Where's Walter? (Walter Cronkite, an American Voice)

When I heard Mr. Cronkite died, I wanted to write something terribly moving in his honor--something hopeful, beautiful, and inspiring.

I wanted to send a message to him on the airwaves, or I wanted to write my condolences on a prompt he could read from Heaven.

I wanted him to know that I read his voice as if it were a book I could curl up with in bed, as if it were typed on a page, by a type writer, and all our hearts were the letters on the keys; and the sounds of these keys, like teeth chattering on mettle, were: our thoughts, our worries, our doubts, our tears, our laughter, and our comfort.

I wanted to explain how Mr. Cronkite made sense out of the flurry of letters that fell from our ventricles like snowflakes in a blizzard. When we could not see our hand in front of our face, his voice reached out to us in our blindness.

That's what I wanted to write, but then I lost my narrative thread, leaving my car in midst of a snow storm, and I worried for three nights whether my thoughts about Mr. Cronkite would make sense to anyone other than me. He spoke in universal dialects; I speak in incomplete thoughts and mumbled fragments. I didn't know what to do, without Mr. Cronkite telling me "the way it is." After hearing he died, I struggled to know what came next in the story.

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That night, Billy, just back from Baghdad, puked on my couch. The vomit spilled out of his mouth like a helicopter toppling into the treetops of a Vietnam jungle. I would spend the next morning scrubbing the cushion like I was scrubbing the stains out of democracy and good intentions. I should have seen this coming. Billy reiterated to me several times, that despite his 250-pound frame, his tolerance just wasn't what it used to be. At dinner, he even grabbed my elbow and said, "things are starting to spin a little." With those words, I should have seen the blades of the helicopter being set into motion.

The lone fact that Billy had not sipped, gulped, or swallowed any alcoholic beverages during his eight month tour of duty, in and of itself, should have suggested that the number of beers and the shot of Jameson he had at dinner would cause a violent insurgency within his digestive track. I can even recall, on the way home from the restaurant, explaining to Billy, who at one point had a tolerance as honorable and determined as a D-Day invasion, that his drunkenness was not abnormal, that most people feel drunk after such a large number of drinks and that war had just transformed him into one of us--someone who happens to get drunk when they happen to drink large quantities of alcohol. A country that fights wars stands the chance of losing them. The equation is not a difficult one. No one gets drunk without alcohol, and casualties of war do not happen without the act of war.

The Tet Offensive Billy unleashed in my toilet was not surprising. The upheaval of alcoholic beverages from one's stomach can come on suddenly, as if the esophagus were being ambushed. Still, the worst part about vomiting, when drunk, is the humiliation that accompanies the act because the whole time it's happening, in the back of one's mind, there's the reoccurring thought that "I did this"--it didn't have to happen this way. Also, making matters worse for Billy was the fact that the chain connecting the toilet's handle to the flapper was busted and had been busted for a week. Sadly, it's gotten to the point where I take the lid off the tank and open the flapper myself habitually. Billy did not know this fact about my toilet or my lifestyle, so he probably wondered why when he pulled the lever his puke lingered in the toilet bowl. Freedom and democracy are complex ideas to explain when inside of a country used to living without them, and, often times, it's the bringer of such knowledge that winds up looking foolish, on their knees, before a toilet, pulling a lever that does not work because a chain they can not see is broken.

That was the first time Billy vomited that night. The second time, he got the couch and a bit of his pant leg. He was asleep on the couch, and I heard a gargle where a snore should have been. Then, I watched him foam at the mouth like Old Yeller, before I ran into the kitchen to get a trash bag. As I held the bag under his mouth, I noticed the stain on my couch, and I thought, "The Iraq War has finally found its way into my living room; f@#! you, Saddam!" Then, I thought how strange it is that the biggest sacrifice I had to make for a war that's lasted six years was a couch cushion. The Iraq War isn't the Vietnam War; I just knew Saigon better from films and books than I knew Baghdad, so I labeled the insurgency the Viet Kong because it sounded familiar. Why is it that we know past tragedies better than our own, and where is Walter to translate? Where is Walter to tell Billy not to worry about the couch?

At four in the morning, I heard the front door open and shut. I know it was four in the morning because I checked my cell phone. I got up. The couch was empty. Upon returning to bed, I stopped and used the bathroom. When I was done, I lifted the porcelain lid off the toilet's tank and pulled the broken chain.

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My right hand rotated over my shoulder blade and extended straight into the water, like an oar made out of flesh. Then, I did the same with my left, making my arms into paddles. I had to remind myself to kick all the way into the wall; my quads wanted to tighten into anchors. My left eye was closed because my left goggle started to leak a couple laps earlier, forcing me to wink creepily at two boys on the other side of the lane rope as I touched the wall and lifted my head out of the water.

"I beat you! I beat you so bad," the older one told me as I rubbed my hand through my thinning hair. His younger brother laughed hysterically. Two boys, who couldn't have been older than fourth graders, mocked my swimming abilities, as they clung to the wall for dear life.

"Yeah, you were definitely here first," I responded, trying to sound impressed when really I wanted to challenge the kid to an individual medley, which would have forced him to view me as a hero, when while lapping him, I saved him from drowning.

"Yeah, he was," chimed the younger one, adding, "and I would have beaten you even worse than he did."

"You probably would have, but what I wanna know is which one of you is faster." They both started bragging about their own swimming abilities and pounding their chests. It was an honor to be in the neighborhood pool with Michael Phelps and Mark Spitz, and, as I caught by breath, the two started their race.

