"An Honorable Man"
Zach Czaia

 

An Honorable Man


When I think of bums, I think of scruffy-looking fifty-year old drunks. I do not think of a clean shaven, 20-something man and I do not think of a poet-yet that is what I saw as I entered Chimsley Park, a peaceful haven situated in the middle of the bustling backdrop of downtown Boston.
I was jogging there to cut down my cholesterol and my weight (I was a none-too-svelte 212 pounds, standing a none-too-tall 5'10"). But enough of my disgusting physique. Let's talk about this poet. His brow was creased in concentration; he was bent over a notebook, writing something when he looked up to hear my heavy, horse-in-death-throes panting.
"Would you like to hear a poem, sir?"
I paused for a second. What kind of a weirdo hobo asks to read poetry?...out loud, no less, and in this deep south drawl of his? But I was in no shape to run away from this crazy of Chimsley Park. My inept body won out over the questions in my mind. I was just too tired to move away. So I responded,
"Sure. I'd like to hear something."
So that aspiring young bard launched into some incredibly long-winded piece of garbage about the clouds in the sky and how they looked like cotton candy, and how the grass was one big putting green for God and how the lake was His Toilet and by that time, I was just about split between my reaction of laughing or crying at this singular piece of work that sat before me reading his heart out.
My better side won out. I flipped a ten-spot into a straw hat that was already filled with cash. Spunkiest bum I've ever laid eyes upon.
"Keep writing. That was pretty good stuff. I liked it. I'll probably see you again."
But the kid wasn't stupid. His eyes pierced mine like daggers. It was like I had broken the neighbor's window and I was trying to pass it off on my fat friend, Billy. This bum, this crazy poet, he was my dad. He could tell I was lying just to be nice, and he could probably tell I felt like a dork for doing it. He didn't give up.
"Look-read this. It's a lot better. Tell me what you think tomorrow."
He handed me a sheet of handwritten scrawl. There was writing on both the front and back of the page. I folded the paper up and stuffed it into my back pocket, then restarted my run. When I returned home that evening, I pulled the weather-beaten thing out of my pocket and laid it down on the kitchen table. The thing reeked of rank cigar smoke, but I was intrigued enough to start reading:

A shot rang out. Then another. And another. And another. India was being ambushed. It was 1962. The Cold War was getting kick started, Cuba was freshly Communist, and in the Far East, China was fighting.
Their ill-mannered neighbors in India had put up a dispute over some land that China owned on the border of the two countries. India amassed a large number of troops on that border and was defiantly waiting for the Chinese to come and talk with them. The Chinese didn't do much talking.
Led by General Ming Pao, the People's Liberation Army of China separated into three groups. The first group approached the Indians from the front, while the latter two made end runs around the borders and pinched the Indian army in.
Before India made a single aggressive move, Ming Pao had boxed them in. Those aforementioned shots were fired in one brief, bloody, and extremely unsuccessful battle (for India, that is). After that disaster the Indians relinquished their share of the disputed land.
The conquering General Ming Pao came home to a hero's welcome in China. From the rice fields of poverty Pao had risen, and now for his heroism he was offered a seat on the 10 chair Central Committee, the most important governing body in China. He gladly accepted, but what the Central Committee didn't know and what Pao wouldn't tell them was a basic fact that would have made it impossible to serve on the Committee. Pao hated Communism.
Ming Pao had made many friends in his youth-poor friends that were frustrated with the lack of liberty in this country. When Pao got his seat on the Committe he rewarded his impoverished friends by shipping them off to America, giving them enough money to find shelter and connections to find a good job. He also got all of them audiences with high-ranking American officials. His friends were all instructed to tell those American politicians the same thing: The Central Committee is Communist no longer. The lone defector is China's greatest hero, and now we need your help to start a revolution.


