Thursday, April 30, 2009
The Inscrutable Enigma
“I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle wrapped inside a mystery inside an enigma.” Sir Winston Churchill
Golden Isles Speedway. Recently.
The red and yellow racing machine gleamed in the light’s reflection like a monarch adorned for battle. Its battle-cry mantra shouted from the bumper, “Never Satisfied.”
Wearing a micro-mini skirt and high boots, both black, The Enigma leaned casually against the racing machine, drawn to its inherent possibilities. Confident and in control of the moment, she stood Hollywoodesque, inscrutably shielded by the $800 Marni shades. The only hint of congruity was the “Ride Hard” Harley cap that fused her presence.
Some men might have agreed with Raymond Chandler that this lady “had a smile a man could feel in his hip pocket.” In the background the car’s driver and mechanic crew were frozen in place. “What’s she up to?” they must have wondered, as she gently stroked the sleek machine in a nurturing caress. Except for the slight movement of her hand and body against the car, the scene appeared to have been suspended in time. The camera was an outsider, simply a voyeur intruding into the drama, preserving the event for future contemplation.
Suddenly the scene changed. The men thawed. Movement resumed with the business at hand. She disappeared as mysteriously as she had appeared, blending seamlessly into the cheering crowd. As if in a dream, she seemed to have come from nowhere, yet existed everywhere. It had been one of those rare moments when reality was out of sync with even itself. A riddle.
Never Satisfied. Was that the evening’s message? What a strange conflict of emotions the episode evoked. Yet what a glimpse into the psyche of the human species.
A race car is a man’s dream. It’s steel and rubber, a 112-Octane testosterone-filled child, conceived in the hope and promise of glory that speed, muscle and nerve produce. The race is everything. Do it again. Competition invigorates the male species. Its motives are easily discernable. Nurture the child, win the race. Win, win, win…..Never satisfied!
The Micro-Mini Enigma had briefly disrupted the pace and continuity of the scene. What motive was there for the intrusion? What possible “dreams” could she have had? Some clues are there. Her nurturing tenderness to “the dream child” is the best, though incomplete.
Women seem out of place at racing spectacles. It’s a man’s thing. Perhaps they see through the spectacle to the core. Racing machines, like men, need constant attention, tweaking, and nurturing. Drivers risk everything, including life, for a cheap Saturday night’s purse. Perhaps The Enigma had recognized the frailty and risks of the dream-baby and did what was natural to her species: she affirmed it with her nurturing touch. Perhaps, but a grasping at straws.
Pure conjecture. But speculation into a woman’s motives usually proves specious. Men have never been able to unwrap a woman’s enigmatic package. It’s secured by a gilded Gordian knot that even the sword of Alexander the Great could not sever.
The Enigma in the Micro-Mini is elsewhere now. Other cameras, which are also never satisfied, stop time for her. Meanwhile, the races, like the mystery of women, continue.
Churchill was unable to unravel the enigma of Russia, and the male species has been unsuccessful at unraveling the inscrutable enigma of women. Men, some things in life just can’t be figured out…let’s leave it at that and move on.
Better to entertain oneself at the races where at least the bet can be quantified…and the risk contained!
Bud Hearn
April 30, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The Wrong Side of the Bed
“Son, never get up on the wrong side of the bed.” Mama
I knew it was going to be a bad day even before I walked into my office. The wilted and lifeless roses greeted me, with Sir Winston starring down his Churchill nose at my presence.
It began this morning when I ignored Mama’s sage advice, paying dearly for the error. I pleaded ignorance, of course, claiming, “Which is the wrong side, the right side, of a bed?” Silence and a sullen stare was Mama’s answer.
All malefactors plead innocent. Not so…once the deed is done, it’s done. And since one can apparently only get out of bed once a day, caution is commended. So Mama said. She was never wrong.
The “Retribution gods” were relentless. A dull razor minced my face, band aids everywhere. And do you have a clue of what it’s like not being able to find the “right” part in the hair? Public humiliation occurs. It was always a mystery to me how the public knew these things. Yet Mama said they did. Who can contend with such wisdom?
Forget that the coffee spilled on the sofa and the cereal was stale. Even the tab to open the half-half cream malfunctioned. It seemed to mock me even as I cursed it. What idiot invents these torments…from which side of the bed did they slither? The knife made quick work, but “Ouch,” my finger said. Another band aid.
