Lapses of Memory = Literary License

Wonder of wonders, I heard from "Hoffman" about my previous post, "Brief Visit to Zaire". His memory was much better than mine. Here's the 'truer' story of our trip to Zaire. It doesn't make my earlier post any the less fun, however. I'll just change the label from non-fiction to fiction and all will be well.
We actually flew from Libreville, Gabon to Pt. Noire in the Congo first, and then our adventures started in trying to get from Pt. Noire to Cabinda, Angola. (The stay in Pt. Noire warrants a post of its own, I should tell you.)

Hoffman remembered that our flight from Libreville to Pt. Noire was an adventure in itself.

"...the plane we flew on was supposed to be Air Gabon flight but was a Lina Congo plane (not recommended by Corp Aviation) and had major mechanical problems at the gate. ... The mechanic who was working on it was in the cabin by the pilots' door when we took off. We weren't sure if he was there to fix anything in flight or if he was going to be personally accountable for any problem he didn't fix on the ground."

Hoffman also had a better recollection about our trip from Pt. Noire to Cabinda via Zaire:

"The flight from Pt. Noire was on Aero Servis, which was a commercial carrier that only did the local flights. It had regular flights to Cabinda was well as Muanda, Zaire.

"While we were in transit (I think we were still in Nigeria) the Cabinda airport was closed due to bomb incident. It was [Nigeria Finance Manager's] idea that we fly to Muanda [aka "Banana Base"]. He told us that he would have a [Company] helicopter waiting to pick us up and bring us to Malongo [aka Cabinda]. Well we landed in Muanda and no [Company] helicopter. So we started going through Customs which wasn't going well. I did have a Zaire visa but it was a single entry that had already been used. The local [Company] guy who came to get us was perplexed since we didn't have visas. He radioed to [the Country Manager] looking for direction. I remember this - hearing [his] voice on radio saying '...tell those guys that if they don't want to spend the night in a Zaire jail, they will get back on the plane and leave the country.' So we got back on plane not knowing what we were going to do since our Congo visas were no longer valid either.

"When we got back on the plane, we found out from the pilot that they were going to Cabinda, as the airport had reopened."

 He also remembered:

"It was definitely one of the more challenging trips. One thing I remember - you were sitting in front of me on the flight into Muanda and when you didn't see any helicopter on the ground waiting for us, you turned and gave me the dirtiest look."

And I did too!

So THAT'S the real story ... and, thank you, T.H.

A Brief Visit to Zaire

Deer in the headlights: that’s what I was.

It was an arduous trip, aided only by the fact that Hoffman had been a great traveling companion … up to that point. We’d flown San Francisco-Paris-Lagos, Nigeria, spent three days in Lagos that felt like a week, then flew to Libreville in Gabon. All was well: we were out of Nigeria.

We had spent the weekend in Libreville at an acceptable hotel near the airport and next to the ocean. We’d walked a couple miles into town and back. Along the way we had gotten more than a little drunk on sneaky-strong local beer. We ate crocodile for dinner at the hotel. We got a reasonable night’s sleep. The next day both of us battled dysentery, thanks to some scrambled eggs from the hotel’s (not very steamy) steam table breakfast. Even that nasty problem resolved itself by mid-afternoon, but we were in bed early that night anyway. We had more traveling to do.

We were to leave the next morning via a chartered, twin-engine turbo-prop plane toward our company’s oilfield in Cabinda, Angola. It was a short flight on a regular route for the charter crew. Weather seemed cooperative -- never a certainty in the tropics.

In the morning we took a taxi to the airport. I did my usual pat-down before leaving: Is the passport in my buttoned pocket where it belongs? Is my Angolan visa application paperwork in my other pocket? Is my billfold in my hip pocket? Yes, yes, and yes. In a few minutes: pat-pat-pat, check again.

Not knowing how long the exit process would take, we arrived at the airport three hours early. Naturally we passed through immigration, customs and security without a major problem despite our not speaking French. That meant we hung out in the airport for two hours before we finally got on the plane with a dozen or so other people heading to Cabinda.

We take off and head south. I watch the ocean below us for a while then jungle as we cross back over the coast. In the air for 30 minutes, a buzz begins in the plane. Someone in front says, “Trouble.” – never a word you want to hear in West Africa. Word filters back to us that the Cabinda airstrip is under mortar attack by the Angolan rebels. We circle. We run low on fuel. We need to land. Nearest strip: “Banana Base” in Zaire … now called Democratic Republic of the Congo.

We’re told we have no problem: land at Banana Base, get some fuel, head back to Libreville or maybe down to Luanda, Angola.

