Evryone gettin' crazy

Desperation in the air

The storm made the trip and crashed the ship

We were all in deep despair

Ferdinand saw the evil

Knew from whence it came

The cursed love, the gods above, The ship consumed by flame

Helll is emmmmmmpty

And all the demons are here

Somewhere in the midst of one of Robert Plant's more orgasmic vocals, the bar door opened and a whiff of gasoline from a motorcycle that was obviously jetting way too rich punched me in the face. A man by the door lit a cigarette, and in the lighter's Aare, his facial features were sharp, hawklike. When I blinked, the man's face filled out, became chubby. To those who haven't had them, flashbacks are difficult to explain, especially when they're from combat, but for a moment in time, the sensory overload of rhythm and odor and harsh sounds pushed me out and away from Lucy and into a sweaty heart-pounding oblivion.

Lucy reined me in. "I didn't know Zeppelin had made it to the wilds of Montana."

It took me a second to get my bearings. "Oh, sure. We have the wheel now too."

She shrugged. "I figured your jukes would be chock-full o'Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.”

I looked at her. I'd been mad at Lucy. Growing up, I was closer to her than anyone, then she went off to college and lived her life and created a vacuum in mine and everything changed.

I began spinning out of control; I got in trouble at school, and by the time I enlisted, I'd been drinking and fighting for so long, I figured I might as well get paid for it. Of course, Mom and Dad begged me not to do it, but that just made me want to get away more. I knew it wasn't logical to blame any of this on Lucy, but I did anyway. I also wanted to tell her everything, like what had happened to me in Lebanon. But I couldn't talk about it. Not even to her.

"Bathroom," I said, standing. "Be right back."

Swaying at the urinal, I read for the five hundredth time the September 9, 1974, New York Daily News front page that someone had tacked on the wall years before. Although the headline read "Nixon Gets Full Pardon," most of the page was about my boss: "Evel Fails, Chutes into Canyon; He Is Unhurt in 600-Ft.

Drop." It was the story of Knievel's ill-fated but spectacular jump over Snake River Canyon in a rocket that looked like something Wile E. Coyote had ordered from the Acme Corporation.

That crazy stunt shared billing with a moment of actual historic import. I couldn't help smiling, thinking of that crazy daredevil.

Standing there looking at the photo of his broken rocket slowed everything down in my mind and calmed me, got me out of my fight-or-flight zone and gave me back some perspective. Evel Knievel! People couldn't get enough.

I'd joined his pit crew seven months before. Evel had seen me on a TV news segment about my so-called heroics in Lebanon, an urban battle and urban legend in which I'd taken part, and it included some stunts I'd pulled on the back of an old motor-cycle. The Pentagon was only too excited to sell to the American public via 60 Minutes its (redacted) version of my story to cloak the more important narrative of our disastrous mission and the larger problem of the dying American empire flailing and failing abroad.

If you're lookin' for trouble, Elvis sang from the jukebox out in the bar, you came to the right place. The King's words relaxed me.

After seeing the 60 Minutes segment, Evel had sent a message to me at the Bethesda Naval Hospital via the Montana grapevine to look him up if I ever made it to Butte. When I got out here, he was impressed with my work ethic and the way I handled a motorcycle; he hired me to work on V-twin engines and ride like I had nothing to lose. A world-famous celebrity was shining his affection on me, and I got to bask in it— for a while, anyway. He was a moody guy, and he was currently blaming me for his latest near-fatal crash, which placed me atop a short list of people he wanted to murder. I was hoping to make my way off that list and back to the light.

June 1977(8)