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Cheap Beer and Flannel
It's night.
I'm considering giving Sandburg a shot at helping me. Yeah, like I'm such a great guy that I'm going to let him help me. Never mind that I'm losing my mind. Never mind that I'm losing my job. Never mind that I'm losing everything that matters. I'll just step up to the plate, be the big man, and let this weird little hippie freak kid help me. Ain't I just the best?
We walk. We walk and he talks. He talks and I listen. Actually, I only half listen. My senses, curse that they are, seem somehow better when he's around. I can almost relax, almost let go of the tight rein I keep on them. We walk, he talks, I halfway listen.
Works for me.
The sidewalk pavement is cracked, broken where roots have pushed their way through. The nearly full moon glows ominously. He's sipping on a Natural Ice he brought with him. Cheap beer. Warm, it tastes like piss. I feel bad. I'm nursing a Heineken. Real beer. I have two more tucked in my inside jacket pockets. The pockets of my leather jacket. My warm leather jacket. I felt the need for fortification tonight and came prepared. He's got on two flannel shirts over a T-shirt and seems kinda cold, though he hasn't said anything. I'm toasty inside my leather jacket, sipping on my cold, expensive beer. He bounces along, drinking cheap, warm beer. Double flannel shirts against the evening cool.
I'm going to let him help me.
What's wrong with this picture?
He's going over it again, telling me how vital the role of the tribal guardian was in pre-civilized times. How critical it was to have someone who could protect the tribe, who could sense danger and instinctively know how to react. How important it was, how needed, how respected. How lucky I am. I listen attentively. I don't share his enthusiasm for this role he's defined for me, but I listen and I'm glad that my curse can bring happiness to someone.
I'm just sorry that he has to drink shit beer.
"But," I say, "look at how we live now. There's no place for this sentinel you talk about. We're too busy, there's too much of everything. If, and I stress, if, this mythical sentinel really existed all those years ago, it should have been bred out of the species." I close my eyes, sip my still cool, smooth brew. "It's too much for anyone to handle in the modern world."
"Nah," he says. "What really matters? Survival matters. The success of a creature is determined by whether he survives or not. The genes survive. You're living proof of that." He pauses, purses his lip and his forehead crinkles. "There's a reason your senses manifested now. You just need a way to get a handle on them. You control them, not the other way around. Think about what you can do!" His eyes shine with enthusiasm. "You're a cop -- that's like, the biggest protector role we've got going in modern society. You think you just ended up there by accident?" He shakes his head. "No way, man. It's all written in the stars. You ended up where you could do the most good, make the biggest difference. Think about it! You're a walking crime lab! You can see what no one else can, smell things that would never get picked up, touch and feel and know stuff that would never make it to the light of day. It's -- it's fucking incredible!" With this he swigs his Natural light. The enthusiasm dims briefly and I see his face wrinkle a bit. Bitter. Bitter warm piss beer. The wind picks up and he shivers.
"Look," I say, "I may be a 'walking crime lab,' but it doesn't mean shit if I can't control it. If I space out every time I try to see something, or smell something, or feel something, what the hell good am I?"
"You gotta let me help you," he pleads. "You're it -- the real thing. You can control it, Jim. It's just gonna take some work. We can come up with something. Hell, I've already got some ideas -- we just need to try them out and see what works best for you."
I've said it before. I'll probably say it again. "Are you sure I just can't get rid of them?"
He shakes his head. Takes another swig of his cheap, warm beer. Sighs. "I don't know how to get rid of them. I'm not sure I'd know where to begin. I do have some ideas on control." He finishes the beer with a grimace, tosses the bottle into a trash can, and I realize we've walked a large circle and are back at the park where we met. His beat up car sits next to my truck. "Let me help you, man," he says, extending his hands towards me, arms open, palms up. "I just want to help."
I shrug, finish my beer and toss the bottle as well. I move to the truck, open the door, then look back at him. He's waiting, anticipation etched in his face.
He wants to help me.
I want to let him.
He talked before about sentinels having someone to watch their back, someone to guide them.
He wants to guide me.
I want to let him.
Somehow, it seems there should be more to this arrangement than my agreeing to let him help me. Despite this paper he wants to write, despite the research he wants to do, it seems to me he's not going to be getting very much out of this deal. This whole sentinel-guide thing -- it seems to me that it should be less of the guide helping the sentinel and more of an equal partnership. I mean, how effective can the big protector of the tribe be if every time something goes 'bang,' he freezes up? Seems to me that the person who can keep the sentinel from freezing up deserves more than a little credit out of the deal.
I narrow my eyes and study the man standing before me. He's waiting, patiently, and somehow I know that he would wait forever for my answer, just as patiently as he's waiting now. He shivers slightly, the steadily cooler wind cutting through the layers of flannel he wears, but he makes no move to leave.
I reach a decision.
He wants to help me.
I'm gonna let him.
I reach behind the seat of the truck, grab the extra jacket I keep there, and toss it to him. I shut the truck door, and walk over to a picnic table and sit. "You coming?" I ask.
He looks at me, surprise in his face, then scurries over and sits next to me, still carrying my extra jacket. I take it from him, throw it around his shoulders and growl, "Put it on. You're cold."
"Thanks, man."
I reach into my pocket, pull out the Heinekens. No longer ice cold, they're still cool enough to be smooth. I pass one over, watch the pleased look that crosses his face, then lean back on my elbows and stare up at the stars.
I'm pretty pleased too. Sandburg's gotten up and is standing in front of me now, swaddled in my coat, Heineken in hand. I smile. My guide isn't cold anymore. He's not drinking warm piss beer. Funny how those little things seem to make my world right. "All right, Chief," I say, "tell me what to do."