I received an invitation to a Fourth of July party that had been on hiatus for a while, though it had previously run for decades. Now that everyone’s kids are over 21, the liquor doesn’t need to be guarded every minute, and the event has essentially morphed into a reunion of the locals who grew up here. That was the best part
I had already decided to ditch by 11:00 PM, mostly because I knew I’d be “getting tired.” I also knew it was going to be hot as hell; daily temperatures had been hitting 100°F for days. You know that kind of heat—you step outside and get radiated from all sides. Then there’s that hazy, thick, sloppy air you have to “swim” through. I could even pick up a hint of PVC precursor chemicals. It wasn’t surprising, as I live near a chemical plant where high humidity can lift the fumes. Knowing I’d be sweating like a pig, I brought a terry cloth towel to drape over my neck.
Another issue: the property abuts a river and a wetland. The riverbank is a minefield of uneven roots and hidden mud-holes—a liability nightmare, really. But it serves a purpose: the fireworks go out over the swamp, where there’s no risk of starting a forest fire. I had to navigate it carefully, my left leg ready to seize up if I hit a fat root. I didn’t take a spill, but I had to be very deliberate about my footing.
My plan was simple: stay long enough for a beer or two, catch up with everyone, and watch the fireworks.
When I arrived, I saw all the young ones—no baldness, no white hair—and realized I didn’t know a single one of them. I started scanning for the “Q-Tip & Baldy Club” (my people, Qtip = white hair). I found them under a tent, hogging every available folding chair. I was introduced to a guy I hadn’t seen since ’84; we stared at each other for a solid 30 seconds, both having no clue who the other was. Finally, our friend said, “Ron, this is Barry Gilchrist.”
I immediately blurted out, “You! You were the one with the Shelby Mustang!” Back then, I used to watch him drive it, completely jealous of the “coolness” factor. I had to hand it to him; he’d restored that car in his garage over months and months. When he realized who I was, his jaw dropped. “You’re all WHITE!” he exclaimed. Then he called me by a nickname I hadn’t heard since 1979: “Conniver.” (That nickname relates to how I used to treat certain adults I hated back then—but I’ve already written a psychological profile on myself on another post). I looked at him and couldn’t believe how ruddy his face had become. It was a face of outdoor sun damage, lines, and decades of wear. This wasn’t the teenager I’d seen behind the wheel of that car. I guess it’s been a few years; neither of us had recognized the other at all. None of us are pretty anymore, either.
We spent the night catching up while watching the 20-somethings do keg handstands. One girl was carrying a giant fishbowl filled with some blue liquid and flashing LED lights, letting anyone drink from the multiple straws protruding from it. I assume it was a “mix-everything-together” concoction. The women in that group all looked perfect—and entirely untouchable given the massive age gap between us old-timers and them. They were skinny, with flat stomachs and dewy skin; they knew they were at their peak. Some had that confident, nightclub walk that made us old guys feel underage again. You could tell they knew it as they paraded by, trying to hide that their radar was on high, checking for our reactions. There’s that small, knowing smile they can’t help but display because it’s fun for them to ‘showcase.’ Good for them! You only get that chance when you’re young.
The fireworks were fun, as usual, and were nicely wired up. Getting splattered with horizontal, flaming phosphorus is no fun, but these all went vertical. After the show, I made my way to the Porta-Potty. Once inside, I thought, Shit, I’m hot, tired, sweaty, and another beer won't help. I’m heading out.
I left at 10:00 PM.
Back in the car, I turned the key to the electrical setting to check the temperature. “91°F at 10:00 PM. Are you kidding me?” I thought about turning back to rejoin the fun, feeling a twinge of guilt, but three seconds later, I nixed the idea, fired up the engine, and drove home. “You’re really getting old,” I told myself. “You don’t even have the stamina to stay.”
The next day, I talked to a few people on the phone about the party. Dan, who is older than me, asked, “Where did you park? It was so crowded I had to walk nearly a half-mile. As soon as I got there, I had to sit down. My feet were screaming!”
“When did you leave?” I asked.
“9:00 PM. I couldn’t stand anymore,” he said.
Then there was Pat, whom I’d met near the bandstand. He had been planted in a chair right in front of and just three feet from a fan. As we talked, he mentioned that the towel around my neck was a “smart idea” and wished he’d thought of it. He was one of those heavier guys who looked like he was about to explode if he didn’t sweat out all the pressure he was holding. I found out he’d left at 9:30 PM.
Finally, I heard that Mickey had left around 10:00 PM, because his back wouldn't stop bugging him.