Then there’s the decision of matching ten shirt colors to trousers. You know, some days nothing matches. “No stripes with plaids,” Mama always said. Discretion was abandoned…besides, I thought the lavender-striped shirt blended well with plaid pants. Apparently not, as I later found out from the giggling ladies in the elevator. (Mama was right again!)
Even my shoes seemed to echo Mama’s voice, “Son, don’t start out on the wrong foot.”
“But Mama, can you explain to me which is right and which is wrong?”
“You’ll know, son…stop asking stupid questions.” Now what kind of an answer is that, really? Was your Mama like that?
Her voice followed me as I left, “Son, don’t hang out with the wrong crowd.” I muttered under my breath an obscene expletive…mistake! The Retribution gods heard it. The day got worse, not to mention the crowd. Apparently some of the meeting participants had suffered a fate similar to my own, judging from their glazed eyes, band aids and violation of decorous dress codes.
There’s more. I slogged through the day, distracted by on the brown zit of a coffee stain on my shirt. Judging from the sneers and snickers in the restaurant, I had apparently reflected poorly on my family’s heritage. Was it my dress or the Stooges hair part that gave me away? Or perhaps my attitude when the valet advised me they’d “misplaced” my car? Whichever…. I tried to put it all out of my mind.
Rational decisions are difficult when you get up on the wrong side of the bed, or start out on the wrong foot. The choice for dinner was miso soup or tacos. You know which won, right? Throughout the night the tacos laughed uncontrollably. In utter frustration I shook my fists to the heavens, shouting, “Well, Mama, so much for your warning to ‘clean your plate, young man.’” Did your Mama treat you so shamefully?
Mama was mostly right, not wrong, about the difference between right, and wrong. I swore to obey from then on, sorta. Since backsliding was in my nature, I crossed my fingers just in case of failure. You do the same thing, don’t you?
It’s anybody’s guess how long the Retribution gods hang around, so I decided to take no chances tonight and bed down on the sofa. Why? It has only one way in, one way out. I played the odds….how can I go wrong? Mama didn’t raise a fool!
There is no moral here, only a caveat…Mama is always right!
Bud Hearn
April 23, 2009
I knew it was going to be a bad day even before I walked into my office. The wilted and lifeless roses greeted me, with Sir Winston starring down his Churchill nose at my presence.
It began this morning when I ignored Mama’s sage advice, paying dearly for the error. I pleaded ignorance, of course, claiming, “Which is the wrong side, the right side, of a bed?” Silence and a sullen stare was Mama’s answer.
All malefactors plead innocent. Not so…once the deed is done, it’s done. And since one can apparently only get out of bed once a day, caution is commended. So Mama said. She was never wrong.
The “Retribution gods” were relentless. A dull razor minced my face, band aids everywhere. And do you have a clue of what it’s like not being able to find the “right” part in the hair? Public humiliation occurs. It was always a mystery to me how the public knew these things. Yet Mama said they did. Who can contend with such wisdom?
Forget that the coffee spilled on the sofa and the cereal was stale. Even the tab to open the half-half cream malfunctioned. It seemed to mock me even as I cursed it. What idiot invents these torments…from which side of the bed did they slither? The knife made quick work, but “Ouch,” my finger said. Another band aid.
Then there’s the decision of matching ten shirt colors to trousers. You know, some days nothing matches. “No stripes with plaids,” Mama always said. Discretion was abandoned…besides, I thought the lavender-striped shirt blended well with plaid pants. Apparently not, as I later found out from the giggling ladies in the elevator. (Mama was right again!)
Even my shoes seemed to echo Mama’s voice, “Son, don’t start out on the wrong foot.”
“But Mama, can you explain to me which is right and which is wrong?”
“You’ll know, son…stop asking stupid questions.” Now what kind of an answer is that, really? Was your Mama like that?
Her voice followed me as I left, “Son, don’t hang out with the wrong crowd.” I muttered under my breath an obscene expletive…mistake! The Retribution gods heard it. The day got worse, not to mention the crowd. Apparently some of the meeting participants had suffered a fate similar to my own, judging from their glazed eyes, band aids and violation of decorous dress codes.
There’s more. I slogged through the day, distracted by on the brown zit of a coffee stain on my shirt. Judging from the sneers and snickers in the restaurant, I had apparently reflected poorly on my family’s heritage. Was it my dress or the Stooges hair part that gave me away? Or perhaps my attitude when the valet advised me they’d “misplaced” my car? Whichever…. I tried to put it all out of my mind.
