Tough Day for the Army (16 page)

What I found was that people simply love shipwrecks. Even with the countless numbers of tourist activities available on the five Hawaiian islands, the number-eleven-most favorite attraction is the memorial to the USS
Arizona
(Attachment 9). Thanks to the cooperation of Witherspoon Travel Partners Worldwide (Attachment 10), I was able to interview, by phone, nearly one dozen people who had taken recent trips to Hawaii, and time and again I found the
Arizona
popping up as a highlight (Attachment 11). Even though most of the people had only a limited understanding of the history surrounding the
Arizona
, across the board the respondents thought the experience of visiting a shipwreck was “pretty neat,” and the idea that people had died there, on that very spot, “cool,” or “creepy, but still totally cool” (Attachment 12). If we need further proof than this, all I have to say is that I trust that I'm not the only one here who remembers a little something called the
Titanic.

Thus it became clear to me that what Lake Charles needed was a shipwreck of its own, so this is what I did: I decided to sink the
Star
riverboat casino owned by Merv Griffin Enterprises and its consortium of investors. I chose the
Star
because of two factors: (1) It was the oldest of the three riverboats operating on Lake Charles, making it most likely the first to be replaced anyway, and (2) since Merv Griffin Enterprises and his consortium also operate the
Players
riverboat casino, I figured it was only fair, rather than sinking the competing Isle of Capri's only casino riverboat and therefore putting them out of business and reducing competition.

On April 16, I officially hired Mitchell Patchett for the sum of three thousand dollars after contacting him at the number included in his advertisement in the back of
Soldier of Fortune
magazine (Attachment 13). He told me he was an ex–Navy Seal, skilled in underwater operations and explosives. This, as we all know now, was most definitely true. Indeed, it was clear that Mitchell Patchett was skilled in all manner of “field ops,” and the things he could do with a serrated-edge “kill” knife were simply amazing. However, at no time did he tell me about his psychiatric discharge from the military, or his subsequent three-year hospital stay. If I regret any of my actions, it is that I did not check Mitchell Patchett's background more thoroughly.

We trained six weeks for the operation. I became versed in all aspects of commando stealth maneuvers under the direction of Mitchell Patchett, who was especially fond of barking orders. Even though they were not part of our plan, I learned how to field-strip an M-16 rifle and disarm a “hot” Claymore. As an example of the prowess I gained, I now have sufficient grip strength to pop a tennis ball in my hand. If one needs further proof, I suggest s/he review the autopsy report of my former cellmate Lonnie “The Cutter” Watkins (Attachment 14).

The night of the operation was perfect, moonless and clear with almost no chop. Mitchell Patchett and I thought we had slipped into the water unseen, but postaction, eyewitness reports from Donald and Noreen Taylor (Attachment 15), who were apparently enjoying a lakefront stroll, indicate this was not true. The swim to the
Star
was not strenuous, but we found the hull grime-covered and slick (a further indication, I believe, of a lax crew), so only after some quick but vigorous scrubbing were we able to attach the C-4 explosive packages and their Herman A-1 detonators to the ship without being detected. Upon finishing this task, Mitchell Patchett thumped his fist on the side of the hull twice before giving me the thumbs up. “It's gonna be a beaut,” he said. I circled my finger in the air once quickly before pointing down to the water in the appropriate gesture to indicate that we had a “go” mission.

As planned, Mitchell Patchett and I were back on shore at the time of detonation. When the C-4 exploded, it blew a (“good sized,” according to the NTSB report) hole in the side and the
Star
began clearly listing to starboard (Attachment 16). A small fire could be seen emanating from the wound, the flames licking over the side. From our position, Mitchell Patchett and I could obviously not see what was happening onboard, but we could hear it. Newspaper reports have described the ensuing scene as “panic,” but this seems to be yet another example of media sensationalism as, quite honestly, it sounded much closer to excitement than panic, an impression borne out by two additional pieces of evidence documented in Appendixes B (Attachment 17) and C (Attachment 18) to the after-action report. First, as Appendix B makes clear, most of the documented injuries are human-inflicted scratches, gouges, and bites. This, combined with the fact that nearly 2.3 million dollars' worth of casino chips are unaccounted for following the full search and salvage operation, suggests that, postdetonation, the passengers' attention might have been on something other than mere survival. Let me also note that not a single one of them has so much as hinted at a civil suit against me.

