(The events chronicled in this story are based on true life events. The only deviation from absolute authenticity is the intentional and liberal use of aliases for real people and places.)
Convinced that a melee had been averted in his bar, Joel waved goodbye and began waddling back towards the safety of his home.
On his way out, he briefly stopped and picked up the microphone. Switching it on, he said, "Ladies and Gentlemen. Ahem, and of course (pointing at me) your friendly neighborhood reprobate, I bid you adieu. Enjoy yourselves, stay safe, and for the excellent customer service, please tip the staff accordingly."
While he was walking away, I noticed that more so than usual, Joel's distinctive waddling gait had become more pronounced.
I used to joke about Joel's unique shuffle-walk, naming it "The Hobbit Shuffle". It always made me chuckle because my twisted mind would picture this upright, skewered pig; wobbling left and right - precariously moving forward on six-inch, red stiletto high-heels.
But now, instead of giggling, I had a sense of foreboding - a feeling that something might be seriously wrong - especially when Joel waved at me and flashed the imaginary-phone-to-ear, “please give me a call” gesture.
Cherishing personal time above all else, he neither suffered fools, nor asked for anyone else's precious time unless absolutely necessary. Knowing this, I decided to follow him instead of calling him later.
I excused myself from the people in the bar; and trailed him to his Holy inner sanctum" known city-wide as "The Infamous Hobbit Hole".
One of my life-long, regretful habits is to engage my mouth before turning on my brain. The first time I met Joel over ten years ago, we both hinted toward our own sordid, personal backgrounds; and over the course of a few weeks and more open discussions at his bar, found out that we shared many of the same experiences in the same places; eventually bonding in the process.
Feeling that I'd already earned the right to make some friendly jibes, I quipped, "Hey Joel, what's up with the Foghorn Leghorn, strutting rooster routine? Dude! You could be a poster child for Vlad the Impaler!"
Remaining jovial, he slapped me on my back, and excused himself from our current group of nubile Filipinas, saying, "My eyes are floatin' big time! Got to go to the little boy's room - pronto, my man!"
His steady main squeeze, nicknamed "Chickee" slid over to me and put my efforts at non-malicious joking quickly to a halt. She said, "He not tell you? He stop children from walking to place where many bomb buried. When he stop last kid, bomb explode into his back. He like broomstick since."
I felt like the ultimate heel.
Later on, Joel told me about the bomb incident in Cambodia and the spinal surgery afterwards. The end result was multiple, fused-vertebrae in the lumbar and thoracic regions of his back, shrapnel that couldn't be extracted without further damage, and supportive, metal medical hardware implanted in several parts of the rest of his body.
At that time, I remained silent, preferring to simply give him a brotherly slap on the back and buy him another beer.
His home resembled a giant Man Cave.
There were souvenirs; many of whom were illegally transported into the country. These museum quality artifacts were all over his walls, shelves, window sills, and counter tops.
For example, thousand-year-old geodes (lava rocks with crystalline centers) could be seen employed as bookshelves, pristine Nautilus, and other various rare shells, plus rare species of coral displayed in the two restrooms. It was the closest thing to a miniature Louvre outside of France.
Given Joel's life history, I wasn't surprised. Joel's 32-year career as one of the first Navy Seals took him around the world. He was instrumental in the founding of the National UDT-SEAL Museum in Fort Pierce, Florida.
I relished any time we could get together in his home and chat unfettered by the constraints of talking in public. He had an endless supply of fascinating stories.
Chatting with him and hearing his personal "Been There, Done That's" was never a waste of time for me. I think he could sense that I sort of idolized him and treated me like an adopted "Prodigal Son".
Upon my first visit to this town that was coined as "The Hobbit's Domain", he was already revered as the "Proxy Archbishop for the King" (the Godfather of the local mafia) and designated to perform the ascension ceremonies for Knighthood into "The Sacred Order of the Bar Stool".
His one and only child was a son. Tragically, his son's mother was a Filipina that died soon after giving birth from uncontrolled hemorrhaging in her parents' local hut. Joel was away on operations at the time and only found out about it when he returned home.
Like Joel, his son became a solid SEAL operator.
But in order to be physically located closer to his father, he had requested and was granted orders to serve as an advisor in "Operation Balikatan" - the annual joint multi-service military exercises in Mindanao, Southern Philippines. In an event that broke Joel's heart, his son was captured by Muslim militants, tortured, and beheaded.
The video of the brutal torture and cowardly execution was leaked to the U.S. government, but kept classified.
In those days, videos like that were not publicly disseminated; but Joel managed to get a copy through back-channels from his many friends and contacts he'd made over the years.
I never pressed him for details.
Then after months of hanging out together and telling and retelling each other our life stories, he briefly talked about his son. It was the anniversary of his boy's death. All he said was, "It really sucks when a father outlives his child, almost too tragic to bear." But continued, "Just damn glad to meet YOU, Son."