Rational decisions are difficult when you get up on the wrong side of the bed, or start out on the wrong foot. The choice for dinner was miso soup or tacos. You know which won, right? Throughout the night the tacos laughed uncontrollably. In utter frustration I shook my fists to the heavens, shouting, “Well, Mama, so much for your warning to ‘clean your plate, young man.’” Did your Mama treat you so shamefully?
Mama was mostly right, not wrong, about the difference between right, and wrong. I swore to obey from then on, sorta. Since backsliding was in my nature, I crossed my fingers just in case of failure. You do the same thing, don’t you?
It’s anybody’s guess how long the Retribution gods hang around, so I decided to take no chances tonight and bed down on the sofa. Why? It has only one way in, one way out. I played the odds….how can I go wrong? Mama didn’t raise a fool!
There is no moral here, only a caveat…Mama is always right!
Bud Hearn
April 23, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Living Out Loud
“If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to Live Out Loud.” Emile Zola, Poet, Author and Artist
The couple walked ~~ no, they sauntered ~~ into the restaurant. Forks dropped audibly… the place suddenly went silent. One knew immediately they were not from around these parts!
I was sitting inconspicuously in the 4th Of May, the Village diner, minding my business with a mundane plate of chicken, carrots and Waldorf salad. Yeah, I know…borrrrring. It was just another “average” day.
They took the table beside me. French, one could tell. He was a sharp dresser, perhaps an artist or actor…expensive threads, blazer, yellow ascot and, of all things, a beret. Cool, but overdone. Yet, it was his “lady” that got the attention. Tall with long, coal-black hair, she wore pencil-thin Dior black jeans, high-spiked Pradas, and a blazing red Chanel silk T-shirt. Everything was very tight, suggestive, if you know what I mean. Being the day after Easter, and judging from the looks of the male patrons, I suspect several were re-resurrected right there on the spot.
Her T-shirt glittered in gold-emblazoned letters:
Women Who Behave
Rarely Make History
What in the world had brought these creatures to this place, I wondered? Heck, why not ask them? I did. Leaving my chicken and tooth pick, I slid my chair over and started up a conversation. Fluent in English with an aristocratic, chic French flair, they revealed an amazing story. Unfortunately, it is much too long to recite here…and, may I add, much too X-rated for tender ears!
I wanted to pal around with them for the day, but they had other plans, Francois explained. “Exciting plans,” Brigitte said, “involving a yacht, the beach and the movies.” Cumberland Island was mentioned, with just enough detail to excite anybody. Wow, could such things of intrigue actually happen on this sleepy little island? I fantasized.
Oblivious of our surroundings, we laughed hysterically through lunch. All the while a steady parade of diners came and went, women bristling with envy as their men eyeballed the red T-shirt.
Time finally ran out. We exchanged cheek kisses and au revoir. Our encounter had ended, too soon, too soon. In a backward glance, Brigitte winked ~~ I got the message! Ah, the mysteries life has to offer….
Conventional wisdom being what it is, Living Out Loud goes against the grain of most folks…especially in small towns. Clearly this couple was living large, and I have to believe NOT behaving! It’s said in small, backwater places that, “A cold drink of water and a new idea will kill anybody.” I’ve seen it happen…Living Out Loud in these places could get one maimed, or at least branded for life. That’s why the youth leave, at least the creative and ambitious ones. There’s more to life than chicken pot pie!
We have our own Living-Out-Loud crowd on the island. Take a look at the picture: Julie and Will, sitting atop the 12 foot gator, concerned only with the camera, while Thomas was being eaten alive. Tell me, which one will soon be in Hollywood or Washington?
Tomorrow, our Congressman, Jack Kingston, is scheduled to be our special guest for lunch. Talk about a man Living Out Loud…why, every day Jack risks his life in the jaws of the Congressional gator that threatens to devour us with its voracious spending and taxing appetite. He will be here to report on the “damage” Congress has done to us this year. Come, bring questions.
What great surprises life has to offer … just show up! I wonder if it’s too late for me to audition for the movies…X-Rated, of course?
What kind of history are you making?
Bud Hearn
April 16, 2009
The couple walked ~~ no, they sauntered ~~ into the restaurant. Forks dropped audibly… the place suddenly went silent. One knew immediately they were not from around these parts!
I was sitting inconspicuously in the 4th Of May, the Village diner, minding my business with a mundane plate of chicken, carrots and Waldorf salad. Yeah, I know…borrrrring. It was just another “average” day.