I couldn't have asked much more from the actual sinking. The
Star
's lighted neon sign exploding like Fourth of July fireworks just prior to the final submerging was an unexpectedly poetic bonus. I suppose I would have preferred a more majestic descent to the bottom— stern first, with bow pointed skyward—but the
Star
flopping on its side like it was exhausted and needed a rest is perhaps a more appropriate symbol for our times.

There isn't much else, I suppose. I remember the sirens, the people bobbing in the water individually and in lifeboats, shouting to each other, “How much ya get?” After a while, I noticed that Mitchell Patchett was cackling. He held his hands at his waist and rocked back and forth and simply laughed and laughed like he wouldn't stop. I looked into his eyes and saw the final sparks from the exploding sign dancing on his pupils and behind those sparks I saw nothing, absolutely not a single thing, and while I admit that he is most likely deranged, I maintain that he is not insane (as his attorney is making him out to be), that he knew and knows right from wrong like anyone else, and thus I urge the courts to “throw the book at him” (see “Book” as Attachment 19). Once the ship sank entirely beneath the surface, thus extinguishing the orange glow of the fire, the night's only source of light, I never saw Mitchell Patchett again, though I was relieved to hear of his apprehension. Clearly, he is a most dangerous man.

My capture and arrest are a matter of public record, personal humiliation, and extreme vilification at the hands of the news media. I can only urge the people of America to take into account what I have to say here when it comes to making up their minds about me. While others have dithered, I acted, and for that, it's hard to apologize.

However, because my lawyer says I should, I would also like to take this opportunity to personally express regret to each and every injured passenger (Attachments 20–670), even if they don't necessarily deserve it, and lastly, try to get a message to my wife, Betty, since the phone is always busy and for some reason my letters (Attachments 671–819) have all been returned unopened. To Betty I say: I love you, honey, and I know we'll beat this.

Finally, a word of caution to other economists. As I was running from the police pursuit as fast as my flippered feet would allow, their shouts of “get the FUCK DOWN you GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKER!” ringing in my ears as the shots fired just over my head whistled past, I remembered something I'd learned in Economics 101, something that maybe I'd forgotten, but something I hope all economists will forever keep in mind from now on. While economics may be the most beautiful, the most wondrous, of our
theoretical
sciences, it is important to remember that the application of any theory, no matter how sound its base, can be considerably more complex than one might have thought.

Ruthie saw them first. She shaded her eyes with a hand and pointed at a group kicking up dust along the drive. Capes flapped behind as they walked, and each one of them clutched a wire notebook and pen. “Shit damn,” Ruthie said to Roy. “Looks like we got poets.”

The leader, pale and pointy-nosed, scooped up a handful of dirt and breathed it in deeply before dumping it inside the folds of his cape. “Show us your world; there is poetry here,” he said as the others muttered and surrounded Ruthie, gauging her thighs.

“Like oak,” one said.

“No, granite,” offered another, and it looked like there was going to be a dust-up over which word was right, until one got too close and Ruthie slapped a grabbing hand from the hem of her dress.

“Well, Roy, I guess you should show 'em what they're after,” she said.

The poets' capes gently swayed, windless and limp, as they stalked the new John Deere. One frowned as he picked at the hard enamel paint while others climbed into the cab and shuddered from the blare of Hank Jr. on the CD player. Roy showed them the cool ease of the power steering, the air-conditioning, and the fully electronic, adjustable seat. When Roy cranked the engine, the poets scattered from the pistons' howl.

“Bunch o' hens,” Roy spat. He thought for a moment that he might've gotten rid of those poets, but as he headed back toward the house, he heard the murmur of their capes as they regrouped behind him.

Ruthie sat them around the kitchen for some of her countywide-famous black-raspberry tarts and naturally sweetened ice tea, but there was nary a nibble or sip, and it looked for a while like those poets were about ready to move on until one of them spied the weathered planks of the old barn.

