Vintage Rob

Chapter 8 - Nonviolence is Hard

While two women took the open barstools beside Rob, he glanced at his empty whiskey glass and his watch, which he rarely wore. Another minute and Mark would be - someone tapped his shoulder. Behind him, Mark glanced at the women. His baseball cap flashed the name of a naval ship, the USS Parche. "You alone?"

Rob pointed at the reserved table and slid off his barstool. "An armed operative hiding among the other drinkers will have a better shot if we sit there."

Old photographs of diners at Milyaro's Garden lined the wall. Mark examined a sepia of a former mayor with his associates. "This a Mafia joint?"

"A Mafia joint for sale. Squeeze me for enough cash, and maybe you can buy it."

Mark removed his baseball cap and stuffed his maroon jacket on an empty chair. "I'm not here for money."

"Oh, that's a relief." Rob stood. "Adieu."

"Sit." Mark squinted without looking up, like staring straight ahead kept Rob tethered there. "I came on strong to get your attention, but I do mean business," he said.

Behind the bar, Jimmy, a bartender Rob had talked to a few times, fed a dark beer into a pint glass and nodded at him. Too bad Jimmy couldn't just hold a gun to Mark's head, but if Rob truly wanted to practice nonviolence going forward, obviously solutions like that were off the table. Thoughts like that too. "I'll have another whiskey," he said and sat down.

Mark went to the bar and played with his steer belt buckle while Jimmy finished another order. In Rob's wildest imaginings, Mark represented an organization, not himself, but who would harass Rob for helping pinned down US soldiers?

Mark placed two whiskeys on the table. Rob held up the cold glass. The whiskey was clear and smelled faintly of wood. He put the glass down without trying it. "If you don't want money, what do you want? Sex, by the way, is out of the question."

Mark wrapped his palm around a fist and looked at him. "Remember Timothy McVeigh?"

That unworthy person blew up a building in Oklahoma, killing hundreds of random people over an illogical grudge with the government. Rob took a sip of whiskey. Its sharp taste did not make Mark's reasoning clearer. Rob took another sip. He didn't like Mark's question at all. "I know about him."

Mark smiled. "You're not a journalist."

Apparently, the conversation was going to bounce around. "No, I'm not. Not now. I'm in-between careers."

"Really?" Mark smiled like he had caught Rob in a lie. "Soldiers pinned down, and you knew exactly what to do. A professional."

"I've spent a lot of time with soldiers and was lucky. We were lucky." Rob raised his glass. "If you admire my chutzpah and just wanted to buy me a drink, thanks."

"No, I want a job like yours."

Rob pooled whiskey in his mouth, a small bite that he savored while Mark's drink sat on the table untouched. "You want to photograph rock bands part-time?"

Mark's head shook. "Everyone died except you and the Taliban. At first, I figured they didn't kill you because your photographs make us look bad." He leaned in excitedly, feeling up his own pectorals while doing it. "Media pukes wouldn't jeopardize their precious impartiality like you did. That's how I figured out you're not really media."

Rob listened carefully, but something got lost between them. He didn't know what to make of Mark's logic. "If I'm not media, what am I?"

Mark smirked. "How did you survive the IED and the ambush?"

"I was unconscious and bloody. The Taliban thought I was dead."

"You killed insurgents when the patrol was pinned down, so I know you're not one of them." Mark winked as if Rob knew he was onto something. "That's how I figure there were no insurgents present. You're CIA, and the so-called insurgents that day were CIA too. You set up unpatriotic journalists."

"No, Mark. You're way off." Rob gulped down the rest of his drink. "I'm not a spy, and US spies don't kill US journalists. I assure you."

Mark's eyes glinted. "Did they tell you I was almost a spy? Until some crap-"

"Crap?"

"You picked up a weapon, you know what it's like. Crap happens."

Rob raised and lowered his hand. "Keep it down. Look, for real, I'm a photographer, not a spy. The soldiers pinned down were kids and I reacted... stupidly, unethically. I was lucky and they were lucky. That doesn't make me a spy. It makes me a bad journalist. If I had quit then-"

"Help me out. I want to be a spy too." Mark grinned as if Rob had said nothing. "We like to kill. It feels good." He showed teeth. "They gave me an honorable discharge and told me it was a favor, that the media would blow up what I did if they heard about it. Journalists are worse than insurgents, than the Taliban, way worse." He laughed. "Killing journalists sounds great to me. I want that job. I'd be great at it."

Rob tilted his whiskey glass. Mark was delusional at best. At worst, dangerous. "So what about Timothy McVeigh?"

Mark shook his head and pushed back his chair. "You won't talk. Why should I?" He drained his glass in one gulp and banged it on the table. "I don't take shit from anyone. Tell your superiors."

"I don't have superiors. I'm a freelance photographer, Mark. Really. And I'm not even doing that anymore."

"Yeah, yeah." He grabbed the two glasses. "Tell your bosses. Put in a good word for me." After jumping up, he placed the empty glasses on the bar. "They'll regret not bringing me into the fold."

Rob put the reserved tent on the bar for Jimmy. "I'm going to the john."

"Me too."

Side-by-side, they sprayed urinals with piss. "In a couple of days, I'm leaving the country," Rob said. "There's no reason for us to see each other again." He washed his hands at the sink. "Nothing personal."

"If I don't get the job, it's personal."

Alan Lord would be interested in hearing about Mark's threats, especially in connection to Timothy McVeigh. Rob glanced over as Mark's pee thundered against the urinal. Nothing personal, but he wanted to break his vow of nonviolence and slam Mark's head against the white ceramic. "For the last time, dude, I'm not a spy. Not now, not then, not ever."

Mark shook his penis with one hand. He grinned and moved the other hand in a circle, as if swinging a lasso. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Not a spy."

Mark is blackmailing Rob for a job, not money, because he thinks Rob can get him a job with the CIA. I don't know if Mark is realistically delusional though. What do you think? Does the way he doesn't make sense, make sense?!?

At this time, Rob is not particularly confident in his personal life, but does he seem more decisive about other things, such as dealing with Mark?

I star all chapters I read, because I want to reward writers for giving it a go. If you do it my way, you might sleep better at night...!