And before he dozed off into sleep upon his throne, a vintage Lazy Boy easy chair that had been reupholstered many times, he mumbled, "I reckon you're the only family I got now. Imagine that?"
From that night on, I considered him as my adopted father; making sure he was ok without him knowing I was responsible for any of his good luck. While he was holed up in his fortress of solitude, I acted as the unofficial manager, cum public relations officer, cum bouncer, etc.
Over the years, we developed a close friendship and trusted each other without question. I counted him among the very few close friends in my life.
Like Joel, almost all of our close friends were already dead from active duty military operations, or later as a PMC - Private Military Contractor, the current name for a mercenary, or as an advisor from this or that alphabet agency assigned to this or that "sandbox" - any country ending in "stan".
The rest of our friends died from mysterious, vaguely explained "training injuries" – also known as, KIA or MIA in places not diplomatically recognized by the United States; or worse, simply found frozen to death and destitute from untreated PTSD in the gutter of some major city.
Seated at his kitchen table and sharing his favorite tea, Chinese green tea with calamansi (Philippine lime), I asked, "Hey Man, Wassup? You're lookin' stressed lately. Did Chickee cut you off from the boom-boom?"
As if he was holding Morning Quarters (the Plan of the Day morning meeting and mission briefing in the Navy) and I was his only crew.
He said, "Look at me and listen 'coz it's gospel, a true no-shitter. It's time, buddy. You can put a fork in me, I'm done. My PSA (a lab test that measures male prostate health) is sky-high and the shit's done spread all over. I made my peace with "My Maker" many years ago when I had to crawl through mud for over two days and ended up sleeping in a tree in Laos - thinking I'd never wake up alive again.
I took care of almost everything. My only loose ends are Chickee, her family, and this bar - the only things that matter to me and of any material worth in my over-extended life."
I knew he had been battling prostate cancer for the last five years. But since he never looked worse for wear, I figured he had kicked cancer's ass and was in remission. Besides, he never once mentioned or complained about pain or any other physical illness in the decade-plus years that I'd known him.
Now everything was on the table. His cancer had metastasized and was rapidly impairing most daily functions. He must have been in severe pain, but the stubborn fool would never, as he put it, whine over minor aches and pains. He had done everything possible, but the cancer was soon to be the victor in this struggle over his body and life.
He'd prepared for the inevitable for quite some time; except for telling Chickee and making the final arrangements for bequeathing any estate and worldly belongings to "the only living soul that he trusted" - Me.
I guess our current conversation was his way of asking me to take care of anything else necessary whenever he "Parachuted into the land of no pain and no regrets".
"Damn, amigo! You sure you ain't tried all those new treatments out there?" I asked.
In his matter-of-fact, stoic manner, he said, "Did my homework; and honestly, I don't think I could make that long ass trip to them specialists in the states and still arrive breathin'. So I guess it sucks to be me, too little, too late. And even with my retirement medical benefits, it's too damn expensive! Besides, I ain't spending my last days in a hospital bed and having people feel sorry for me."
Frowning, I immediately replied, "Alright. Fair 'nuff. Whatever I can do for you, you KNOW I'll do it." And giving a knuckle-to-knuckle press, I added, "Your mission now is to enjoy every single moment and leave the worrying to me, Master Chief. Ok?"
And with that, Joel nodded and brought out a Bible's worth stack of legal paperwork. The papers were meticulously categorized and post-it notes peeked out wherever there was a document requiring my signature.
There must've been hundreds of those damn little yellow post-it notes! And I spent the next hour and a half signing my name to what seemed like an endless stream of papers.
I cursed the ball pen from Hell with displaced anger. My fingers cramped up periodically and made the writing hand lock into a stubborn facsimile of a masturbator’s death grip!
The following morning, Joel would have the whole bundle stamped with his lawyer's official seal. The reams of signed and stamped documents would grant me Power of Attorney for his estate, personal property, binding contracts, and all other legal affairs.
Chickee called me about 5 hours later. She had forgotten her key. Apparently, like many times in the past, Joel was sleeping too soundly to hear Chickee’s knocking and yelling at the front door. Using my key, we entered the house.
In the few hours I was away, Joel had finished the legal paperwork. The completed documents were neatly reassembled, bound with twine and placed in a large, translucent, accordian-style document folder.
"Ready For Lawyer" in thick, red magic marker letters was handwritten on the front and back of the folder. It was the first thing we saw when we entered the house, placed squarely on the coffee table in the living room.
In the den, we found Joel in his usual, supine position in his Lazy Boy recliner. His reading glasses were askew and ready to fall off his nose. A paperback novel was on his chest. His special bookmarker, a photo of his son, was sticking out from the top of the book. He had the most serene - almost angelic - expression on his face that I'd ever seen.
Selfishly, I was angry at him.
Why?
Because Joel - the closest friend I ever had - was dead.
By JaiChai
"May you and yours be well and loving life today. In Lak'ech."