landslide.”
“But we got to—”
“Unanimous. Congratulations.”
He grinned and tipped back his cowboy hat. “Sergeant at arms, it’s right up my alley. Jeez, maybe I should get myself an armband or something—I saw that on TV once, they always wear these nifty black armbands. Like a symbol, you know?”
“Fine,” I murmured.
“Armband. Write it down, man.”
“What?”
“On
paper
. Armband, put it in writing.”
I jotted a quick note to myself.
There was a disconcerting absence of dignity in the room. Shallow, I thought. Sad and stupid. Across the table, Tina Roebuck was still examining her Mars bar, hands folded. It was a test of willpower, apparently, a curious exercise in temptation and denial. At one point she reached out and nudged the candy with a thumb and then shuddered and quickly folded her hands again.
The world, I realized, was a frail and desperate place.
“Tina,” I said gently, “eat it.”
She frowned and looked up.
“Eat?” she whispered.
“Don’t be bashful.”
“But I’m not … I mean, I’m not hungry.”
“Go ahead, though,” I said. “Treat yourself.”
She glanced at the Mars bar. “No, I just like to look at it. Window-shop, sort of.” She swallowed. Her voice was soft, almost sexy, a surprising Deep South lilt to the vowels. “Anyway, I’m not hungry.”
“Well, good.”
“I’m
not
.”
“But if you get the urge—”
“Fuck off!” she yelled. The softness was gone. She shifted weight and stared at me. “All this bullshit! The
war
, that’s why I’m here. People getting
killed
.”
Ollie smiled.
“Give it to him,” he said. “Open up, kid—both barrels.”
“Killed dead!” said Tina.
“More.”
“Dead,” she repeated. She poked the candy bar. “Talk-talk, no
action
. When do we start raising hell?”
Again, Ollie smiled at her, fondly.
“There’s the question,” he said. “When?”
Strange people, I thought. The incongruities were beguiling. I couldn’t help but take notice of Tina’s white ballet slippers, Ollie’s cowboy shirt with its fancy embroidery and brass studs. Here was the new order. A midget in the White House, a Mars bar on every plate. Almost funny, except there was some emotion in the room.
“Shock waves,” Ollie was saying. “We cut out this pussyfoot stuff. Apply some heat, that’s my vote.”
I shook my head.
“We’ve been over this,” I said. “No bombs.”
“I’m not
talking
bombs. Noisemakers. Don’t hurt nobody, just decibels. Sit there, thumb up your ass, but sooner or later it’s smash time. The chef and the terrorist, remember?”
“I do.”
“And you know the moral? The moral’s this. Heat. You bring it to bear. And if you can’t stand the heat … Understand me?”
Tina Roebuck chuckled.
“The frying pan,” she said softly.
“That’s it exactly,” said Ollie. He smiled at me, but it was a grim smile. “Fuckin’ sizzle. That’s what the chef says. He says you better learn to tolerate extremes.”
I’d had enough.
I stacked my papers, stood up, and moved to the door.
“Carry on,” I said. I nodded at Tina. “Let me know how it turns out with that candy bar.”
At the time it all seemed hopeless, but in the end that meeting represented a pivot of sorts, a classic confrontation between the either-ors. The choice was there. I could’ve backed out with honor. Shrug and walk away—I could’ve dismissed the complications. Was it a correct war? Was it a civil war? Was Ho Chi Minh a nationalist or a Communist, or both, and to what degree, and what about the Geneva Accords, and what about SEATO, and what is worth killing for, if anything, and what is worth dying for, and who decides? I could’ve done without these riddles. I could’ve pursued my studies and graduated with distinction and spent the next decade lying low. Hedged my bets. Closed my eyes. Nothing to it, a slight change of course. Let the gravediggers do their work, I could’ve managed
“But we got to—”
“Unanimous. Congratulations.”
He grinned and tipped back his cowboy hat. “Sergeant at arms, it’s right up my alley. Jeez, maybe I should get myself an armband or something—I saw that on TV once, they always wear these nifty black armbands. Like a symbol, you know?”
“Fine,” I murmured.
“Armband. Write it down, man.”
“What?”
“On
paper
. Armband, put it in writing.”
I jotted a quick note to myself.
There was a disconcerting absence of dignity in the room. Shallow, I thought. Sad and stupid. Across the table, Tina Roebuck was still examining her Mars bar, hands folded. It was a test of willpower, apparently, a curious exercise in temptation and denial. At one point she reached out and nudged the candy with a thumb and then shuddered and quickly folded her hands again.
The world, I realized, was a frail and desperate place.
“Tina,” I said gently, “eat it.”
She frowned and looked up.
“Eat?” she whispered.
“Don’t be bashful.”
“But I’m not … I mean, I’m not hungry.”
“Go ahead, though,” I said. “Treat yourself.”
She glanced at the Mars bar. “No, I just like to look at it. Window-shop, sort of.” She swallowed. Her voice was soft, almost sexy, a surprising Deep South lilt to the vowels. “Anyway, I’m not hungry.”
“Well, good.”
“I’m
not
.”
“But if you get the urge—”
“Fuck off!” she yelled. The softness was gone. She shifted weight and stared at me. “All this bullshit! The
war
, that’s why I’m here. People getting
killed
.”
Ollie smiled.
“Give it to him,” he said. “Open up, kid—both barrels.”
“Killed dead!” said Tina.
“More.”
“Dead,” she repeated. She poked the candy bar. “Talk-talk, no
action
. When do we start raising hell?”
Again, Ollie smiled at her, fondly.
“There’s the question,” he said. “When?”
Strange people, I thought. The incongruities were beguiling. I couldn’t help but take notice of Tina’s white ballet slippers, Ollie’s cowboy shirt with its fancy embroidery and brass studs. Here was the new order. A midget in the White House, a Mars bar on every plate. Almost funny, except there was some emotion in the room.
“Shock waves,” Ollie was saying. “We cut out this pussyfoot stuff. Apply some heat, that’s my vote.”
I shook my head.
“We’ve been over this,” I said. “No bombs.”
“I’m not
talking
bombs. Noisemakers. Don’t hurt nobody, just decibels. Sit there, thumb up your ass, but sooner or later it’s smash time. The chef and the terrorist, remember?”
“I do.”
“And you know the moral? The moral’s this. Heat. You bring it to bear. And if you can’t stand the heat … Understand me?”
Tina Roebuck chuckled.
“The frying pan,” she said softly.
“That’s it exactly,” said Ollie. He smiled at me, but it was a grim smile. “Fuckin’ sizzle. That’s what the chef says. He says you better learn to tolerate extremes.”
I’d had enough.
I stacked my papers, stood up, and moved to the door.
“Carry on,” I said. I nodded at Tina. “Let me know how it turns out with that candy bar.”
At the time it all seemed hopeless, but in the end that meeting represented a pivot of sorts, a classic confrontation between the either-ors. The choice was there. I could’ve backed out with honor. Shrug and walk away—I could’ve dismissed the complications. Was it a correct war? Was it a civil war? Was Ho Chi Minh a nationalist or a Communist, or both, and to what degree, and what about the Geneva Accords, and what about SEATO, and what is worth killing for, if anything, and what is worth dying for, and who decides? I could’ve done without these riddles. I could’ve pursued my studies and graduated with distinction and spent the next decade lying low. Hedged my bets. Closed my eyes. Nothing to it, a slight change of course. Let the gravediggers do their work, I could’ve managed
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