They took the table beside me. French, one could tell. He was a sharp dresser, perhaps an artist or actor…expensive threads, blazer, yellow ascot and, of all things, a beret. Cool, but overdone. Yet, it was his “lady” that got the attention. Tall with long, coal-black hair, she wore pencil-thin Dior black jeans, high-spiked Pradas, and a blazing red Chanel silk T-shirt. Everything was very tight, suggestive, if you know what I mean. Being the day after Easter, and judging from the looks of the male patrons, I suspect several were re-resurrected right there on the spot.
Her T-shirt glittered in gold-emblazoned letters:
Women Who Behave
Rarely Make History
What in the world had brought these creatures to this place, I wondered? Heck, why not ask them? I did. Leaving my chicken and tooth pick, I slid my chair over and started up a conversation. Fluent in English with an aristocratic, chic French flair, they revealed an amazing story. Unfortunately, it is much too long to recite here…and, may I add, much too X-rated for tender ears!
I wanted to pal around with them for the day, but they had other plans, Francois explained. “Exciting plans,” Brigitte said, “involving a yacht, the beach and the movies.” Cumberland Island was mentioned, with just enough detail to excite anybody. Wow, could such things of intrigue actually happen on this sleepy little island? I fantasized.
Oblivious of our surroundings, we laughed hysterically through lunch. All the while a steady parade of diners came and went, women bristling with envy as their men eyeballed the red T-shirt.
Time finally ran out. We exchanged cheek kisses and au revoir. Our encounter had ended, too soon, too soon. In a backward glance, Brigitte winked ~~ I got the message! Ah, the mysteries life has to offer….
Conventional wisdom being what it is, Living Out Loud goes against the grain of most folks…especially in small towns. Clearly this couple was living large, and I have to believe NOT behaving! It’s said in small, backwater places that, “A cold drink of water and a new idea will kill anybody.” I’ve seen it happen…Living Out Loud in these places could get one maimed, or at least branded for life. That’s why the youth leave, at least the creative and ambitious ones. There’s more to life than chicken pot pie!
We have our own Living-Out-Loud crowd on the island. Take a look at the picture: Julie and Will, sitting atop the 12 foot gator, concerned only with the camera, while Thomas was being eaten alive. Tell me, which one will soon be in Hollywood or Washington?
Tomorrow, our Congressman, Jack Kingston, is scheduled to be our special guest for lunch. Talk about a man Living Out Loud…why, every day Jack risks his life in the jaws of the Congressional gator that threatens to devour us with its voracious spending and taxing appetite. He will be here to report on the “damage” Congress has done to us this year. Come, bring questions.
What great surprises life has to offer … just show up! I wonder if it’s too late for me to audition for the movies…X-Rated, of course?
What kind of history are you making?
Bud Hearn
April 16, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Losing a Grip
“Now it was about the sixth hour, and there was a darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour.” Luke 23:44
Age is sneaky and has a subtle way of reminding one of its omnipresence. I was working on a project that required some hand strength recently and discovered that my left thumb had lost some of its iron grip. The pliers supplied a suitable substitute.
Winter was officially over March 20th, but it lingered, making one last assault this week with snow flurries in Atlanta and cold winds on the coast. Its grip was weak, and Spring has now broken its iron-fisted grasp.
These revelations caused me to think about “losing your grip” on things. We’ve always heard the cliché, “Get a grip on yourself,” meaning, of course, “Come back to reality.” But that’s harder to do than you can imagine. We get caught in the grip of mindsets and miscalculations, circumstances and consequences, depressions and dispositions, and comforts and conformities. It’s just not that easy to “get a grip.”
Easter is Sunday. But to experience Easter, the grip of something that’s hard as steel has to be broken. It’s the disposition of our innate humanness, a condition we each inherited and had no say in receiving. In the Christian Church we explain this disposition as the consequence of “The Original Sin.”
Fortunately, according to our collective Christian faith, we have an Intercessor who has broken the grip of the heinous but inherited disposition. During the 40 days of Lent, the crucifix is draped in purple linen. It is our symbol of the victory that occurred on what we refer to as “Good Friday.” From the 9th hour on of that day the grip of death held Jesus fast, until Easter Sunday. On Easter we celebrate The Resurrection, the evidence that the grip of death has no hold henceforth and forever more. What better news today than this!
Sooner or later we all “lose our grip” on things mental and physical. But be of good cheer, my friends, there is One who has us in His grip from which nothing can be wrested. The door of this Eternal Grip is The Cross, and while it portrays an instrument of death on “Good Friday”, on Easter Sunday it personifies our victory.
