Читать книгу The Doctrine of Presence - Benjamin Vance - Страница 4

Several years ago a few of us useless idlers and motorcycle freaks attending a monthly luncheon for retired military blokes, were noisily discussing a scene from a nature program in which a group of photographers followed an elephant mother and her young offspring across the Namib Desert. The little one slowly wasted away and died right in front of the cameras … with an entire fucking camera crew watching, and doing nothing. We volubly agreed that in the same circumstances we would have gladly given up our water for the young one or for the mother so she could provide milk for her baby.

Once the mental scheme was set, the evolving monthly discussions turned gradually away from, who’s buddy died lately, the crummy state of the union or lousy military retirement pay, to what new nature program exhibited animal abuse. We were intimately acquainted with the hollow argument that nature is harsh and unrelenting and that nature photographers elect to let nature take its course for reality’s sake. We all knew it was bullshit. Most of us had seen photographers set up still pictures of combat scenes and influence movies of the genre, sometimes to the lasting detriment of the participating soldiers and even their families.

Over the months and perhaps two years of equivocation, I supposed everyone was waiting for everybody else to frame the future for them. Finally a wheel-chair ridden Charley “Gimp” Lindell asked, “Well, what the fuck are we going to do about it, just talk?” There was stone silence for at least forty five seconds during which no one wanted to look at anyone else. Some of us kept a senseless, defensive grin pasted on our faces, possibly because we’d not heard Gimp say those words before.

Since there were only five of us remaining to irritate the waitress, there didn’t seem to be any way we could rationalize to effectively approach Charley’s admonition.However, Alfred “Fredo” Alvarez finally said, “Sheeit, man we could follow some of those weenies and make sure they treat the animals properly. What else we got to do?” Then there was another forty five second séance before those of us who wished Fredo had kept his mouth shut, could answer. Greenie Mitchell put on a disarming smile and opined that, “We could find out who’re making films in the Southwest and follow ‘em or at least watch ‘em from a distance, and maybe even film ‘em if they do bad shit to the animals.”

* * *

Me … I’m Jim Hanes. It’s pronounced Ha-nes, like heinous, not like the underwear, okay? The other perpetrator in our group was Leroy “Leo” Dykehouse. Yeah, Leo got some ribbing about that last name over his life and guess what; like the boy named “Sue”, he was one tough SOB. None of us settled anything that day though. It was as if we all suddenly developed leprosy or something. It took until the middle of the month before I got a call from Fredo Alvarez. We tip-toed around the subject for a couple of minutes, then Fredo asked, “Hey Daiwee, what ‘chew think about Greenie’s comments at the last meeting, man?”

I foolishly said, “What comments?”

Fredo laughed sarcastically and snorted, “You afraid to talk about that shit, Gringo?”

“You mean about tracking nature photographers and checking up on ‘em?”

“Hell, yeah … we could do it on the sly, man. No one but us five need to know eeenything about it. We could film the filmers and get the dirt on ‘em. Come on, whatcha think? We know how to sneak, camoflage and stay dirty, live off the land; at least you do, I was in the Air Guard. I don’t like doin’ that shit, but I could, man.”

“Are you serious Fredo? Have you talked to any of the other guys?”

“Yeah, I talked to Greenieeee … Charleeee … and to Leo too, but he didn’t talk much. They think it’s a great idea, as long as you come up with a plan. What the hell are we doin’ ri’now, man; just waitin’ to die or get crippled or waitin’ for our weenies to drop off or some shit? Let’s do somethin’, man. Nobody else has a good idea about stuff to do.”

I thought for a few seconds while I consulted the floor for ideas, found none, and then suggested it wasn’t going to be easy; we needed to have transportation, military rations and other food supplies, cameras, night vision devices, emergency first aid kits and gallons of water. And that was just off the top of my head. Fredo didn’t want to hear how difficult it would be. He wanted to get together in private and hash out the details of “how.” Back then, I wished I had never met the ne’r-do-wells who attended our monthly luncheons. Now … I’ve changed my mind. Did I forget to mention that I commanded an A-team in Vietnam; a Special Forces A-team, not a movie A-team?