The World Played Chess (60)

Chapter 16


July 16, 1979

As the summer progressed, William talked more about Vietnam. Perhaps I had become William’s confidant, the closest thing he had to a confessor. I don’t mean to beat my chest as some hero; I was far from it. I didn’t know enough about life, or the world, to have any meaningful or knowledgeable opinions about anyone or anything, which I believe is why William talked to me. He didn’t have to maintain his pride or protect his image. I wasn’t his parent or his priest, so he had no obligation to confess. I didn’t judge him, so he had no reason to be defensive. I didn’t expect him to be anyone, so he had no reason to be anyone but himself. He just needed to get those stories out, to purge an evil spirit. And I just happened to be there to listen, without asking a lot of questions, without condemning or trying to console, without approving or disapproving, without trying to minimize what had happened or what William had been through. I was the blank pages of a journal William could fill with the stories cluttering his mind, the ones that became the nightmares that haunted his sleep and led him to the bottle and the drugs. He could fill those pages honestly, without worrying about any commentary or requests for clarifications, without me judging him. He could just get the stories out and, maybe, I don’t know, maybe feel a little better.

I liked to believe so.

Because, man, it was hard to listen to many of those stories.

“I made a mistake,” he said one afternoon in the garage as the drywall was being installed in the remodel. “I gave up in school. After I lost my scholarships. I gave up, and I paid for it.”

“Vietnam?” I said.

He nodded. “I could have gone to college.”

“I know,” I said.

“I don’t mean the schoolwork. Hell, I could have done the schoolwork in my sleep. I mean, I could have paid for it. Like you. I told myself I couldn’t, but that was just an excuse. It would have been difficult; my parents didn’t have a lot of money with six kids, but I could have worked and taken classes at the community college for two years and then transferred to a university.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I was a punk. I quit when I lost wrestling. I thought wrestling was my identity—the little guy who could wrestle like a snake. I was lightning fast, man. Students used to come to our matches just to watch me.” He shrugged. “After the injury, I didn’t have an identity. I became the fuckup, the guy who got stoned at lunch and screwed around in class. I stopped trying to get good grades and instead tried to get attention. The more my parents pushed me, the more I rebelled. I didn’t fully understand the consequences of my actions until that afternoon when my dad handed me my draft notice and I realized I was going to Vietnam.”

I thought of my jump into Ed’s pool and my other stupid stunts. Was I after an identity? Would there be a consequence for me as there had been for William?

I also thought of a movie I’d watched with my dad, On the Waterfront. I thought of the scene in the car when a young Marlon Brando told his brother, Charley, that he could have been somebody, but that he’d never had the chance. That his brother had never looked out for him, and he’d turned out to be nothing more than a punk.

“Regret is so much harder to live with than failure,” William said. “You got a chance to be somebody and to do something. Man, I envy you.”

“I don’t know. I mean, I’m class valedictorian. It’s kind of embarrassing to say I’m going to community college.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I got into Stanford, but my parents can’t afford it. That’s why I’m going to community college. I don’t know.”

William smiled. “Doesn’t matter where you go to school. You’ll make it. You’ll reach your dreams.”

“I wish I was as sure as you.”

“You’ll make it because you know what will happen if you don’t. You’ll end up working dead-end jobs like this, sweating your ass off breaking up cement and tearing off the roofs of houses, or humping one-hundred-pound bags of cement in the heat. Most of those guys going to those fancy schools never had to do what you’re doing. They never had to work an honest day of labor in their lives or save their money to pay their tuition. They just expected their parents to do it for them. They don’t know how most of the rest of the world lives. You know.”

I hoped William was right.

Our morning routine changed as the subcontractors worked on the remodel. Instead of driving to the Burlingame jobsite, I met Todd and William at Nini’s Coffee Shop on Bayswater Avenue in Burlingame, just down the street from Todd’s house in a neighborhood of single-story, two-bedroom-one-bath stucco homes built to house men coming home from World War II and hoping to join the workforce. Nini’s was an old-fashioned, narrow diner on the corner, with a brown retractable awning, orange barstools, and tables that barely accommodated one but often seated four. The menu was written on the wall alongside photographs and memorabilia.

I usually arrived a half hour after Todd and William because I couldn’t afford to buy breakfast. I ate at home. Todd and William were usually into their third cigarette and multiple cups of coffee by the time I arrived to get my assignment for the day. The first time I met them there, I followed Todd to the cash register and noticed that he pulled a toothpick from a container and stuck it into his mouth. The accessory I had deemed to be part of his tough guy image was just a tool to remove food stuck between his teeth. I laughed that I had given the toothpick so much more significance.