sharing the river with gorilla heads.
Little League
I was uncomfortable in my uniform, green and white with long socks. I felt weird but looked cool when I glanced in the mirror: the image of a real baseball player. The hat helped. I didn’t like hats; I still don’t care for the things. I looked good in it. I looked ready to play ball. I don’t remember why my parents put me on a team—or did I want to? I don’t recall who was the sponsor—a pizza joint or a pawnshop but not a bail bonds office like the Bad News Bears. Why was I here? Was it part of growing up, part of that necessary early male bonding? There was no bonding. I had no friends on the team. I couldn’t play for shit. I couldn’t hit a ball, couldn’t catch a ball. One time I was in left field and a pop fly zoomed my way, descending toward me like a meteor from the dark heavens. There were cheers in the stand, everyone seemed to think I would catch the ball and that other kid running for second base would automatically be out. I would save the day, the game, become the hero of the hour. I stood there, glove open, shaking, afraid to disappoint the waiting world, and my family. My mother and godmother were in the stands. I could hear them yelling, “Catch it! Catch it!” I did not catch it. The ball did not fall into my glove correctly and make me ruler of left field. It bounced out as if it had a mind of its own, taunting me, jeering and sneering. My hand, my arm hurt from the impact. I scrambled to the ground to grab the damn thing like a soldier chasing a wayward grenade. Heard sounds of disappointment and boos from the crowd. My heart was an empty beer can, my legs felt like rubber bands. I wanted to run off the field, run away and never look back, join the circus, a banned human being, never showing my face in this town again. My teammate on third base was screaming for me to throw the ball. Spit flew out his mouth and his eyes bulged as if someone were buggering his ass. I threw it and he caught it but not on time—the runner was safe and soon would make it to home plate, score another point, the point that would cause his team to win and mine…to lose. It was all my fault. They let me know this in the locker room, where the losers gathered to blame each other—and I was the target.
“Nice going, dumbshit.”
“How could you NOT catch that fricken ball, Nicholson?”
“Adam, I should kick your ass for this!”
“Hey, hey,” the coach said, “enough. We all did our best. We’ll get them next time.”
My mother didn’t say anything about my failure on the drive home. I was grateful for that. She didn’t say anything and I don’t think it mattered to her one way or the other. I was also grateful my father didn’t come to the game, but he wasn’t into sports. He was into drinking. That night, in bed, I decided baseball was not for me, I would never play again. Instead, I would read books and one day, I would write books. Yes, that’s what I decided to do that horrible cold night, tucked under the covers, dreading the next game like a man in prison knowing he was going to get shanked the next time he walked out of his cell and onto the prison yard: the softball field of childhood.
Chapter III
We lost it to each other, together, that day we ditched school after I broke my two fingers from the falling bricks, as if the bricks were in judgment of our love and what we were about to do. She wanted the curtains drawn. She wanted romantic music on the radio. She wanted it to be perfect as a perfect diamond ring. Maybe she wanted fireworks or the unreal things her mother told her, images like computer punch cards in the machinery of her expectations. It did not hurt that much and she was surprised. There was a lot of blood. She gathered my sheets and put them in the washing machine out in the garage. She sat down next to me on the couch and said, “Well,” she said, “so,” she said, “that’s that, is that it?”