The deer’s ears twitch. It shuffles its feet. Is that the sound of a car in the distance? Are those lights?

We circle a dirt airstrip near the coast then land. It’s hot, it’s humid. There’s no air conditioning on board. I start to sweat. We taxi out and stop near a tin-roofed wooden shack at one end of the landing strip. It’s the only building in sight. Four scowling, heavily armed men in fatigues swagger slowly out towards the aircraft.

The pilot says, “Everyone out. Show your passports and visas to the officials as you exit”.

I look at Hoffman and ask, “We need a visa?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have one for Zaire?”

“Yes.”

I ask, “Why didn’t you tell me to get one before we left the US?”

“I didn’t know we were stopping here.”

“Then why’d you get one?”

Hoffman: “Just to be safe.”

I say, “Thanks a lot.” Well, actually what I said was much more colorful. Hoffman’s rating as my traveling companion dropped to zero, or slightly lower.

The deer clearly sees the car now. The headlights are bright, coming fast. The deer’s eyes are the size of pie plates as it stands statue-like, frozen in the road.

Hoffman got out first, passport (and visa) checked, waved on toward shack.

I’m out next -- passport handed to a gaunt soldier with an AK47 slung over his shoulder. He has tribal scars on both cheeks. He smells like smoke and sweat. First there’s a squinty-eyed glare at the passport then at my face. Hard, calloused fingers flip one-by-one through my passport pages. Then a similar flip from back to front. Dark, angry eyes in a jet black face turn to me. The soldier growls something – French?

I give him a blank, doe-eyed stare.

The soldier steps closer, barks more words – louder. He's missing a couple teeth.

Another silent stare from me. Sweat soaks through my shirt. Sweat soaks through my khaki Dockers and makes an I-wet-my-pants crotch stain.

Still louder words. He waves my passport in my face then slaps the passport into his palm. One of the other soldiers takes his gun off his shoulder and joins the first.

A Representative from my company who has been watching the proceedings from a safe distance sidles over, holding his walkie-talkie. He tells me, “He wants your visa.”

“I don’t have a Zaire visa.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t expect to get diverted to Zaire.”

“Hmm. That’s not good. You’re in Zaire, you know.”

The deer shifts from foot to foot. Its flanks quiver. It looks for an escape route. There is none. It lowers its head submissively.

I ask, “So, now what?”

Representative: “I don’t know. That’s really not good. You’re sure you don’t have a visa.”

I say, “Believe me, if I did, do you think I’d be hiding it?”

The deer thinks: Will someone PLEASE stop this? I’m just a helpless deer. Don’t let that car hit me.

The Rep turns away from me and begins talking in French with the soldiers. The Rep doesn’t look directly at them – no eye contact. No one is smiling. The Rep makes a slight bow to the soldiers and wanders some distance off, his radio pressed to his ear. His free arm waves in my direction. Head shakes … no. More arm waving. He walks back toward me.

The deer thinks: Please, let the car stop.

As the Rep gets within a step or two of me I hear over his walkie-talkie: “He’s going to get his ass thrown in jail, and I’m not going to bail him out.”

Rep says: “That’s the Company Country Manager. He’s not happy.”

Rep re-opens negotiation with the soldiers. Other passengers pass through the document check and head to the potentially air conditioned, certainly shady, shack. I’m left cooling, no, frying my heels in the sun.

Rep asks me, “How much money you got?”

I answer, “Not much: couple of hundred US maybe.”

“They’re saying the fine for entering illegally is $1000.”

“Now what?” I ask.

“I don’t know. This is really not good.”

The headlights are blinding. The deer’s eyes begin to close, anticipating the impact, imagining becoming airborne and crashing through the windshield. Not even the scant comfort of squealing tires as someone tries to stop.

 “… And I’m not going to bail him out.” keeps playing through my mind like a bad song.

And then I see people filing out of the shack and heading toward the plane. The mortar attack on Cabinda has stopped and the airfield is mostly undamaged. We’re going to take off.

My passport is back in my hand then stuffed back in its pocket. I force my way into line to be the next person onto the plane. I flop into my seat near the window.

Hoffman, sits next to me and says, “Looked a little tense there for a second. Want a bottle of water?” His companion rating clawed itself back into the positive range. The door closes and the cabin becomes quite an efficient aluminum oven. The water is warm; I drain it in a gulp. I hear the engines start on one side and then the other.

In five minutes we’re airborne. In another ten were at 8000’ and the air is cool coming in the vents. I slowly return to a semblance of normal body temperature. My hands stop shaking. My clothes even start to dry. In 20 minutes we start our descent toward Cabinda.