For one weekend, why not relax our grip on things that trouble us, and rest confidently in the grasp of The One who has promised, “I will never leave you nor forsake you!” May our collective faith be sufficient to grip the enormity of this eternal truth!
May the joys of this Easter, the beauty of our world and the blessings of family and friends give each of us new life now and affirm our faith in our ultimate destiny.
Bud Hearn
April 9, 2009
Age is sneaky and has a subtle way of reminding one of its omnipresence. I was working on a project that required some hand strength recently and discovered that my left thumb had lost some of its iron grip. The pliers supplied a suitable substitute.
Winter was officially over March 20th, but it lingered, making one last assault this week with snow flurries in Atlanta and cold winds on the coast. Its grip was weak, and Spring has now broken its iron-fisted grasp.
These revelations caused me to think about “losing your grip” on things. We’ve always heard the cliché, “Get a grip on yourself,” meaning, of course, “Come back to reality.” But that’s harder to do than you can imagine. We get caught in the grip of mindsets and miscalculations, circumstances and consequences, depressions and dispositions, and comforts and conformities. It’s just not that easy to “get a grip.”
Easter is Sunday. But to experience Easter, the grip of something that’s hard as steel has to be broken. It’s the disposition of our innate humanness, a condition we each inherited and had no say in receiving. In the Christian Church we explain this disposition as the consequence of “The Original Sin.”
Fortunately, according to our collective Christian faith, we have an Intercessor who has broken the grip of the heinous but inherited disposition. During the 40 days of Lent, the crucifix is draped in purple linen. It is our symbol of the victory that occurred on what we refer to as “Good Friday.” From the 9th hour on of that day the grip of death held Jesus fast, until Easter Sunday. On Easter we celebrate The Resurrection, the evidence that the grip of death has no hold henceforth and forever more. What better news today than this!
Sooner or later we all “lose our grip” on things mental and physical. But be of good cheer, my friends, there is One who has us in His grip from which nothing can be wrested. The door of this Eternal Grip is The Cross, and while it portrays an instrument of death on “Good Friday”, on Easter Sunday it personifies our victory.
For one weekend, why not relax our grip on things that trouble us, and rest confidently in the grasp of The One who has promised, “I will never leave you nor forsake you!” May our collective faith be sufficient to grip the enormity of this eternal truth!
May the joys of this Easter, the beauty of our world and the blessings of family and friends give each of us new life now and affirm our faith in our ultimate destiny.
Bud Hearn
April 9, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
The Escape from Cuba
Mac was a successful Miami attorney. He had it all…yet he was bored with life.
Legal briefs and court calendars exacted tedious tolls…Mac craved excitement, something to remove him from his “comfort zone.” This was his mistake, and almost his demise.
Mac needed relief but was conflicted: a gorgeous wife, a perfect family, a legal practice that minted money and a single-digits golf handicap. Still something was missing. The shadow of “not enough” stalked him relentlessly…he needed a change!
His phone rang early on April 1, 1980. “This is The White house calling, please hold for The President,” a voice said. Carter, or a joke, he wondered? The whiny voice asked, “Mac, how about your representing the United States in Havana for Cubans seeking asylum? It is a dangerous and delicate task. Castro is a madman, the situation is tense and national security is threatened. What do you say?”
The escape hatch had finally opened, promising relief from his mundane Miami comfort zone. “Yes,” Mac shouted, “When?” There is a God, he thought.
After the usual intense security checks and endless briefings, Mac was prepared. Yet something gnawed on him. “Why me,” he questioned? The “what-ifs” crept in, threatening his resolve. His confidence was restored by an assigned military attaché, his bodyguard, Col. Dwight “Ace” Blackbanks, a hardened, grisly operative called from retirement.
Col. Blackbanks and Lady Caroline, a scion of Lord Whitehead of Lancashire, England, lived innocuously in the Golden Isles. He lived under an alias given him by OPA (Operative Protection Agency) after retirement as a CIA Black-ops agent. He had survived the nasty trade of counterintelligence, having exploited Central American juntas, tortured Khmer Rouge thugs and sparked insurgencies in Serbia. Some say it was “Ace” who “terminated” Ivan Brusco, The Siberian Assassin, in the aftermath of the Bhutto assassination.
Mac and “Ace” shared a common trait…disdain of too much comfort. Men of their ilk love life only on the edge, pushing the envelop, often too far. Their fates would soon be tested to the limit.