What fascinated me was all the historical intricacies of the story. How does this bum on the street know so much about Chinese history? I remembered reading about Ming Pao's "election" in a World Politics class in my University days at Boston College. This poem is real. It lives. It's like...like...living history. "Living history" was a pretty corny way of describing it. Actually it was more like a news story- a scoop that none of the other papers could get. It gave me the impression that I was reading something top-secret. In a sense, I guess that's true. No one else had probably read this copy. In any event, I certainly wanted to continue the adventure, so the next day I went running again, armed with another ten-spot and a smile for this aspiring Homer.
He wasn't clean-shaven this time; the shadows of a beard crept along the outskirts of his face. He looked up again to see my sweat-stained frame.
"Would you like to hear another poem, sir?"
"Actually, I was wondering if you could give me the second part of that story you gave me last time--the hero from China, and all. I liked it very much."
His face beamed at that remark. He unzipped his jacket pocket and pulled out another sheet of paper and handed it to me. I thanked him and flipped another ten dollar bill into his cap.
I jogged home and plopped down to my reading spot of the night before and smelled the faint smell of cigar on the pages (this time it was cherry). I began to read.

Billy Jones was more myth than reality. He was said to be young, almost like a teenager. It was believed he could converse in 18 different tongues, that he could assume any disguise. The fact was he was a 27 year old Yale graduate with a degree in Political Science and a pair of degrees in Spanish and "Eastern Languages". He was an ambassador to China as well as an agent of the CIA He was an international player that the U.S. desperately wanted to keep on their team.
Jones went to China in '98 and started stirring trouble up like a witch stirs up bad brew. He met with this Pao fellow and started hatching a revolution. Pao and Jones had two things in common: They both hated Communism and they both were honorable men. Together they crafted manifestos, bribed committee members, threatened high ranking officials, and essentially created a Mafia movement in China. All this to give back the freedom to the real people of China, the impoverished, lower and middle class who made up 90% of the population and were dead set against the current government.
The two men were on the verge of pulling off the coup. The plan was to install Pao as the acting leader of China, then, with the support from the military, they would gun down any men who would oppose him. Ironically, they planned to use a communist tactic to take down a communist regime. But-as the proverb says, "Fight fire with fire."



That night, I couldn't get to sleep. I consider myself a part-time insomniac. You see, there are so many times I go to bed and I know that there was something I could have done to help someone else. When that happens, I usually curse myself out, roll over and go to sleep. But when I hop into bed with the imperfect knowledge that I might have helped someone out but I'm not sure how, that's when I can't sleep. I just kept thinking of that bum-that bum with all that talent, sleeping in a deserted park with no place to call his own. That's when I knew I had to lend a helping hand. I'll help him sell his story-that's what I'll do! My brother's a publisher. I can convince him to publish it, and this guy will be on his feet. With that happy thought, I fell asleep. It was 4:30 in the morning.
I hit my alarm clock seven times that broiling June morning. Seven times it was silenced, but the eighth time it would not be smothered, so I dragged myself out of bed, splashed water onto my face and prepared to catch a little hell at the newsroom. I stress the word little. It was my fifth late day of the month, but it really didn't affect my work. I'm an opinion writer who writes biographies on the side; what difference does it make if I show up at 8:00 or 11:30? My "dangerous" words only take a half-hour to conjure. The rest of the "work day" is spent writing my books and schmoozing with the sportswriters.
Well, today was different. I agreed with the editor's sentiments that I shouldn't "stay out so late", and then I finished my column by noon. I scarfed down a bagel and slurped some latte as I drove back to my house so I could visit Chimsley Park (it was about a block away) and see the southern bard again.
The smell of worms itching for water hung in the air. It was one of those pissy days where the sun makes a concerted effort not to peek out from under the clouds, yet no rain will fall from those clouds. To my recollection it is the type of day when everything bad happens. I'm not saying I'm superstitious or anything-it's just all my bad memories, my father's death, the time I got pummeled by the school bully, Will Frandrockson, the time I wet my pants in a sixth grade basketball game, all of 'em happened on this same type of pissy day. I wasn't in too good of a mood today, either. I never am after an insomnia attack, but I was looking forward to being lifted up by that poet today. I parked my car at my house and jogged toward the entrance to the park, forgetting I was still wearing khakis and a tie.
At the entrance, where I usually met the poet, was nothing. I sprinted ahead another 100 yards. There was no one in sight. I went back to the writer's creative ground. I scanned every square inch. Nothing. Wait. Something.
On the ground, glaring up at me like neon from the tar walking path, was an arrow. It was pointing to my left. I paced five feet to my left and saw another one pointing that direction. I was off the path now, and I looked at the ground and my eyes caught the edge of a piece of paper. I picked it up and read the message:


Mr. Out of Shape but Goodhearted Corporate Writer,
I realize it is probably you who is reading this message. I want to tell you that if you're reading this now, I am probably dead. It was just a matter of time, but do not worry, though I did not die in peace, I surely died with my honor intact. In any event, I am sure you would like to read the end of my story, so just look underneath that sycamore tree a few paces away. It's been folded about six times, and it's surrounded by acorns. Enjoy.

B.J.

It was, without a doubt, the strangest letter I had ever read, from the oddball introduction right down to the cryptic ending (what did the initials "B.J." stand for?). Crypticism aside, there seemed but one thing to do. I walked over and found the last two sheets of paper just where he said it would be. I unfolded them and began to read. It was the only one that was titled-"All the President's Men". I recognized the title immediately-it was a movie from a few years back, a thriller with Hoffman and Redford that had me up all hours of the night pondering the corruption of our government. Why would he use that title? I read on.

Jones was on the run. The night before the plan was to be executed, Pao was found dead, poisoned by strychnine in his nightly tea. The Chinese Revolution, which had never really begun, died with Ming Pao.
Jones was befuddled. His mind grappled with a basic question: Who killed Pao? It couldn't have come from within the Committee. All but one of the members were for the coup. The last was on the fence, but said he would go along with it "if that is what the people demand."
Then it hit Jones like a brick from a high place. The killing hadn't come from within. It had come from without, from America! Jones cursed his own ignorance of his country's affairs. He had been assigned his mission when Darringer was president, but three months ago, a new man had been elected. Jones had yet to hear from the new president regarding his mission, but he remembered reading about his inauguration a few days before.
Today's headline was etched into Jones' mind forever: In bold it said, "Pao Dead", then below in a side story, supposedly unrelated, the damning words, "New president re-establishes trade with China."
Now, the legendary disguising skills of Billy Jones were needed. In fact, his survival depended on those skills. He shaved the beard he had been nurturing these past months in China, and stole another American ambassador's wallet. He used that man's i.d. and money to board the quickest flight out of China.
Jones was making a tactical decision. He knew that the president's men would expect him to leave China. They probably wouldn't expect him to go right back into the lion's den, the United States, where he could be disposed of like yesterday's bad lunchmeat. But that's where he went. He went to the States. He decided on the east coast, picked a major city-You know which one, and he settled in. He blended in, knowing that running was useless. He would be caught. Jones was certain of that much, but he didn't want to be caught in some hotel room. He wanted to be nailed right out in the open, in a place where he could pass his story on. And that's exactly what happened.



Wheels spun around in my sleep-deprived mind. I wanted to gather up all three manuscripts and publish them in every major publication in the country. I wanted to condemn on top of every rooftop and skyscraper in America that our president was a SONOFABITCH, but I knew I wouldn't. I knew that this great bum I had met wouldn't want me to make things worse than they were already. I knew that whatever I said would be erased just as my more honorable, poetic friend had been erased. I looked in the obituaries of every local and most major newspapers that day, and the day after that and for weeks afterwards. There was no Mr. Billy Jones, no ambassador to China, no funeral, nothing. He was gone, his person erased from this passing world. But the eraser hadn't rubbed on me, and I knew what had happened. He left me three pages of a news story. He left me hope. He left me with the sense of honor, a feeling foreign to me in this once brave land.
So what did I do with the papers? I sent 'em to GQ. I told them I wrote the story, and they ran it, under the title, "Truth or Fiction?". The comments I've gotten about it all say the same thing-"Imaginative, but a tad far-fetched." It is far-fetched, but if the right eye reads it, he'll realize this truth is far stranger than any fiction I could have dreamt up, and the world might someday know what really happened over there in China. Or, if the wrong eye reads it, I could be in a world of hurt. Either way, I've done my part.

This is Mr. Out of Shape but Goodhearted Corporate Writer,
signing off.



The End

 

 

Copyright © 2000 Zach Czaia
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"