The deer peers out at the road from the safety of the bushes – glad to be alive. Wait, is that another car?

I overhear someone say, “I wonder if they’ve cleared the minefield yet.”

End Of His Obsession

Mitchell dumps the last of the potato chip crumbs straight out of the bag and into his mouth, just as the game’s computer voice says, “It’s your turn.”

Mitchell sighs, “Fold … again” as he moves the mouse to click the appropriate button. Glancing at the bottom right corner of the screen he sees “3:32 AM”. He hesitates then clicks the “Sit Out” button as well.

He thinks: Bathroom break then one more hand. Work day tomorrow, well, today actually.

He tosses the potato chip bag onto the floor and kicks an empty Fiji water bottle out of the way as he walks out of the den. He turns left to the bathroom and pushes open the door. He stands using the toilet and looks in the bowl. He wrinkles his nose.

I’ll clean up tomorrow. Take the trash out too. Tomorrow for sure.

Flipping light switches along the way he walks stocking-footed into the kitchen. He steps around a dead cockroach lying legs up on the tile floor and pulls the last bottle of fruit juice from the refrigerator.

I’ll shop tomorrow too. Credit card should stand up to a few groceries.

Throwing the plastic bottle cap into the sink, he heads back to the den. The computer screen’s glow lights his way the last few feet.

Bad night. I can’t play my last hand with that little bit of cash.

Sitting in front of the computer again, he clicks the “More Chips” button on the screen and begins to step through the process of pulling money from his credit card. An “Awaiting Authorization” pop-up window with an ad for a Canadian pharmacy appears on his screen. Then the “Awaiting” window turns into a red flashing “Authorization Denied.”

Frowning, he clicks “Retry” and walks through the process again, this time selecting half the original amount he asked for. The computer again responds, “Authorization Denied.”

“What the fuck?” he asks the screen. He tries again -- just $50 this time.

“Authorization Denied.”

He stands up, sits back down, and stands up again, rubbing his eyes with the palms of both hands. He walks into the bedroom, snatches his billfold off the dresser, and heads back toward the den. Sitting again in front of the computer he pulls a credit card from his wallet. Holding the card at arms length under the desk lamp, he squints at it.

Expired.

He tosses it toward the waste basket. He pulls a handful of cards from the wallet and starts to shuffle through them.

Driver’s License. Insurance card. Business cards. Credit card … for gasoline - no help. ATM card … no help - no money in the account until payday. Citibank! There it is.

He holds the card with two fingers as though it’s hot.

I get my paycheck in a couple days. I’ll only take that much out tonight and I can put it back before she notices. She left it with me after all. She said to use it if I needed it for emergencies. I can cover it. She’ll never notice.

Besides, Elaine owes it to me. Always blaming me for her mistakes and then having the nerve to say SHE’S moving out. She’s probably got another man on the side anyway. So what if I relax playing poker. What’s it to her? I work hard. She did nothing around here. I take care of this place and I work too.

He clicks the “Retry” button, clears the automatically entered credit card information, and types in the new number and expiration date. He hits “Continue.”

 “Authorization Failed: Invalid Account Holder Name.”

He thinks: Of course, Elaine’s name, not mine anymore.

He corrects the information, cursing under his breath when the system forces him to enter the card number again. He clicks “Continue”.

Authorizing … Authorized … Enter Bankroll Amount … Yes!

His fingers pause above the keys.

Maybe I need a bigger bankroll to get back even for the night, even if my luck does change. She must have a big limit on this. I wonder how big. I wonder if the penny-pincher knocked the limit down just to keep me from using it.

$10,000. That’s the limit we had before she moved out. I can always cash it out if I don’t use it tonight. I’ll put it back. My check comes in a couple days. And besides, she owes me.

He types quickly and then clicks “Next”. The machine immediately responds: “Confirm $10,000 from account … .” Grinning, he slaps the mouse with his whole hand to trigger the “Confirm” button. The computer prompts: “Return to game?”

“Yes,” he says aloud as he clicks the button on the screen.

The computer responds with its manicured voice, “Blinds, please. Good luck.”

He leans forward in his chair. Two cards appear at the bottom of his screen.

A pair of jacks! Now that’s what I’m talking about. It’s about time I got some cards.

The game says, “It’s your bet.” His avatar on the screen lights up. He rubs his hands together.

Let’s bully a few folks. $1000.

That’s a bigger bet than anyone’s made all night. Everyone folds around to the player on his right.