That day came on a sultry Havana morning. Mac and his voluptuous assistants, Marie and Elena, worked frantically on the asylum applications. The Mariel Boat Lift exodus had begun. Sweat dripped in beads on official papers as the swirling ceiling fan stirred the humid air. Working closely with bronzed Latino women was distracting for a virile man like Mac. His wife’s memory kept resurfacing, reminding him he was taken. Conflicted again, he thought…but maybe one day. Wrong.
Suddenly the door burst open, kicked in by large black boots worn by smarmy men in olive green uniforms, Castro’s elite corps. The assistants fled while Mac was slammed to the floor, a 9 mm pistol in his face. Lying rigid on the dusty floor, he wished for his comfort zone again. Fear froze him upon hearing the Spanish word rescate, ransom. Terror gripped him.
Colonel Blackbanks had gone dark that morning. “Ace” preferred the shadows, the dark barrios, like Manuel’s Cantina. Soon Maria’s shadow moved silently through the dimly lit hallway, and whispered, “Senor, Mac has been kidnapped.”
The comfort zone of too much waiting ended as “Ace” gulped the last of the warm beer. At the Embassy’s side door Mac was being dragged to a jeep. As a trained killer, an expert in martial arts, “Ace” was in his element. Five Cuban goons, soft from too much rum, soon lay among the detritus in the ally.
The men sprinted towards the Mariel Harbor, lungs bursting in the thick air. The Boat Lift had departed…escape seemed improbable. Sirens pierced the air as the men leapt into a tiny Styrofoam raft with a lawn chair duck-tapped snugly within, paddling frantically among the moored fishing boats. Soon a dark overhead cloud opened and torrents of rain fell, providing cover to escape into the waiting Gulf Stream. Miami was now only 90 shark-infested miles away.
Scorched by the heat, and against the advice of “Ace,” Mac had earlier plunged into the sea. A huge shark had instantly attacked him, stripping his clothes but leaving him his life and gold Rolex watch as a reminder of the encounter. The next morning, the raft bobbing helplessly in the sea, they were found by a fishing trawler and rescued. Their ordeal had ended, but stories of the saga were just beginning.
There is a strange epilogue to this story. As I drove into my driveway recently, I noticed a paddle standing at the back door. It had a playing card taped to it…an Ace of Clubs. I knew only one man who could have left this, so I called Col. Blackbanks. “What gives,” I asked. “Come over, have a drink, and I’ll tell you the story,” he said.
Secrets never remain hidden; the urge to tell is too strong. “Ace’s” recited his version, but Mac, now resting in eternal peace, remains forever silent. Somehow the paddle, and the gold Rolex on “Ace’s” arm, convinced me of the validity of the events. You’ll have to make up your own mind.
Family and friends keep Mac’s memory and the “escape-from-his-comfort-zone saga” alive each year at a party in his honor. Yet for my part, also in Mac’s honor, I can only add this caveat: “If you plan an escape from your own comfort zone, be careful for what you wish…especially if a politician calls!”
Bud Hearn
April 6, 2009
Legal briefs and court calendars exacted tedious tolls…Mac craved excitement, something to remove him from his “comfort zone.” This was his mistake, and almost his demise.
Mac needed relief but was conflicted: a gorgeous wife, a perfect family, a legal practice that minted money and a single-digits golf handicap. Still something was missing. The shadow of “not enough” stalked him relentlessly…he needed a change!
His phone rang early on April 1, 1980. “This is The White house calling, please hold for The President,” a voice said. Carter, or a joke, he wondered? The whiny voice asked, “Mac, how about your representing the United States in Havana for Cubans seeking asylum? It is a dangerous and delicate task. Castro is a madman, the situation is tense and national security is threatened. What do you say?”
The escape hatch had finally opened, promising relief from his mundane Miami comfort zone. “Yes,” Mac shouted, “When?” There is a God, he thought.
After the usual intense security checks and endless briefings, Mac was prepared. Yet something gnawed on him. “Why me,” he questioned? The “what-ifs” crept in, threatening his resolve. His confidence was restored by an assigned military attaché, his bodyguard, Col. Dwight “Ace” Blackbanks, a hardened, grisly operative called from retirement.
Col. Blackbanks and Lady Caroline, a scion of Lord Whitehead of Lancashire, England, lived innocuously in the Golden Isles. He lived under an alias given him by OPA (Operative Protection Agency) after retirement as a CIA Black-ops agent. He had survived the nasty trade of counterintelligence, having exploited Central American juntas, tortured Khmer Rouge thugs and sparked insurgencies in Serbia. Some say it was “Ace” who “terminated” Ivan Brusco, The Siberian Assassin, in the aftermath of the Bhutto assassination.
