The Return Trip

My thanks to those who reached out to me in response to my latest blog, Crowd-sourcing an American Novel. I appreciate your comments – about the story I’m developing as well as the screwball process of creative writing I’ve introduced here on my website, in this blog. My apologies for taking so long to respond, but I’m working through a physical relocation – from Washington, D.C., environs to the safe harbors of Tidewater Virginia. We’re settling in, with most of my writing technology in place. There’s a flower garden, massive oaks with squirrels, and a pond with geese. It’s a good place to create, and I begin again.

The character I introduced in my previous blog, Marty Baylor, is key – a self-appointed moral compass for the ne’er-do-wells, adventurers, victims, dreamers and discontents who populate my story. Marty preaches his evangelical Christianity and enlists followers in his prayer group, also as potential partners in the small business he intends to create, with the blessing of his lord savior, Jesus Christ. His faith drives an optimism that will not be bound.

I’ll introduce other characters in future blogs as I continue writing the novel. Below is another, quite different, actor in the passion play I have in mind – and we must have passion, of course. The characters carry the emotion, their actions as important as dialogue in touching readers. I’m trying out a few things here and welcome your feedback. Creative fiction is a departure from my professional experience as a news and policy writer, but reading good fiction brings joy and an appetite to write it myself, and to expand my own reading list. Your suggestions and critiques are welcome.

The story I’ll tell is as much about the time of our lives as it is about the characters who lived it. I remember 1976, the 200th anniversary of the nation’s founding, a revelatory historical marker. The world was in turmoil, as it is today, when the 250th birthday party is in the offing. We were coming out of Vietnam, and the disgrace of Richard Nixon, facing an energy crisis begat by a cartel of rich Arab sheiks who controlled global oil markets. Then Jimmy Carter was elected President of the United States. Some things change more slowly than others. President Carter celebrates his 100th birthday on Tuesday, Oct. 1. The fix we’re in hasn’t aged much.

I wonder where you were in 1976, physically and emotionally (if you were alive that long ago). Where do you see us heading now, 50 years later? Are we on the cusp of a dream, or on the horns of a dilemma?

Consider this guy, trying to sort it out in 1976:

The bus groaned as it climbed the mountain in a driving rain, nervous passengers hanging onto their seats as they rocked back and forth. Most were jarred awake by the storm, but Lance Bonner was listening as it approached, unable to sleep. He glanced at his watch: 12 minutes till 5 o’clock. No hint of a sunrise in the dark sky, but the day would come soon enough. He needed to sleep, instead of staring at the dark window for hours on end, lost in the storm inside his head.

Lance growled a soft curse at Greyhound for its low-tech, slow-road transit, and his misfortune at having no better way. They were nearing Pittsburgh, with at least five more hours to Washington. Lance did the calculation in his head: arriving in D.C. by noon at the latest. He’d have time to clean up, grab lunch, and review his talking points. But he must sleep, or he’d be dead on his feet by 3 o’clock, checking in to interview for a job.

Slumping in his seat, Lance rested his head and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the storm. He took a deep breath and considered how to present himself. They had his résumé, which revealed little beyond his academic degree work at Iowa State and service in the Vietnam War. That latter credential should be good enough for government work, Lance figured. He had a degree in political science, a minor in economics, he was enthusiastic about public policy work and he could demonstrate an analytical approach to problem-solving. Regardless, he volunteered to go to war for his country. That should be worth more.

How much should he talk about Vietnam? He wondered. He had taken fire, flying in and out of shooting zones, beginning with the Tet offensive, a navigator on the EC-47 “Goony Bird” aircraft, triangulating to find VC troops moving supplies down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. “Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh,” the demonstrators chanted on his campus, and all across the country, rooting for the Communist leader to win, to push the Americans out of Vietnam, which he finally did after years of guerrilla warfare against foreign invaders, the French before the Americans.

The people at the Federal Trade Commission, the agency advertising for the job, weren’t likely to care about Vietnam, Lance figured. They’re looking for an analyst to report on the oil and gas industry. The Arab cartel, OPEC, was wielding its massive resources to manipulate prices, and the U.S. government was weighing how to respond. The nation had moved on from Vietnam, and Lance knew he must do so, as well. He was just another survivor with a Vietnam talking point, a reference to his life. In his mind, Lance believed military service prepared him for this mission, both in the eyes of the agency and in his reassurance that he could handle big moments. He was ready for this, even if the circumstances were less than ideal.

Slumping still further into the seat, Lance pulled the cap over his eyes, sighed deeply and let the bus rock him, let his mind wind down. Eventually he nodded off as the storm ebbed, sleeping through the Pittsburgh stop. He stirred little as the bus descended through the Appalachian ranges to the coastal plains, and was wide awake as he emerged from the bus, a schoolboy backpack slung over his shoulder, greeting the bright sun and cool air of early spring.

After shaking off the travel dust and shaking off his piss in the men’s room, Lance admired the earnest young man peering at him from the mirror, looking acceptably business-casual in a lime-green leisure suit and bright floral shirt. He felt confident presenting himself as a new-age male comfortable in full plumage, and intent on brightening the tired, gray monkey-suited establishment. But Lance was sensitive to the risk of appearing impudent, of disrespecting civil service standards. He intended to get past any bad first impressions by making his case as a valuable team player, a guy who could fit in with others and help improve the operation. He would radiate competence, in the nicest way, asking questions.

Lance picked up a D.C. metro map from the Greyhound counter and plotted a two-hour exploration of the capital city before his interview at the FTC, which he calculated to be only four blocks away from the bus station. He walked southwest down New York Avenue and circled the White House, then southeast down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol building. His stomach led him to food trucks parked along the National Mall in front of the Capitol, where he grabbed a burger and soda and headed to the hillside in front of the Reflecting Pool, where legislative worker bees gathered for lunch.

Using his clothes bag for a seat on the lawn, Lance unwrapped his food and spread napkins to protect his suit. He needn’t worry about fashion decorum, at least among these lawn-munchers – no ties, just sweaters and pullovers for the men, sweaters and some hip boots for the women. Lance was warming to the idea of carving out a space for himself among the young Hill staffers.

Looming at the far end of the Mall, across the Capitol Pool, the Washington Monument stood as a towering symbol of American history, and dominance. Lance projected himself onto the giant phallus, accepting the sense that this was his legacy, in this time and place. It was April 14, 1976. Two hundred years before, the founders were working to launch a nation, to declare their independence from monarchal despots of the old countries. In his heart, Lance felt that this was his time, his place. Here is where he belonged, joining America’s fight for freedom … and justice for all. He felt it in his bones, even if he didn’t grasp all the implications. Absolutely, America first! It is our national identity, our national destiny. This is the good fight.

Lance rolled up the last few bites of his power lunch and secured them in his bag. Reaching into a zippered compartment, he retrieved a roach he’d saved since his departure, the remnants of a joint ceremoniously rolled and dedicated by his brother, Terry. Looking around and checking the wind currents, and feeling relatively secure in his perch, Lance lit the roach and inhaled deeply, holding in and then letting it out slowly. This was going to be a good day, a good interview. He was sure of it.