Call! You think you got me, chump? Not tonight, not tonight. I can wait you out tonight. I got the skill and tonight I got the bankroll.

The player to his right calls.

All right!

With the first round of betting complete, the computer now deals three community cards face up on the screen – the Flop. All three are small cards – 2, 6, 9 -- three different suits.

Here I come. $1000 more.

The player on his right calls again.

Yum, yum. Come to papa.

The computer deals another card – the Turn: a queen.

Darn. Well you don’t know whether that helped me or not. Let’s see how confident you are. $4000, that’s almost the size of the pot. Oh, dude. I’m sorry did that put you ‘all in’. Well, OK, give me that $3120 you got in front of you.

The player to his right hesitates.

I hate slow players. Come on, bet, you jerk. I got you.

The computer voice says, “All In.”

Yes. That’s what we want.

The computer shows the players his two jacks, and shows his opponent’s cards: queen – two.

No! How did you bet $1000 with a queen-two then $1000 more with a freakin’ pair of deuces? You idiot. And now you sit there with your two pair on the Turn. I need a jack. Gimme a jack, damnit.

The computer shows the last card – the River: a jack.

“Three of a kind!” he yells.

Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Oh, sorry. Is all your money gone, you stupid jerk. You shouldn’t have bet in the first place. You got what you deserved, you worthless piece of … whatever. Oh, yeah.

The money flows his way on the screen with a well-simulated sound of Vegas casino chips on felt.

Five thousand dollars on one hand. Tonight is my night.

He takes a sip from the bottle of juice and peers at the screen. His new hand is showing already: an ace and king.

          Oh, yeah!

He bets strongly and wins again, forcing out another player by taking all his money. He smiles and slaps the desk.

Oh, baby. I’m on a roll, sweetheart. Come on.

He wins hand after hand for nearly an hour before finally losing a pot. From then on he wins several big pots and loses some smaller ones. People come and go from the table. His bankroll grows. He’s playing on adrenaline. The sun has been up for hours. It cuts though the gathering clouds and pierces the openings of the plantation shutters on the window. He’s heard the garbage truck come and go and heard the kids yelling as they walked to school. He never bothered to call in sick for work. He’d only gotten up twice to go to the bathroom down the hall. He hated to do it, fearing it could change his luck. But, no, his luck stayed and his winnings kept growing.

He settles in to play again. On the next hand he gets king and queen of hearts.

OK. OK. Not bad. Let’s see what a big bet makes people do.

The betting rolls around to him and he raises to $5000. Several people call his bet, then a player with the screen name URMine raises to $10,000.

This guy’s been a pain in my ass ever since he sat down. He plays pretty loose. I bet he’s got nothing.

When the bet comes to him, Mitchell calls URMine’s bet. Two other people call as well.

The Flop comes: jack of hearts, king of spades, ace of spades.

Holy Cow, what a Flop. I’ve got middle pair with the kings. I also see a possible straight and a flush. I’ve got the cash, you suckers. You’re not pushing me out of this pot tonight.

A few small bets come in until the bet passes around to URMine, who raises to $20,000.

Oh, heck. What’s this guy got? Has he got two pair, say king-ace? Or maybe he’s hoping for a straight or flush just like me. Does he have two spades? But how does he know I don’t have spades too? I’m cash up and I WANT this guy. I want to send him home. No, wait: I bet all he’s got is an ace. I bet he’s just raising on the ace. The high pair: a pair of aces between him and the board. Not good enough, buddy.

He moves the cursor over the “Call” button. His finger shakes as he taps the mouse. Now he has $30,000 in the pot. It’s easily the biggest pot of the night. Everyone else folds. He’s playing heads-up against URMine.

The Turn card is ace of hearts.

Oh, yeah! Now I’ve got a nice two pair and still a chance at my straight or flush. I just need one more heart. Just one heart, baby, come on.

As though to heighten the tension, lightning flashes outside followed immediately by a crash of thunder. Rain starts pounding against the window. His gray cat jumps onto the desk and head-butts his arm, alarmed by the storm. “Not now.” Mitchell hisses and forearms the cat onto the floor.

URMine is still thinking about his next bet.

Come on, you jerk. You’ve been playing slow all night. Make up your mind, make up your mind.

URMine bets $65,000. Mitchell’s chin sinks to his chest. He squeezes his eyes closed and pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

Aw, hell, fuck. He’s got a queen-ten and is betting his straight. Oh, no, worse: he’s got king-ace and just made his full house. Or, shit, he could have two aces in the hole and just hit four of a kind. I have to fold. I have to fold.

