Block That Kick

September in Albuquerque, New Mexico is quite different than September back home in the old country. Yes, there is a slightly different feel in the air these days, the ghastly summer is at long last over, but out here on the high desert the splendor of the autumn change is less pronounced. Now up in the mountains he was certain that the maples and the other leafy trees changed their color, that their leaves withered and blew away, and down there along the Rio Grande he could see for himself the change in the cottonwoods. But where he spent most of his time, uptown closer to the sloping foothills, his own apartment building was a concrete island surrounded by a sea of rock and the landscaping was sparse, bereft of color, and anything living was prone to die slowly unless tended to with an enthusiastic zeal. The only green things around there were the stubborn weeds that always seem to find a way, to squeeze through some crack, to bust on out and stretch toward the beckoning light.

It was a Saturday. Earlier he had taken a bus to Old Town where he enjoyed strolling among the tourists and sitting on a park bench in the plaza feeding the birds, whatever few that actually managed to wander by. On certain occasions he would hear that familiar sound, the thick daggered jolt of his native tongue, and he would straighten up and bend an ear. In fact, many times he’d fallen in line just behind those who spoke while trying to act inconspicuous but all the while eavesdropping and relishing the tasty crumbs of what they thought was a private conversation. But he never spoke it. It was better to be seen, not heard. In fact, it was better to not be seen either, and he was good at projecting a kind of innocuous invisibility, to no longer matter in this world, only living the sad life of a lonely old man who no one knew or cared about.

But not too sad, not too lonely.

Just sad and lonely enough to subsist but not officially exist.

For the most part he steered clear of crowds, kept his mouth shut, and wore the dark sunglasses that shielded his cold blue eyes, the color of ancient Arctic Sea ice, from all that intrusive light.

There weren’t many tourists milling about on this particular day, at least not for a typical Saturday. Odd that because the weather was wonderful, another deep turquoise sky yet not too hot, just about right. A nice breeze that kept the clouds moving and kept the sky interesting and ever-changing while soothing any burn from a waning sun. A whiskered man walked up and asked him for money, for any change he could spare, but he ignored the bum and didn’t even look up, he just kept digging into his coat pocket for seed and continued feeding his winged congregation, his faithful hungry flock. This angered the whiskered man and he screeched loudly and kicked his way across the circle of tossed seed sending the poor birds scattering.

“You got time and money for those stupid birds but not for me! Real human of you! Thanks, my man.”

The whiskered man steadied himself, thought about something, and then leaned back in.

“So what are you, deaf and dumb… or just plain dumb? You got bird shit for brains?” The man cursed loudly while shaking his head in mock befuddlement, then stormed away, highly agitated yet already scanning the environs for his next victim.

Directly across the sidewalk from him sat a couple of tired old Indians who up to this point had been minding their own business, which by the looks of it consisted primarily of simply continuing to breathe, but now one looked over at him and grinned with his four brown peg teeth.

“I guess you told him, huh?”

And now Wilhelm did choose to look up, to amiably respond out of a sense of geniality, out of deference to a member of an ancient, abused tribe. But he only offered the slightest of nods and a fleeting smile to the old Indian and went back to his returning birds and the last remnants of seed that were tucked away in the deepest crevices of his pockets. He respected these natives and in fact felt some kind of kinship toward them. They had been conquered, vanquished, marginalized and forgotten. And so had he but he could only hope that he was truly as forgotten.

~~~

When he first arrived here all those years ago he had immediately hated the culture but loved the dry air and sunshine. He had acquired an appropriate identity, a proper name and the mandatory nine-digit number, which understandably can be a tricky business. Not only the clandestine nature of the task but also the actual choice of picking the right name. A name like Sam Jones can actually be too mundane, too common, for a man such as he while the one he actually chose, Samuel Terwilliger, was (he later deduced) one that nobody in their right mind would ever choose by their own volition – it was the kind of name that had to be foisted upon the poor soul at birth. So in a way it was perfect – he had just become the odd man with the odd name who kept to himself.

       He had worked various small jobs earning small pay and yet even now he’d been retired for many years. A solitary life has its benefits, namely the lack of all those expenditures that a family man is required to make. Thus he’d had the opportunity to save aggressively which he had done but only by hoarding cash and hiding it in his tiny apartment – no interest earned, no dividends received, and no capital gains that might elicit outside scrutiny – no, he’d done just fine avoiding the American capital markets altogether while quietly pursuing his frugal existence.

       There had been few friends, mainly just acquaintances, and he’d grown accustomed to that. It felt comfortable to him now. But he had plenty of visitors, both familiar faces and total strangers, who came calling late at night once his eyes finally closed.

        And there had been one woman. Ten years younger, attractive, intelligent – a local native who had naturally altered his opinion of the region and its culture. But he had run her off with his paranoid fear that so easily turned to anger whenever the light shone too bright or her questions probed too deep. Although he had wanted to love her he couldn’t allow himself to ever be loved.

~~~

The seed was all gone now but some of the birds still lingered, either those well-fed and contented to hang out for a spell or those extremely optimistic, and they hopped around and pecked at the ground, they fluttered their wings as if in bold threat. Go ahead he thought, fly away and be free, you are all too foolish to comprehend your own good fortune.

It was late afternoon by now, time for perhaps a cold refreshment, and both knees cracked as he pushed himself up and off of that bench and now all the birds took flight, they evacuated with not one more chirp, their loud flapping leaving behind only silence and the fresh modern artwork of oiseaux de merde sur le béton chaud, or as known to the locals, bird shit on hot concrete.

