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Story by Bob Church
The Fisher Tontine
Truth be known, I honestly didn't think I'd ever be sitting in
this chair. Oh, it's not the chair I mind, a rocker is as good
a way as man has invented to wile away the hours, not that he
hasn't tried to find other high-tech alternatives. Lord knows
men in lab coats are paid handsomely to dream up ways of making
me comfortable during my 'twilight years'. If I'd had this stroke
sixty years ago, instead of damn near twenty years into the new
millennium, the kids would have stuck me in a nursing home. Today,
I'm afforded the luxury of a 'long-term care facility'.
But, I guess I shouldn't complain. In all
fairness, my family does come to visit from time to time.
So does Haley's Comet. It's only been a few months since my grandson
needed braces on his teeth, evidently the consequence of an altercation
at school. Cicely and Charles brought the little shaver to see
me… I'm trying my best to remember his name, but it escapes
me right now… Mike… Myles… Mason… I forget.
I've seen the lad two- maybe three times, now, and I still can't
remember his name. Personally, I thought the ring through his
nose was a bit overstated, but I did like the tattoo on his neck
proclaiming Satan Rules! Besides, four thousand bucks
doesn't go as far as it used to, I don't think, and I really
don't need the money. In fact, I wish they'd take it all…
then they'd throw me out of here and maybe I find my way to southern
California or Mexico. At least down there, I could listen to
the ocean go out and come back in.
I blame all this on Dave Fisher. He's the
no-account disloyal son-of-a-bitch who got me into this mess.
On November 24th of 1967, as we sat at the Grapevine Lounge in
Garden Grove, California, drinking mai-tai's or Cuba Libra's
or some such concoctions, we made a tontine. It was my last night
in the U.S., and Dave had flown from Denver to Los Angeles to
spend a week with me before my unit shipped out to Vietnam.
We'd met the summer after I graduated from
high school. All the jocks took jobs working for the Aurora Parks
Department, no doubt a payback from this or that unnamed booster
with the political clout to make it happen. The jobs were menial,
of course, adjusting sprinkler heads, moving hoses, mowing grass,
etc. I was a baseball player of some accomplishment, and Dave
a gymnast. Admittedly, he looked better in shorts and t-shirt
than I did; he had six-pack abs long before they became fashionable.
Of course, vanity has its price, but I
was the one who paid it for him. David Hugh Fisher was the slowest
individual who ever drew breath. This became doubly frustrating
because he had a car and I didn't. So, we double-dated a lot.
If we were going to the drive-in movies, I'd tell Dave to pick
me up at 6 p.m. Then, I'd tell my date that we'd be by to get
her at 8 p.m. When Dave finally got around to picking me up at
8:15, we'd only be a half-hour late to pick up my date at 8:30…
if Dave felt like really hustling.
Dave lived with his sister, as he had throughout
high school. Fiercely independent, his frequent clashes with
his father had forced the arrangement, but it made co-existence
possible and actually fostered their relationship to some extent.
There can only be one man in the family, at least at the Fishers',
and lent credence to the assertion that the acorn does not fall
far from the proverbial tree. Stubborn, combatant and inclined
to over-react, he was never far from trouble… just my sort
of role model.
We were inseparable for the next year;
drinking, fighting, carousing… all the foundations that
made life tolerable for the adolescent male in the middle '60's.
I didn't realize it at the time, of course, but many of the situations
I found myself in framed my attitudes for the Marine training
I would ultimately receive. Often I've wondered, which came first,
the chicken or the egg… did I become a Marine, or was the
training merely the fulfillment of an existential prophesy?
Enlistment in the service was out of the
question for Dave, because his draft classification was 1-Y.
Basically, as I understood it, that meant that they could only
draft him if all the grandfathers in the U.S. were on life-support.
Of course, this suited him just fine. He felt like the Vietnamese
hadn't done anything to provoke him, so why should he be bothered
with the whole mess? Now, don't get the impression that Dave
was a Peacenik. In fact, quite the opposite was the case. It's
just that Dave liked to have you touch him inappropriately before
he kicked your ass. "Nothing personal, Bob, but I don't
look good in khaki. Besides, if I got started killing gooks,
they'd have to close the borders and declare the entire country
a disaster area. I wouldn't want to put that welfare burden on
the American taxpayer." Little did we know the truth of
his remark.
We lost contact not too long after I went
in-country, but that wasn't his fault, either. I'd told him not
to bother writing, I probably wouldn't get half the letters,
anyway, and I knew it made him uncomfortable. Dave was not one
to wear his heart on his sleeve… it might detract from his
fashion ensemble, or indicate that he was in some way soft,
and this couldn't be allowed to happen. I thought about him often,
though… wished I had him manning a door gun or crewing my
Huey. Sometimes just a hand on my shoulder made all the difference
when making a difficult landing in an unsecured drop zone or
looking back into the aft section to see what was taking so long
as they loaded stretchers or body bags. In a combat zone, a helicopter
is a vulnerable piece of equipment; essential for deployment
of troops, re-supply of supplies and personnel, and removal of
wounded and dead. A few minutes could, and often did, become
eternity. Truthfully, during the twenty months I spent in Southeast
Asia, our tontine was the furthest thing from my mind. I didn't
want to waste my time thinking about eventualities that would
never come to pass.
