6th TICKET - NEW MOURNING

The 9/11 journal entry remained empty. My investigation into her disappearance stopped. I returned to the world where real and horrible things were taking place.

Before I knew it I was on the first available flight to New York. And right into the heart of tragedy. I was working for a fancy national magazine at the time called Pulsus, Latin for pulse. But because there was a Pulse magazine already in publication, a medical journal I believe, we went with the Latin version. Pulsus, at first glance, was a left leaning rag that seemed to be against Conservative Thinking, Republican Politics and Capitalism. Richard Nixon was Public Enemy Numero Uno, Gerald Ford was called Eagle Scout and always referred to as “Eagle Scout, Gerald Ford” Instead of President, Gerald Ford. Ronald Wilson Reagan was referred to as, “Hey Mister Wilson.” Dennis the Menace’s crabby next door neighbor. George Bush Sr. was referred to as “Turkey” because he started the Turkey Pardon tradition at the White House. Bush Jr. was, “Diwali” since he was the first President to celebrate Diwali. Apart from the Presidential nicknames, Pulsus delivered straight journalism and tried not to take sides. But where Presidents were concerned no real names were allowed. Nicks only. So my lead off statement: Diwali climbs through the rubble of the WTC. “Freedom itself was attacked this morning by a faceless coward, and freedom will be defended.”

I believed it was time to put the nicknames aside for at least one issue and fall inline with the pro-American feeling sweeping the country. Editors said no.

In Manhattan I saw men and women holding pictures of loved ones. Wives, husbands hoping against hope they would find a spouse unharmed. Children searching for parents. Crying and anguish in every direction. It was almost too much. At first I thought I could relate, I too had lost a loved one but after several days on the street what I had been through couldn’t compare to this. 92 until 2001 I held onto hope that Melissa would come back or that her remains would be found. That I would have closure. I knew some of these New Yorker’s would never find peace or closure. This was the first day of the rest of their lives.

When I got back to my hotel room after several days work I no longer prayed that I would dream of Melissa or solve the mystery of her disappearance. In fact I forgot about her while I was in NYC. I was totally immersed in the business of reporting, writing and calling stories into my editors in Atlanta.

The Atlanta crew did spell checks, word counts, fact checking, editing and worked to tighten up each article. From 9/11/2001 – 1/1/2002 while I was in New York they were on call 24/7. Reporting on the events surrounding the World Trade Center bombing was the biggest adrenaline rush I had ever experienced. It’s ironic to say this but it took me from a state of perpetual mourning and placed me firmly back among the living.

Almost.

I got back to Miami and with great enthusiasm started to redecorate my condo. I had the master bedroom painted hunter green, matching green carpet. Had black plantation shutters installed on the window to block the morning light, potted palms on either side of the bed, a wall mounted TV and a Bose sound system. There was also the addition of a state of the art mattress with pillow top. I made these changes because I thought, for the first time since 92, that if the opportunity presented itself I was ready to share this room, my entire condo in fact, with the right woman. Jimmy was on the market.

Nothing happened.

I dated but found myself making comparisons to Melissa. Not fair to the new girl, not fair to me. If a woman went out with me a few times and wasn’t interested I did nothing to keep her interested. Let her go there will always be another. And for a time there were plenty of girls, women, crazy-ass swamp dwellers and super secret agents with very specific skill sets. All of whom appreciated the thousand thread count sheets. But one by one they disappeared. I was almost relived when they left. I started writing a book about my memories with Mel but it was heartbreaking work. The first chapter, Dancing With Ghosts, had me in tears by the the time I finished. I sent it to my agent, Dru Champlain, who called me back and told me it was disgusting piece of work and if I was going to continue to ‘slow-bleed’ my emotions over every page I’d be better off working for a greeting card company. A really bad greeting card company. So, with the wind out of my sails, I put the pages away and tried to forget about them.

A week later, Dru called back. “Hey man, my daughter read your crap and loves it. You know what she said?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“She said that if a handsome guy like you wanted to own, I repeat own, I’m making air quotes around the word own, own her, then she’s all in. Seriously.”

“How old’s your daughter, Dru?”

“I don’t know, I don’t keep track of that stuff. Luce, Lucy, how old is Katie?”

I can hear, Lucy yelling in the background. “Fifteen. She’s fifteen who wants to know?”

“Jimmy Mallam.”

“Oh tell him to come over for dinner next week.”

“He can’t he lives in Miami now. You want to come for dinner next week, Jim? We’d love to have you.”

Lucy get’s on an extension in another part of the house. “Jimmy why can’t you come for dinner next Sunday? You can fly up here, stay with us for the weekend. We’re having lobster, steak, corn on the cob you’ll love it. Dru’s grilling everything. You know he’s the best. Just like you, Jimmy.”