He strolled down a little side alley toward a favorite watering hole, a dark tavern where they actually offered stout European beers, not this lightweight American piss most others get away with peddling. The place was crowded but it was so dark that he paid the cramped conditions little mind, all he desired was one polished stool to slide his weary backside upon and an attentive barkeep who knew how to pour a decent draw. He was lucky, there was one seat still open at the far end of the bar, and he squeezed his way past the many boisterous revelers and announced his official short-term residency with a hard-earned plop and a relieved sigh.

He was old and tired but pleased to be right here right now.

What is all this fuss about he wondered now that he had settled in allowing other matters to garner his attention. Some of the patrons were yelling, hooting, carrying on like at Oktoberfest, and he saw that a great many of them were straining to get a view of the televisions scattered all about the place. In fact there was one just across from him and he could see that there was some kind of athletic contest being broadcasted upon it, one of those college football games that these Americans are so crazy about. Over the decades he’d learned a great deal about their game, about scoring touchdowns and gaining first downs and committing fumbles and such, but he still didn’t really get it. Where’s the grace, where’s the beauty? And all those pads and helmets – the players seem to want to perform in some kind of protected anonymity. Where he came from real men played their games wearing hardly anything at all beyond the scowl smeared across their face and openly boasted of their rugged reputation and identity. Oh well, it’s the modern world, let these modern men behave like sissies.

He quietly ordered a pint of Becks and now his cohabitants were almost worked into a frenzy – out of sheer curiosity, out of wondering what could possibly be so enthralling as to cause grown men to behave so foolishly, he squinted his eyes and looked at the television set. It appeared to be a contest pitting the Ohio State Buckeyes (whatever a buckeye is?) against the Oklahoma Sooners (again, and for the final time hopefully, whatever a sooner is?). The current score read the Ohio boys 28 and the gang from Oklahoma only 26.

Yet there was still some time left on the clock and, unlike the game he grew up loving and playing, he knew there could be no extra time.

The bartender slid over to the set and turned up the volume.

Block that kick! Block that kick! Block that kick!

The assembled crowd was chanting in the stadium with their arms in synchronized motion and their anthem tumbled out of the television reminding him of other long ago chants, of agitated crowds, of faraway pomp and ceremony.

Block that kick! Block that kick!

Yes, he understood, the Ohio supporters were chanting their demand, their ardent wish that somehow a buckeye might break through and bat away the upcoming kick goal attempt, but then he viewed the Oklahoma kicker and saw that he had a German name printed across the top of his jersey. His heart surged. And now that kicker was standing off to the side as the crowd continued to roar. Block that kick! Block that kick! And what is this? Now, and this even he could hardly believe, the young lad was actually orchestrating their chant with his own arms, he had become their spontaneous maestro, this sooner lad keeping their rhythmic beat to calm his own nerves.

That’s a smart boy he thought… a smart German boy.

Wilhelm’s interest was magnified.

The moment was almost at hand.

He took off his sunglasses for a better look as the boy named von Schamann studied the coming placement of the ball and his projected trajectory. The other team’s players were jumping up and down, waving their hands, trying to distract him as the chant grew even louder.

The ball was hiked back to the player who held it down in its proper place.

Wilhelm wiped his mouth.

The ball was pivoted, steadied, as the young, smart German boy approached it.

Wilhelm leaned toward the television set.

The ball was now airborne, twisting end over end, heading straight down the middle… and then Wilhelm sees him.

Over there on the other side of the bar.

Those eyes – he could never forget those big brown sad eyes – are staring right back into his own.

There were cheers in the tavern, a few groans and somewhere a fist banged into some flimsy wood partition, and everybody was bouncing all around him. Utter mayhem ensued – the world shook.

And there is a deeper quake down inside his soul.

With the rest of his family dead that young man, a much older man now, had stopped begging for mercy. So Wilhelm’s superior, field officer Schnauz, had decided to let him go, not as an act of mercy but one of endless torture.

 And yet... and yet...

A thousand miles away in Ohio the crowd falls silent, they are beyond help, they feel instant disappointment and what seems like infinite sorrow. While the Oklahoma Sooners and their brethren celebrate those poor Ohioans collapse into a heap of collected despair.

And right here not more than thirty feet away, the distance of one American football first down, the older man with the big brown eyes, but not so sad anymore, lifts his mug and nods as if in toast.

To survival.

To life.

To weeds fighting their way through tiny cracks in search of the light.

Back outside the world has changed. The sun now hides behind the church steeple and there is a sudden chill in the air. Winter is really not that far away, and once it comes, this time it will never leave. Far across the Atlantic there is a forest near Dachau where the leaves have already fallen, they collect in gold and crimson heaps covering the cold ground as if trying to conceal something buried not that deep beneath it.

But the wind blows, it knows, and the gash remains... and it is so obvious. Wilhelm understands that this man has spent his entire lifetime running toward the light whereas he’d spent that same time running away from it. And then... bang, the end times hit you, you are discovered, you are revealed, and once and for all you find yourself exposed in the most unlikely of places.

He takes off his sunglasses and gives them to the old Indian.

“Aw, just what I needed – thanks, my friend.”

Finally, a friend. And he has a sudden odd thought – those glasses never sat upon a more dignified nose as the one they rest upon now.

Then Wilhelm turns and walks away into the expanding shadows of the eternal winter.