“Over there!” he shouted.

As they ran toward the barn they bellowed, “Show us the cracked hide of old mule straps and the blunted blade of the once-keen plow! Show us the toil and the drought, the struggle against soil! Show us poetry!” Ruthie looked at Roy and Roy looked at Ruthie and they both shrugged, but they were glad for their once again empty kitchen, and so they let the poets pore over those rusty things.

After a couple months some left, notebooks bulging, but still more came seeking their muse. They were, for sure, a nuisance. Ruthie and Roy considered their alternatives: a good herbicide, the National Guard, or some local toughs brought round after one too many, maybe, but nothing seemed quite right until one night, Ruthie and Roy had this conversation:

“Roy?”

“Yeah?”

“You remember our dream, Roy?”

“Oh yeah.”

“The Princess Royal Ultra Luxury Cruise Line, twelve days and eleven nights, nights that are preceded by dazzling sunsets and end with us exhausted from dancing, drinking, and good cheer. You remember that, right, Roy?”

“Twenty-four-hour-a-day cabin boys named Hector or Lars, honey.”

“You remember what it said the poolside drinks tasted like, Roy?”

“I believe it was nectar. Sun-drenched nectar, topped with honey, honey.”

At this point Ruthie paused for a moment as she ran her hand down Roy's arm and made every single hair on his whole body stand straight up. Roy marveled at how Ruthie could do that even after their many years of marriage.

“We're farmers, aren't we, Roy?”

“Oh yeah, we're farmers all right.”

“And the beans, Roy?”

“Bad year for beans, Ruthie.”

Ruthie smiled, smiled more seductively than you might imagine, and said, “Well, I know something we got too much of, Roy.” And that night Roy surely did enjoy Ruthie's iron thighs.

They had acres of poets buried navel deep. Rows and rows of them always stocked with notebooks and pens and kept fat on fried chicken, squash, whole milk, and Mars bars. Nights, while Ruthie and Roy dreamed of Caribbean vistas, those poets slept, covered with their capes.

But the first crop was no good—bad enjambment, thoughtless stanza breaks, and clichés crept across them like blight—and Roy and Ruthie were about to give up on poets as a problem they could not crack, and with it their lifelong dream of cruising the Caribbean, but then they had another conversation:

“Roy?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“You remember what Wittgenstein used to say, Roy?”

“Seems to me he said a lot of things.”

“What I'm thinking of is this particular thing, and you stop me if I'm wrong, Roy: ‘The riddle does not exist. If a question can be put at all, then it can also be answered.'”

“You're not wrong, honey. Now why don't you stop fiddling with that poetry nonsense and come over here so we can share our love?”

And that night Ruthie did as she was asked, gladly.

So they switched the poets to a diet of citrus fruits, bean sprouts, the occasional organ meat or lean veal cutlet with a dry, white sherry for a nightcap, and soon enough the yield started getting better.

Roy gathered the sheets of paper from the fields and rubbed Ruthie's shoulders as she typed them up, polished the metaphors and fixed some other rough spots:

“You remember what else Wittgenstein said, Roy?”

“Are you thinking of, ‘Everything that can be said can be said clearly,' honey?”

“I am, Roy.”

“I clearly love you, my sweet, sweet Ruthie Ann,” Roy said.

And soon enough they had a bumper crop and a real New York agent named Silverberg, and the critics almost tripped over their tongues, they were so fat with praise. Just last week, Silverberg gave Ruthie and Roy the word that they'd won an honest-to-goodness Pulitzer Prize. A Pulitzer Prize! A Pulitzer Prize, which even Roy and Ruthie know is a pretty big deal. So Ruthie went off cape-shopping to prepare for a full twelve days and eleven nights of leaving all cares behind, while Roy, Roy is checking with Ted from next door to see if he'll take a few stray sonnets as pay to look after the fields while Roy and Ruthie cruise.

And while Ted believes in being neighborly, he's still thinking that he'll have to hold out for a suite of sestinas, perhaps about the rain and how it sounds when it strikes the roofs of farmhouses, old tin barns, or waving blades of field grass.