Several years ago a few of us useless idlers and motorcycle freaks attending a monthly luncheon for retired military blokes, were noisily discussing a scene from a nature program in which a group of photographers followed an elephant mother and her young offspring across the Namib Desert. The little one slowly wasted away and died right in front of the cameras … with an entire fucking camera crew watching, and doing nothing. We volubly agreed that in the same circumstances we would have gladly given up our water for the young one or for the mother so she could provide milk for her baby.

      Once the mental scheme was set, the evolving monthly discussions turned gradually away from, who’s buddy died lately, the crummy state of the union or lousy military retirement pay, to what new nature program exhibited animal abuse. We were intimately acquainted with the hollow argument that nature is harsh and unrelenting and that nature photographers elect to let nature take its course for reality’s sake. We all knew it was bullshit. Most of us had seen photographers set up still pictures of combat scenes and influence movies of the genre, sometimes to the lasting detriment of the participating soldiers and even their families.

      Over the months and perhaps two years of equivocation, I supposed everyone was waiting for everybody else to frame the future for them. Finally a wheel-chair ridden Charley “Gimp” Lindell asked, “Well, what the fuck are we going to do about it, just talk?” There was stone silence for at least forty five seconds during which no one wanted to look at anyone else. Some of us kept a senseless, defensive grin pasted on our faces, possibly because we’d not heard Gimp say those words before.

      Since there were only five of us remaining to irritate the waitress, there didn’t seem to be any way we could rationalize to effectively approach Charley’s admonition.However, Alfred “Fredo” Alvarez finally said, “Sheeit, man we could follow some of those weenies and make sure they treat the animals properly. What else we got to do?” Then there was another forty five second séance before those of us who wished Fredo had kept his mouth shut, could answer. Greenie Mitchell put on a disarming smile and opined that, “We could find out who’re making films in the Southwest and follow ‘em or at least watch ‘em from a distance, and maybe even film ‘em if they do bad shit to the animals.”

      * * *

      Me … I’m Jim Hanes. It’s pronounced Ha-nes, like heinous, not like the underwear, okay? The other perpetrator in our group was Leroy “Leo” Dykehouse. Yeah, Leo got some ribbing about that last name over his life and guess what; like the boy named “Sue”, he was one tough SOB. None of us settled anything that day though. It was as if we all suddenly developed leprosy or something. It took until the middle of the month before I got a call from Fredo Alvarez. We tip-toed around the subject for a couple of minutes, then Fredo asked, “Hey Daiwee, what ‘chew think about Greenie’s comments at the last meeting, man?”

      I foolishly said, “What comments?”

      Fredo laughed sarcastically and snorted, “You afraid to talk about that shit, Gringo?”