The concept of tontines is attributed to
Lorenzo Tonti, a Neapolitan banker who started one in Paris in
1653, but evidence exists that places the origins much earlier.
In Mr. Tonti's version, each subscriber paid a sum into a fund,
and in return received dividends from the capital invested; as
each subscriber died his share was divided among all the others
until only one was left, reaping all the benefits. In the original
scheme, the capital reverted to the state when the last subscriber
died, so it was really a kind of national lottery. They may have
been the world's first stabs at annuities.
Our tontine was less enterprising, both
in terms of monetary gain and membership. In fact, it was limited
to us, exclusively. The only codicil agreed upon was simple.
If either of us ever got to the point, either physically or mentally,
where a dignified life was no longer possible, the other would
end that life and accept whatever consequences arose. From time
to time, I'd send small amounts of money to the San Francisco
bank keeping score. I never checked the balance, because it wasn't
an issue. Frankly, for years, I didn't even think of it in any
terms except as an insurance policy against my reckless, self-destructive
behavior. Tell me, where can one buy a policy insuring that someone
will put a bullet in his head, should he be unable to do it himself?
No, it had nothing to do with money. It was all about a sustained
love that transcended years and continents, a love that ignored
petty differences and overlooked implied slights or circumstances.
The asshole loved Phoenix. Approximately
thirty hours or so after Ted Dickerson, Dave and I loaded up
Dave's '69 El Camino, armed with enough marijuana, mescaline,
white crosses, blotter acid, peyote, mushrooms and Budweiser
to endure a trip from Denver to Arizona, we arrived in the Valley
of the Sun. It was October of 1971, and by now, Dave and I had
both married and divorced our wives, and decided that the winters
in Colorado were more hassle than fun. Ted was necessary only
because he had friends in Phoenix who'd put us up for awhile,
and, lest I forget to mention, he was our source for the drug
of the day.
Until that winter, I didn't really realize
what hedonistic capabilities I possessed. I wasn't into the marijuana,
because I didn't smoke… anything. But, don't let me loose
around the mushrooms, because I'll eat every last one and disappear!
Ultimately, though, I didn't really fit in. I've always attributed
it to my Marine background, but, truthfully, Dave was every bit
as fit and as tough as I ever was. He was merely more trusting
of the people and the environment. I needed a little structure.
If I wasn't making some money to pay my own way, I was uncomfortable
asking others to support me, no matter how much they had or were
willing to share with us.
Plus, I had an overwhelming desire to go
to college. I think Dave finally got tired of listening to me
piss and moan about it, because one evening he came out of the
bathroom after a half-hour primping session, sat down on the
couch and threw a packet at me. "Here, Motherf****r…
now shut up and go to school." Inside the packet were acceptance
papers from Arizona State University in Tempe. He'd sent away
for high school transcripts, forged my name on God only knows
how many documents, and gotten me enrolled as an undeclared major.
As I perused the documents, I seem to recall saying, "That's
Doctor Motherf****r to you, Dickweed… or will be
soon enough. Oh, and… thanks." So much for pomp and
ceremony…
********
Our divergent paths brought various, sometimes
great geographical distances to prevail during the Eighties and
Nineties, marked by infrequent gatherings conjured by one or
another mutual friend. Dave became a shadowy merganser, prone
to flight upon whatever whim or stimulus might present itself.
I'm sure he convinced himself that all his "deals"
were important.
Mostly, he kept to himself, as was his
nature. Relationships were difficult for Dave, because they required
him to schedule his routine, thereby inhibiting his flight capabilities.
It was easier and cheaper to fly solo. Many times, I witnessed
his lack of constraint and "fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants"
approach to life as I struggled to support my wife and family,
and secretly, God forgive me, I envied him. I also think he sensed
this, because invariably as he hugged my family and me as we
left after a barbecue or birthday party, he'd whisper in my ear,
reminding me how lucky I am.
We'd almost totally lost touch by the time
1999 arrived. The last I'd heard, he was still in Phoenix. When
I got the call from his sister, Karen, I was understandably taken
aback. She asked me if I could come to Denver, she had some bad
news regarding David. At first, I didn't know whom she was talking
about, because I didn't recognize her last name, and I'd never
heard anyone refer to him as "David".
"David?" I asked. "David
who?"
"Fisher".
No further explanation was necessary. My
wife packed me a small bag and drove me to Kansas City International
Airport. During the one hour and forty minute flight to Denver,
his face was ever-present as over and over he tossed the packet
at me.
********
Scripps Sanitarium is nothing if not surreal.