“Lucy stop flirting with my client.”

Lucy starts hollering into the phone. “Shut up Jimmy, I mean Dru, sorry Jimmy didn’t mean to mix you two up.”

“Quite alright.” I said.

“Will you give it a rest, Luce.” Dru's almost pleading.

“Are you coming, Jimmy? Ain’t taking no for an answer.”

“Of course, I’ll come up. No problem.”

“Ok bye.” And just like that she hangs up.

“Dru I didn’t write that for a fifteen year old to read.”

“Jimmy, it’s PG at best. Plus Katie is very advanced for her age. Two grades ahead.”

“It’s the most provocative thing I’ve ever written.”

“And that’s why your still single.”

“Sometimes I regret telling you things.” I said.

“Believe me your a Boy Scout compared to some of these people I represent. I reread the story after, Katie highly recommended it, and noticed she had circled Deep State. What’s the Deep State Jim?”

“It’s a term that’s been around since the 50’s. No secret. It’s a combination of military and civilian leaders that attempt to run things, influence governments.”

“Sounds spooky.”

“Yeah I guess maybe it is. Hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Well she indicates, and Katie circled this as well, that Red Ball Energy is involved in Illegal oil drilling operations. And they’re somehow in bed with these deep state characters.”

“This was information that was exchanged as she was packing to go to Alaska where this rig was located.”

“The one that was attacked. What was the result of her visit?” Asked Dru. “What did she tell you when you met up with her again?”

“I never saw her again, Dru”

“What? Oh that's right, I'm sorry, Jimmy. My bad."

“November 9th 1992 she packed a bag and around nine or ten that evening she got into a car that took her to the airport and out of my life forever.”

“Hey, I’m sorry, man. Jimmy I didn’t mean to dig into old wounds.”

“Did you read to the end of the story where I stated that I knew she was gone? Dru, really, you never read the whole thing did you?”

“Forget about that for a second, my concern is you. Are you alright, is there anything I can do?” Asked Dru. "I know a therapist."

I love it when people who have no possible way of solving a problem ask if they can help. Such an empty gesture. “If you can tell me where she is I’d appreciate it.”

Dru laughed. Your a real sketch, Jimmy. Seriously after reading this I think you have the seeds for a modern spy novel.”

“To me it’s a love story.”

Eventually I left Florida parted ways with Pulsus and took assignments almost exclusively overseas, mainly the Middle East. I knew the people, knew the terrain, the complex issues they faced. In Iraq and Afghanistan most of the population was war weary. The US was Seven years in Iraq, almost twenty in Afghanistan. A large part of the American population thinks these people wake up chanting death to America; well yeah, maybe the ones who aren’t starving to death.

I’ve written more articles than I can count, I don’t even keep them anymore. As a young reporter I kept everything even the obits. But when you report the same news over and over you just stop caring. I’ve written four books that have done fairly well over the years, at least two are still in print. But never received the celebrity status of a Hunter Thompson, Bob Woodward or my favorite, Pete Hamill. I’m an old scribe whose been too busy for a wife, nobody to kiss goodnight and no children to to tell stories to. My passport is my autobiography.

Before I circle back to the mystery surrounding the love of my life or my students I will type out an experience I had at the beginning of the war.

I was embedded with a group of GI’s who were looking for a certain man wanted for terrorism. They knocked down a door and rushed inside to see a woman giving birth, her hapless husband standing by doing nothing and an eight year old girl standing across the room with a toy doctor’s kit in her hand. The intelligence must have been good because the unit had two army nurses, both females, both were midwives. The soldiers grabbed the husband and dragged him into a side room for an interrogation. That got ugly fast. The wife was screaming in pain, even after the nurses gave her the few pain killers. “It’s coming, It’s coming,” one of the nurses called out. About then the father starts screaming in pain. The kid looks over and asks in Arabic if daddy is having a baby too. The translator assigned to the nurses repeats what the kid says and both start laughing hysterically. Then this little girl takes out the toy stethoscope and plugs her ears. The wisdom of children. The baby is born, the nurses wrap the kid up in blankets and hand him to the mother. I can hear the father shouting in English, “Let me see my son, let me see my son.” He tries to run from the side room where he’s detained and one of the men raises a side arm and shoots him in the head. They pull him back in the room wrap him in blankets and carry his body out to a waiting vehicle. “C’mon we gotta go!” Screams the sergeant.”

“We haven’t cut the umbilical yet.” One of the nurses calls to the Sarge.

“Leave it. We got a mob down the street, word’s out. The fuse is lit; clock's ticking.”

The nurses scramble to pack up and still leave enough supplies so this woman can take of herself.

The interpreter and I are the last out and as I’m backing away this little girl looks at me, smiles and shoots me a peace sign.

TBC

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