I hadn’t seen any of them leave that night—it was a total wave of “Irish exits.” The only ones left standing were, of course, the young ones who could still handle keg handstands. Many years ago, we did that same thing. We’d be there until we saw the light in the east start to glow... 4:00 AM, time to go home. After hearing what the other oldsters had to say, I didn’t feel so bad about ditching early. So, instead of ruminating and regretting about not being able to keep up, I find out I landed right on the average.
***
This story is complete BS—it never happened. It is pure fiction. I never saw any Department of Defense maps, and the person involved passed away long ago, so don’t bother trying to ask him about it.
About seven years ago, Barn and I were sitting in his kitchen in Plymouth.
“I was stationed at NSA Bahrain, a major hub for U.S. Navy operations in the Middle East,” he said. “I was there many times, both active and retired. Iran is only 100 miles away across the water. You know how fast an Iranian missile crosses that distance? Two minutes, tops. When I wasn’t working, I’d be bartering with the locals in the gold and gem markets.”
“Could you speak Arabic?” I asked.
“Enough to barter!” he replied.
He told me about a gem dealer who would show him some low-quality rocks and try to overcharge him. Barn, who knew a thing or two about gems, would just wave him off and start to walk away. The dealer would start yelping, “Offendi! Offendi! Apologies!” and scramble to bring him back. “The guy sent his kid in the back to get the ‘good’ stuff, and then we could really haggle.”
He asked if I remembered the Iranian Revolution in 1979. I told him sure; it had dominated the news for months.
“I was sent to Bahrain about a year later,” he said.
“What did you do there?”
“War gaming, planning, staging—always the ‘what ifs.’ Nothing public, but we were looking toward the future.” He paused. “Wait here.”
He returned with a large binder and told me to move to the living room. I helped him shift the furniture as he insisted, “This thing is massive!”
He opened the binder and carefully unfolded the contents. Once spread across the floor, the map occupied a good part of it.
“So, what is it?” I asked.
“This is one of our tactical battle maps for responding to Iran; it covers the entire Persian Gulf,” he explained.
“Why do you have it in your house?”
I got a quick, sharp stare—the message was clear: shut up.
I couldn't decipher the map; it was dense with marks, symbols, and lines in red, yellow, and green, along with odd, multicolored dashed circles. It was ridiculously dense in hieroglyphic ‘signs.’ It looked well-used, as if it had been studied for years. I could only recognize the countries themselves.
Barn began to explain. “I’m going to tell you why it’s damn near impossible to defeat Iran in this region if we went ‘balls to the wall’ with them. It’s primarily due to the geography—something we could never change.”
He pointed to the map. “Look at Iran. Don’t pay attention to the small details. What stands out to you?”
“Their entire southern coastline borders the Gulf,” I said.
“Good!”
“I see mountain ranges all over and in the south, the Persian Gulf…”
“Yes!” he interrupted. “Look again at that mountain range along the coast.” I did. “Good. What does that tell you?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. You taught classes at the Naval War College, not me.”
He continued, “That’s the problem—the geography. The Gulf is tightly hemmed in on the northern side by those mountains overlooking the water. They own the high ground. In those mountains, there are thousands of small valleys and caves. It’s a bitch to survey every day to hunt for short-range missiles, and that’s all they need to fuck everything up in the Gulf and they know it.”
“Can’t you just shoot the missiles down?” I asked.
“Yeah, but due to the complexity of the region, we know we’d miss 45% of them. Our stuff is good but it’s not perfects. And you only need two to get through: smack two oil tankers and cut them in half.”
“Two?” I said.
“Yep. And then Lloyd’s of London, the insurer, will freak the fuck out. They’d lose their shirts covering such massive losses. To prevent that, they’d start pulling coverage on tankers in the Gulf by the dozen. Many of those ships hold $105 million worth of oil—you want to see that burning in the Gulf? They don’t. Without insurance, not a single tanker moves. The strait is closed.”
“So, what do you do?” I asked.
“You don’t. That’s what you do. You don’t go head-to-head with Iran. You can mess with them in low-scale conflicts, but you don't push them to the point where they break the glass, pull the lever, and shut the Gulf down. We’ve known they could do this for 40 years. It’s no surprise at all.”
He sat back. “Our Navy is powerful, but we cannot control every spot on earth with impunity. Some places are very, very dicey, like the Gulf. It’s one reason why we don’t dare put a carrier too close to Iran, within the range of one of their better missiles. They could fired ten of those at it, but they only need one to get through. We ran the probabilities on that...and it’s bye bye carrier. The risk is too high.”
“No options?”
“No real good ones,” he said. “We war-gamed the Persian Gulf hundreds of times. It’s a real bitch to win in there. And as for landing troops in Iran? You’d need a million, Iran is huge and it’s all mountainous… good luck!”