There are no wards, no ICU, no Patient Services Representative,
no surgical amphitheater, no gift shop, no waiting areas and
the cafeteria is for staff only. There is a non-denominational
chapel… and a well-staffed morgue. You see, all the patients
at Scripps Sanitarium are terminal and comatose… vegetative,
I believe the nurse termed it. They're all beyond help and beyond
hope, being kept alive for various reasons; harvesting of tissue
and organs, well-meaning wishes of family who can't bear to say
goodbye, failure to sign a living will… just to name a few.
When they escorted me into the room, I
asked Karen a few questions as I gazed moronically at the cadaver
lying on the litter. It wasn't really a bed, or at least not
any type of bed I'd want to lie in. Few machines were present
other than a simple heart monitor and the IV stand that dripped
glucose into the huge veins protruding from his arm. The ventilator
had been introduced into a tracheotomy position in his neck and
at first, I didn't recognize him. One glance down at his articulate
fingers, though, and there could be no doubt. This was Dave,
or whatever semblance of him that remained.
For a while, I didn't speak. It brought
to mind the viewing at my grandfather's wake. No one spoke there,
either… I don't know why, unless it was deemed disrespectful
to the dear departed. I wanted to grab his shoulders and shake
him. Wake up, you… you son of a bitch!
"A motorcycle rider found him under
an overpass when he stopped to find shelter during a rainstorm,
Bob, about three miles north of Ault. There wasn't a mark on
him, so the cops didn't investigate it. There wasn't a trace
of drugs or alcohol, either… we just don't know what to
think."
"Where's his van?" Dave loved
that 1976 Chevy Stepside more than any of his possessions. As
far as I know, it was the only new vehicle he ever bought. Whenever
we had gotten together, all he ever talked about was how much
he hated it, and how much damn trouble it was becoming…
new transmissions and engines, rods and struts… shocks…
but, it'd be a shame to let somebody else have it after dropping
a fortune into it. Yea, Dave, we know…
Karen just shook her head and refused to
look at me. "I don't know… the police have never found
it."
I put my arm around Karen and escorted
her out to her car. We drove to a nearby coffee shop and sat
for a while, discussing the situation and what the medical people
had to say.
"How long will this be allowed to
go on?" I asked. Time for unnecessary sentiment had passed.
"That's the sad part, Bob… he
could stay like this for years. His heart and lungs are healthy,
it's just his brain that has quit functioning… he left no
Living Will or DNR orders."
I took a deep breath and looked out the
window. It was threatening rain. "Yea… well, look,
I need to take care of a little business. Would you mind taking
me to Avis or Hertz?"
Three days later, we buried Dave in Mount
Olivet Cemetery, next to his mother and father. Karen and I hastily
assembled what few friends we could find as well as a multitude
of extended family. As I stepped into my rented Chevy Lumina,
she gave me a hug and a sealed packet addressed to me.
"Evidently David wanted you to have
this. I'm sorry there wasn't more to give you. You've been a
true friend." Then she walked away, leaving me to my thoughts.
********
The near-silent whine of turbines soothed
me as I adjusted the reading light above my seat. The Fasten
Seatbelt sign had been turned off, and I relaxed a little as
I tore open the corner of my packet. One quick push of my index
finger broke the seal and I released the dog-eared document from
the envelope. As I did, two tickets fell out;
Qualcomm Stadium, San Diego California,
Section AA, Seats 32 and 33, Super Bowl XXXII, January 25, 1998,
Denver Broncos vs Green Bay Packers.
They were intact… they'd not been
used.
The letter was brief, in keeping with his
personality. He spoke of a few investments I'd find when I investigated
the tontine, and went on to speculate as to my dubious parentage
and altogether disgusting habit of correcting his grammar. Briefly,
he spoke of the tontine itself, and how he sincerely hoped I'd
never get to read this because I'd be long dead before he had
his heart attack while servicing several hookers at the age of
ninety-five.
I folded the paper and placed it back in
its bier. Then, I closed my eyes and slept until the flight attendant
shook me in Kansas City.
Oh, I left out a couple of details. The
idiot left me over half a million in tontine funds. Can you believe
that? Now I have to find a way to keep the government from getting
their money-grubbing hands on it… or worse, my family. I
think I'll go get a cashier's check and leave it to the Hare
Krishna's. I'm sure they could put it to good use, and maybe
it'd keep one or two of them out of the airports. Who knows,
they might even name a damn temple after me.
Last, he told me he loved me. Ain't that
just like him, rat bastard that he was… If I'd have known
he was going to get emotional, I might have thought twice before
injecting that pentaflouroethyl ether into his IV. Don't worry,
it's undetectable, not that anyone would probably bother to look.
Twenty years has passed since that day
in Denver, and time's inexorable march has forced many of my
natural processes to decline and fail. But, one thing that hasn't
failed is my memory, at least when it comes to Dave. I guess
I must have loved him, too… at least enough to kill him.
Bob Church © 6/24/02
Bob Church resides in mid-Missouri
with his wife of three decades, Louise, their poodle, Carla,
and their cat, Callie. After thirty years spent raising five
children, he has reached the point in his life that allows time
to pursue his real love, writing. You can find more of his stories/observations
at notquiteright/
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