Mac and “Ace” shared a common trait…disdain of too much comfort. Men of their ilk love life only on the edge, pushing the envelop, often too far. Their fates would soon be tested to the limit.
That day came on a sultry Havana morning. Mac and his voluptuous assistants, Marie and Elena, worked frantically on the asylum applications. The Mariel Boat Lift exodus had begun. Sweat dripped in beads on official papers as the swirling ceiling fan stirred the humid air. Working closely with bronzed Latino women was distracting for a virile man like Mac. His wife’s memory kept resurfacing, reminding him he was taken. Conflicted again, he thought…but maybe one day. Wrong.
Suddenly the door burst open, kicked in by large black boots worn by smarmy men in olive green uniforms, Castro’s elite corps. The assistants fled while Mac was slammed to the floor, a 9 mm pistol in his face. Lying rigid on the dusty floor, he wished for his comfort zone again. Fear froze him upon hearing the Spanish word rescate, ransom. Terror gripped him.
Colonel Blackbanks had gone dark that morning. “Ace” preferred the shadows, the dark barrios, like Manuel’s Cantina. Soon Maria’s shadow moved silently through the dimly lit hallway, and whispered, “Senor, Mac has been kidnapped.”
The comfort zone of too much waiting ended as “Ace” gulped the last of the warm beer. At the Embassy’s side door Mac was being dragged to a jeep. As a trained killer, an expert in martial arts, “Ace” was in his element. Five Cuban goons, soft from too much rum, soon lay among the detritus in the ally.
The men sprinted towards the Mariel Harbor, lungs bursting in the thick air. The Boat Lift had departed…escape seemed improbable. Sirens pierced the air as the men leapt into a tiny Styrofoam raft with a lawn chair duck-tapped snugly within, paddling frantically among the moored fishing boats. Soon a dark overhead cloud opened and torrents of rain fell, providing cover to escape into the waiting Gulf Stream. Miami was now only 90 shark-infested miles away.
Scorched by the heat, and against the advice of “Ace,” Mac had earlier plunged into the sea. A huge shark had instantly attacked him, stripping his clothes but leaving him his life and gold Rolex watch as a reminder of the encounter. The next morning, the raft bobbing helplessly in the sea, they were found by a fishing trawler and rescued. Their ordeal had ended, but stories of the saga were just beginning.
There is a strange epilogue to this story. As I drove into my driveway recently, I noticed a paddle standing at the back door. It had a playing card taped to it…an Ace of Clubs. I knew only one man who could have left this, so I called Col. Blackbanks. “What gives,” I asked. “Come over, have a drink, and I’ll tell you the story,” he said.
Secrets never remain hidden; the urge to tell is too strong. “Ace’s” recited his version, but Mac, now resting in eternal peace, remains forever silent. Somehow the paddle, and the gold Rolex on “Ace’s” arm, convinced me of the validity of the events. You’ll have to make up your own mind.
Family and friends keep Mac’s memory and the “escape-from-his-comfort-zone saga” alive each year at a party in his honor. Yet for my part, also in Mac’s honor, I can only add this caveat: “If you plan an escape from your own comfort zone, be careful for what you wish…especially if a politician calls!”
Bud Hearn
April 6, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
A Blank Sheet of Paper
“….the earth was without form, and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep.” Genesis 1:2
For four years now my Thursdays have begun by staring at a blank piece of paper, or blank white set of computer pixels that make the screen appear as a blank sheet of paper. This Absurdity began that way.
Whether a computer screen or a sheet of paper, empty is always its beginning. There’s just something about a blank slate that craves input. It calls, “Put something on me ~ words, numbers, drawings ~ or fold me into the shape of an airplane and sail me. Do something with me, now!”
Imagine being a blank sheet of paper. How would you feel if your life went unused, just wadded up and pitched at trash cans? Or run through a shredder to make confetti for important parades or other such ephemera posing as momentous events. No, a blank sheet has infinite possibilities.
Everything starts out blank. You did, too ~ some may still be! … and so did this world. Think of what untold number of possibilities existed at the Creation ~ or The Big Bang, whichever you may choose. Imagine what could come from a totally blank world page. Now look at it. Think of each person beginning as a blank sheet of paper ~ then try to comprehend it all. Notice how finite your mind is!
All pages begin equal, but some more equal than others. Some pages become important like The Bible, The Constitution, or The Gettysburg Address. Some amount to absolutely nothing. Some would be downright frightening ~ like fodder crammed into The New York Times.