Of course, he could just have an ace for three of a kind. Or maybe just a couple spades and is hoping for a spade on the River. Then our chances are the same. I need a heart; he needs a spade. What’s he on?

He rubs his face with both hands and looks up at the screen to see a clock counting down from 30 seconds appear next to his avatar. A chat text from URMine arrives on the right side of his screen: “I’ve got the nuts, there sweetie. Give it up.”

No way, you arrogant jerk. You’re telling me you have two aces in your hand plus the two on the board. That’s the highest hand with these cards. You just tipped your bluff, you idiot. You got nothin’.

He slides the cursor over the “Call” button and slaps the mouse hard enough to make it jump on the desk. He’s bet $95,000 on two pair. He has less than $1000 left in front of him. He looks again at what he’s just done, runs his hand through his hair and licks his lips.

I need a heart. Oh, dear god, give me a heart. I’ll never gamble again. I’ll give half my winnings to charity. Please, god, let me win this. Please let me beat this moron. Please.

He picks up the long forgotten juice bottle and tips his head straight back to suck out the last stale drops. The cat again sits on the desk beside him, looking at his face. He scratches the cat between the ears. The computer says, “Last Card”.

“A Fucking HEART,” he screams at the screen shaking his fist.

The virtual card on the screen flips. The River card is the ten of hearts.

“My flush!” he yells standing up. Then his eyes become wide.

Ten – jack of hearts on the board, queen – king of hearts in my hand, and ace of hearts on the board. Ten-jack-queen-king-ace. All hearts.

He sits down again. His finger leaves filmy prints on the computer screen as he points to each card in turn.

Ten-jack-queen-king-ace. All hearts. That’s a Royal Flush: the highest hand in poker. I can’t lose. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. I’ve got him. I’ve got him. And my money worries are over. I’ll make $100,000 on this one hand.

He stands up yet again and takes a step back as another chat message comes in from URMine: “I told you to fold, Mitchell. I know that’s my money you’re playing with. Did you think I’d let you have that credit card without keeping tabs on it? I’ve got the cards, Mitchell. You’re done playing poker. I know you’re bluffing.”

He puts his hands on the edge of the desk and leans forward toward the screen in disbelief.

Elaine? Are you URMine? Is that you that has been playing this whole time?  Impossible. When did you start playing poker? And how did you get to be so good?

Another chat message arrives from URMine: “I had the credit card account configured to send text alerts to my phone when someone uses the card. I knew you couldn’t resist. And now I’ve got you. You’re going to be broke and no way out. I’m going to prosecute you for fraud, Mitchell. You are mine."

And with that he sees URMine go “All In” with $5000. It’s more than Mitchell has. If he bets and loses, he’ll lose it all. And then it hits him:

So what if it is Elaine? So what if it is my wife? So what? I CAN’T LOSE!

“Oh, no, Elaine. You are MINE,” he yells at the screen.

He sits down again, the cat next to him on the desk. He grabs the mouse and runs the cursor towards the “Call” button. Just as he moves the mouse, a blinding flash of lightning and a ripping crack of thunder rattle the house. The startled cat jumps forward and lands on his hand holding the mouse. The cursor skids an inch to the left and, as it does, the cat’s claws sink into his hand. His fingers clench and click the mouse key. The cursor sits over the “Fold” button.

The lights flicker and begin to fade out. The storm has knocked out the power. The last thing Mitchell sees on the screen is his mound of chips slowly flowing towards URMine’s four aces.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walter smiled as he read the news article online two days later. He and Elaine would be happy now with Mitchell truly out of the way. Walter's plan had worked so much better than he’d intended. He’d only meant to get Mitchell in trouble with the law. That’s why Walter had gone online and set up Elaine’s credit card to notify him when Mitchell used the card.

Mitchell was such an idiot. He’d totally believed that I was Elaine online. Why did Mitchell think Elaine knew how to play poker at all?

The whole thing could have gone so horribly wrong, and yet it all worked out so perfectly. What incredible luck: for Mitchell to pull the one hand that could beat my four aces and then to fold and let me win. Why did that fool fold the perfect hand?

And Elaine will never know that I had anything to do with it.

Walter leaned back in his chair in front of the computer and laced his fingers together behind his neck looking at the news article again. He never imagined Mitchell would commit suicide, though -- slitting his wrists with plastic shards from the smashed computer monitor. And, why had he first killed the cat by cramming a wireless mouse down its throat? Walter laughed inside.

Oh, well. Can’t worry about that, can we? So, I’ll just play a few more hands before Elaine gets home. I'll clean the house later.