“Ah shit, where is he?” Gus asks one of the men who is guarding the dark, empty beach.
“Over there, sir.”
Gus spits on the general principle of it, and trudges into the soft sand. Gus hates beaches. A beach is a place that Marines charge onto to die. Active duty Marines. Gus is retired. He’s got no business charging anywhere. And at this point in his life, he shouldn’t have to put up with things he doesn’t like. Especially beaches.
Gus is so old that most of his friends are dead. But the ones who aren’t, they just sit around. They get to be grumpy all in one spot. They get to complain about whatever they like. In fact, they’re so old, they get away with saying anything they want. Not Gus. He’s still in the harness. Still in the service of his country. He’s linked by history and affection to the world’s most powerful man, Excelsior.
Excelsior. Big friggin’ baby. And Gus is too old to be dealing with babies. He’s too old to measure his words. He’s just too old. But he’s one of the few people Excelsior listens to. Maybe the only one he trusts. So it falls to Gus. Gus is saddled with handling the big dope. But who will take over when Gus is gone? What will happen when Gus dies? Gus doesn’t like to think about dying. Especially not on a beach. So he spits again.
The light leaks onto the sand from the small beach town above. Gus makes out the silhouette of a man sitting, hunched over himself in the dunes. Gus can see that the man is shaking. Jesus Christ. Gus hopes he isn’t crying again. Gus can’t stand it when Excelsior cries.
People often marvel at how Excelsior hasn’t gotten any older with the passing years. Gus wonders why the big freak never became a man. Guess he didn’t have to. God only knows what the public would do if they ever found out how moody and insecure their mighty hero really is.
Gus stands next to Excelsior and looks out to sea. After a moment, Gus realizes that there is a severed arm lying on the sand next to Excelsior. Gus grunts and lights a cigarette. The flash from the lighter makes the wrinkles on his face seem deeper than Abraham Lincoln’s. After a long drag, Gus says, “Anybody see it?”
“Those things will kill you,” mumbles Excelsior.
“Yeah? Is that right? Is that what did him in?” Gus points at the severed arm with his cigarette.
“No, I did,” mumbles Excelsior
“What did you do?”
Excelsior looks up at Gus. His eyes are brimming with fresh tears. Gus tries not to sneer. “I ripped his arm off. I couldn’t save him, Gus. I couldn’t save any of them.”
Gus feels awful about his next question, but it’s his job. “Anybody get pictures of it?”
“Is that all you care about?”
“No, I care about a lot of things,” this is a lie. Gus really doesn’t really care about much anymore. As far as he is concerned the world can go to hell in a handbasket. Just so long as it’s quiet about it. Sure, Gus wants to do the right thing. For most of his life he has been fervently patriotic. He’s done more right and noble things than an ordinary person has even thought of. But, honestly, he just can’t bear the goddamned aggravation anymore. He takes a long drag on the cigarette and let’s the smoke out with the words, “So what’s it gonna take?”
Excelsior blinks twice, not sure what’s going on. “What?” Excelsior asks.
“What’s it gonna take this time? What’s it gonna take to get you up off your ass and back in the game?”
“Game? You think it was a game to those people on that plane?”
In fact, Gus does think it’s a game. It’s all a big game with rules that aren’t fair. In fact, the game is so unfair, Gus can’t even quit. But Gus knows it’s the wrong thing to say. So he lies. “No. I don’t think it was a game to them. I know their count. I’ve read their names. But I don’t give a damn about them. And neither do you. You know why? They’re dead. They’re of absolutely no use to me or anybody else. In fact, now they are just a giant pain in the ass. We’re gonna have to raise the plane from the bottom of the ocean, recover the flight recorders and comb the wreckage for remains. Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass it is to salvage a plane from those depths?”
“I’ll do it.”
“No you won’t either. That’s why there are dive teams. That’s why there are aeronautical boards. You gonna find out what went wrong with the plane or the pilot? You gonna redesign a jet engine? Rewrite a service manual? Retrain pilots?”
“No,” says Excelsior, as if he was a sullen teenager.
“That’s right, because you’re not any good at those things are you?”
“No.”
“You’ve never even been to college.”
“You wouldn’t let me go,” Excelsior says.
“You’re damn right. Because it’s not your job to be smart. It’s not my job to be smart. That’s what we got smart people for!” Gus is yelling. His words sound like they have been played on a barbed wire fiddle with a bastard file bow. His yell degenerates into a barely controllable cough. Excelsior feels pity.
“Gus, I screwed up.”
Gus might be old, but his will is steel. He shuts off the cough and says, “Yeah kid, it happens. Happens all the time. World’s an imperfect place.”
“It’s been happening to me a lot.”
“What can I tell you? You got streaks just like baseball players.”
“But I don’t like screwing up. I don’t like looking bad.”
“Well, nobody saw this one, so you’re not going to look bad.”
“Yeah but I know. I know what I did.”
“Then be A MAN! Tough it out. We all make choices. We all got regrets.” There is another coughing fit. Gus fights it down and continues, “But you live with it. You patch it up and move on.”
“But what about the next plane?”
Gus softens his tone. “Son, it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t build the plane, you didn’t fly the plane. And when it started to go down, you were the chance that came after their last chance. Now I can see you’re feeling mighty low about this, and I am sorry, but if you never tried, they’d be just as dead.”
“Maybe I should just stop trying.” Alarm bells go off in Gus’ head. This isn’t working. Gus’s whole job is to handle the big guy. Make sure he keeps trying. To this end, Gus is authorized to use whatever methods he see fit. Flattery, bribery, football metaphors, even appeals to reason – anything, just so long as it keeps the big guy in the game.
“You can’t stop trying.” Gus says, playing for time.
“Yeah, well what good does it do?”
“What good does it do? Son, you’re a symbol. A shining beacon of hope for all those ordinary people out there. Look up at that hill.” Gus gestures at the thousands of houses that dot landscape. “You’re a symbol to all of those people. You make them feel safe at night. And around the world, you’re a symbol of America’s greatness. You can’t quit boy. You can’t let all those people down, because, you’re, you’re…” Gus waits for it.
“Excelsior?” says Excelsior.
“Who?” Gus shouts.
“Excelsior!”
“That’s right. You’re the big man. Bigger than this. Hell, you’re the big man so those little people don’t have to be. Because they can’t be. So what are you gonna do?”
“I’m gonna walk it off?”
“You’re gonna suck it up!”
“I’m gonna take one for the team.”
“All of that. You’re gonna get right back on that horse. That big white horse. And you’re gonna ride off into the sunset. So that when the little people need you again, you’ll be there for them.”
“Yeah!”
“Hell yeah,” says Gus. Excelsior stands up. The breeze catches his cape. It floats free, exposing the logo on his chest, that strange device of heraldry from a bygone age. Excelsior is a hero again.
Mission accomplished, thinks Gus. “Now get your sorry ass off this beach so I can go home. This cold is killin’ my arthritis.”
“Sorry Gus. I really am. You you mean the –”
“Don’t be sorry.” Gus doesn’t want to listen to this sensitive guy bullshit. “Just, just get outta here. And,” Gus flicks his cigarette butt at the severed arm, “throw that thing into the middle of the ocean will ya?”
“But it’s somebody’s arm.”
“Not anymore, it’s an ex-somebody’s arm.”
Excelsior picks up the arm and flies out to sea with it. Gus watches him go. When he’s far enough away, Gus shakes his head. That freak is held together with spit and bailing wire, he thinks.
As Gus walks off the beach, he prays that he doesn’t live long enough to see Excelsior crack.