I prefer blank computer screens. It eliminates the eraser and wipes the slate clean with no consequence. Ink on paper is better than pencil lead. Imagine a fancy invitation scribbled in pencil. Horrors! The poor pencil is becoming a relic of another era. It has devolved to a lowly status of “uncertainty” ~ like, “let’s pencil in the appointment instead of ‘ink it in.’”
Blank pages have other possibilities. Suppose you have trashed me with some malicious gossip ~ why, I can write you several scathing replies, take out my anger and frustrations on paper and then trash you in return as I fling you into the garbage can ~ or shredder.
I particularly like blank bank deposit tickets. Sometimes when I’m bored I take blank ones and write insanely huge amounts on them and pretend I’m rich. I envision myself presenting it to a bank teller, especially one showing the deposit of $10 billion dollars to my account. Imagine their shock.
And that brings up another subject. Bank accounts. They can begin small with very little written on the deposit ticket, like $10.00. Yet, a bank account has the capacity to enlarge itself to infinity. It can’t be filled to capacity.
All of which brings me to the ultimate use of paper ~ to print cash currency. This paper is highly decorative and has the effect of creating more emotional fervor than all the paper in the world. Yet the irony of it is that while it starts out as a blank page, its value is based on nothing but a fiat faith ~ a huge blank page.
Many of us may be writing more checks (also blank) than deposit tickets these days. But better days are coming if you can grab that blank page of faith and write something on it. Perhaps it is nothing more than a short note to a friend, a card to a child or a check to a charity. It will make your paper very happy, and also the recipient.
Remember, a blank sheet of paper is a terrible thing to waste.
Bud Hearn
April 2, 2009
For four years now my Thursdays have begun by staring at a blank piece of paper, or blank white set of computer pixels that make the screen appear as a blank sheet of paper. This Absurdity began that way.
Whether a computer screen or a sheet of paper, empty is always its beginning. There’s just something about a blank slate that craves input. It calls, “Put something on me ~ words, numbers, drawings ~ or fold me into the shape of an airplane and sail me. Do something with me, now!”
Imagine being a blank sheet of paper. How would you feel if your life went unused, just wadded up and pitched at trash cans? Or run through a shredder to make confetti for important parades or other such ephemera posing as momentous events. No, a blank sheet has infinite possibilities.
Everything starts out blank. You did, too ~ some may still be! … and so did this world. Think of what untold number of possibilities existed at the Creation ~ or The Big Bang, whichever you may choose. Imagine what could come from a totally blank world page. Now look at it. Think of each person beginning as a blank sheet of paper ~ then try to comprehend it all. Notice how finite your mind is!
All pages begin equal, but some more equal than others. Some pages become important like The Bible, The Constitution, or The Gettysburg Address. Some amount to absolutely nothing. Some would be downright frightening ~ like fodder crammed into The New York Times.
I prefer blank computer screens. It eliminates the eraser and wipes the slate clean with no consequence. Ink on paper is better than pencil lead. Imagine a fancy invitation scribbled in pencil. Horrors! The poor pencil is becoming a relic of another era. It has devolved to a lowly status of “uncertainty” ~ like, “let’s pencil in the appointment instead of ‘ink it in.’”
Blank pages have other possibilities. Suppose you have trashed me with some malicious gossip ~ why, I can write you several scathing replies, take out my anger and frustrations on paper and then trash you in return as I fling you into the garbage can ~ or shredder.
I particularly like blank bank deposit tickets. Sometimes when I’m bored I take blank ones and write insanely huge amounts on them and pretend I’m rich. I envision myself presenting it to a bank teller, especially one showing the deposit of $10 billion dollars to my account. Imagine their shock.
And that brings up another subject. Bank accounts. They can begin small with very little written on the deposit ticket, like $10.00. Yet, a bank account has the capacity to enlarge itself to infinity. It can’t be filled to capacity.
All of which brings me to the ultimate use of paper ~ to print cash currency. This paper is highly decorative and has the effect of creating more emotional fervor than all the paper in the world. Yet the irony of it is that while it starts out as a blank page, its value is based on nothing but a fiat faith ~ a huge blank page.
Many of us may be writing more checks (also blank) than deposit tickets these days. But better days are coming if you can grab that blank page of faith and write something on it. Perhaps it is nothing more than a short note to a friend, a card to a child or a check to a charity. It will make your paper very happy, and also the recipient.
Remember, a blank sheet of paper is a terrible thing to waste.
Bud Hearn
April 2, 2009
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