The World Played Chess (52)

“Don’t move,” Mif said. Then, “Oh shit. That’s Mr. Giusti.”

Mr. Giusti stood in a T-shirt and boxer shorts. We watched, waiting for Mickey’s father to pull him inside. Instead, Mr. Giusti stepped back, and I thought, for a brief moment, he might slam the door. No such luck. He threw a right hand, a punch that hit Mickey flush in the face, knocking him backward. Mickey stumbled backward and fell onto the front lawn. I’d tell you the punch knocked Mickey cold, but I think Mickey was already out before the punch. Mr. Giusti shut the door.

“Holy shit,” Mif said, laughing his nervous chuckle.

“What do we do?” I asked.

“Drive. Go,” Billy said.

“Go,” Scotty said. “His mother will bring him inside.”

Maybe, but I didn’t see any lights on inside the one-story rambler, and in that instant, I realized the stupidity of what we had just done, what I had participated in. We’d basically sent Mr. Giusti a clear and undeniable message. By leaving Mickey alone, propped against the door, we had made Mr. Giusti reasonably assume his son had driven the company truck stone-cold drunk, likely putting everything they owned, and his company, at financial risk.

We’d acted like immature eighteen-year-olds.

And Mickey had paid the price.

The thought of standing in the puddle of water now sent chills up my spine.

Billy, Mif, and Scotty urged me to drive away, but I felt the way William had looked that afternoon, his feet rooted to the concrete floor as he reached out to try to save me from my stupidity. I realized his reach had not been to grab me, but more an attempt to dial back time so that I would not be standing in that puddle of water about to electrocute myself. I wanted to dial back time now. I wanted to handle the situation with Mickey differently.

I got out of the car.

“What the hell are you doing?” the other three said.

Mif got out of the car and followed me. “Vinny B., what are you doing?”

I grabbed Mickey under the arm. Mif grabbed the other side and we got him to his feet. He was bleeding from his nose and it ran down his chin. All the while Mif kept asking me what I was doing. We brought Mickey up to the door, and I rang the doorbell. Mif swore under his breath.

After a moment, Mr. Giusti yanked open the door. He looked surprised, then pissed.

“Mr. Giusti, we brought Mickey home,” I said. “He had too much to drink, but he didn’t drive the company truck home. We drove it. We should have handed you the keys to the truck and carried Mickey inside. I’m sorry we didn’t. But I wanted you to know that Mickey didn’t drive drunk. He wasn’t stupid. We were.”

Mr. Giusti looked stunned, maybe embarrassed, maybe remorseful. With little said, he took Mickey from us and brought him inside. Then he shut the door.

I wouldn’t hang out with Mickey or Ed or Scotty again that summer, or since. They didn’t attend any of our high school reunions. When I’d run into Billy or Mif, I’d inquire about them. Scotty had died young. Mickey and Ed both went on to eventually run their fathers’ businesses. My final image of Mickey would be of an eighteen-year-old sprawled on his back on the front lawn of his parents’ house. Ed, too, would be forever eighteen, stalking across a boxing ring at Serra’s Fight Night, slipping punches, then unloading his lightning-quick straight right hand. That night they became working men. A part of the real world. They learned a trade, made an income, eventually got married, started a family, and got on with the rest of their lives.

I guess. I don’t really know.

We began the inevitable process that night of drifting apart, going our separate ways, to live our separate lives. At least we had that chance. At least I had not electrocuted myself. At least Mickey had survived his night of nearly drinking himself into a coma. At least I had not died or watched him die. At least our collective stupidity had not cost a life.

William’s eighteen-year-old platoon mates weren’t that lucky.

Maybe that was why William refused to call them friends—not because he didn’t care about them, but because he did. And he could not stand the pain of losing them. He kept them alive, and forever young.





May 6, 1968

It was early morning, still dark. Time to fall out. I sat on the ground and slipped my arms through the straps of my rucksack, then held out my hands. Victor Cruz pulled me to my feet. In the bush, I use a tree to stand. I was halfway out of the bunker when I touched the pockets on my flak jacket and realized I didn’t have my Tiger tin with my journal and pencils. I found it on my bunk and tucked it into the vertical pocket near my heart, where Longhorn kept the tin. One more thing for Charlie to penetrate if he wants to kill me.

Cruz assures me he does.

It rained earlier, which Cruz said was just Vietnam pissing on us, not the start of the monsoon season. The heavy rain turned the firebase into reddish-brown slop. I thought about pulling out my poncho from my pack, but that would have necessitated me dropping the pack and starting all over again. My nerves cried out for a cigarette, but we had been told no cigarettes, since we would be walking out from the firebase instead of taking the CH-46 transport helicopters. The company, 212 marines, walked out silent, so Charlie wouldn’t know we were coming.

I fall under Charlie Company, First Platoon, Third Squad (one-three). Charlie Company is commanded by Captain Dennis Martinez. Lieutenant Brad Dickson runs the First Platoon. He came on board about three weeks ago. Cruz runs the Third Squad. There’s been a bit of a power struggle because Dickson has been in-country less than a month, straight out of OCS, and Cruz is in the middle of his second tour, almost all of it spent in the bush. Cruz has seen everything and anything, but Dickson seems intent on telling Cruz what to do, a playground power play. Cruz told me not to worry about it, that Captain Martinez has his back.