The older one rarely put his face in the water. He basically splashed his arms around while toeing the bottom of the pool. If the younger brother ever lifted his head out of the water, he would have noticed that his older brother was not swimming and accused him of cheating. Instead, the younger one attacked the pool with vigor, but, despite the fact he was swimming and his brother was walking, he was only half a foot closer to the finish. He swam like a kid attacking someone much larger. He charged the water, and the water put its hand to his forehead, leaving him to swing in the air aimlessly. He exerted a lot of energy, but he didn't accomplish anything.

In the time it would have taken to read and fully understand the stimulus package and the bill on healthcare reform, these two Simon Birch's finally reached the other end of the pool. "I won! I told you I would win," yelled the older one. Personally, I couldn't tell which one had won. It appeared they reached the other end of the pool at the same time, as if their swimsuits shared the same drawstring. "No, you didn't. You cheated. You tried to drown me!" The lifeguards and I started laughing, as the political debate began.

The younger boy pleaded for their mother to change the result, "Tell him he didn't win. He pushed me down in the water." Her response was, "I can't settle all y'alls disputes, and if the lifeguard has to speak with you one more time, we're leaving." The lifeguard told them earlier that they were not allowed in the deep end because they could not swim. The mother misinterpreted this safety tip as a behavioral reprimand, probably because the fact her kids can't swim was actually an indictment on her as a parent more than anything else. The realization that she threw her kids into the pool without teaching them to swim left her in a bitter mood, and she did not feel like settling their petty dispute. Instead, she started making a pros and cons list that centered around the idea of being a mother, leaving her youngest to yell his story, "This is an injustice! You always tell us to play fair. He didn't and nothing happens. Isn't this an injustice?"

About this time, I gathered up my towel, t-shirt, and book and exited the pool, but, as I walked by the chain-link fence, I could hear the question "isn't this an injustice;" and I asked myself whether or not it was. Was the injustice what happened during the race, or was the injustice that these kids didn't know how to run their campaigns, in the water? Where was Walter to explain injustice is born when people go out into the world unprepared to deal with the challenges of living? And where was Walter to explain what responsibilities that places on the rest of us?

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We didn't leave the ER until 4 am. We were there for three hours. The time could also be measured in five drunken phone calls, several text messages, a bottle of water, and how long it takes for a half inch cut on one's big toe to stop bleeding.

Counting, addition, and subtraction are the principles of basic mathematics, and, despite how many times students argue with their teachers that the world does not require math of them, it does; or it at least requires they know how to count. How else will they figure out how long they were in the ER or how many baseball tickets to buy for Saturday night's bachelor party?

The Best Man suffered a lapse in counting. We had ten tickets, but we needed twelve. The father of the Groom and the father of the Best Man were already inside the stadium, and Stan Yuengling called to say he would be late. The Best Man, being the best man, said he would go and buy two extra tickets that we could give to the patres familias. I, being one of three guys that would recognize Stan Yuengling, also remained outside the stadium. Then, Stan called again. He would be much later, so the Best Man and I decided to enter the stadium, using the tickets intended for the patres familias. I placed my ticket, from the original ten seats, in my pocket, but, first, I checked the seat number--#19.

All I had to do was give Stan the ticket for Section 41 Row F Seat 19.

When the Best Man and I got to our section, we tried calling the patres familias on their phones, but no one answered; so I gave him the Seat 19 ticket. He showed the usher the ticket and went down to exchange the tickets we just bought outside for the tickets the patres familias were currently seated. I got in line for a hot dog and a beer. The only reason I mention the hot dog and beer is because if not for them I would have checked the seat numbers on the two tickets the Best Man gave to me for Stan and I to use. But, because my hands were full, I just took the tickets. They turned out to be for Seats 23 and 24, and, when Stan tried to use them, the scanner beeped a sound that could only mean "REJECTED! REJECTED! REJECTED!"

Stan Yuengling and I did not sit down in our seats until the fifth inning. A person can not care about how a story ends if they do not know how it began. Without the beginning, the ending has no emotional context, which could be the reason why the most memorable parts of that Cubs-Nats game had nothing to do with the game. First, "The Know Your Nats" publicity campaign is hilarious and gave every male in the stadium a chance to scratch their balls. Second, I got a nosebleed. We were in the lower section of the stadium, not the nosebleed section. Weird? Ironic? I don't know. Maybe. In hindsight, it could be described as foreshadowing. Books are always written in hindsight, which is why they always foreshadow things. In the eighth inning, I just thought I had a nosebleed.

After the game, we headed for McFadden's, a bar near Georgetown. We walked a while before getting on the METRO. I remember someone making the comment that only half the group made a good choice in footwear, meaning only half of the group wore tennis shoes. I thought, "it's summer. Summer = sandals." I felt justified.

In the bar, I still felt justified when my right foot began to feel warm, like it was cloaked in sweat. I felt less justified when the sweat began to bubble in the space between my foot and the sandal. I felt even less justified when I reached down into that space and my finger tips came back red. Then, justification turned to worry as I began to feel a lot more drunk than I should have and started to get dizzy. My head wobbled a little, and the room started to rotate slowly, like helicopter blades. I tried to get the Bride's Brother's attention. I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and put both hands on my shoulders, "what's up?" Then, he pointed up, and I looked up. I shouldn't have looked up.

A girl standing on the bar poured liquor down my throat. The helicopter's blades began to create space between the chopper and the ground. "It's my foot."

"What's your foot?"

"My foot...something's wrong with my foot." I showed him the blood on my fingers. He took out his cell phone and shined it on my foot. Apparently, my footwear was now a red and black sock. My sandal was the same color, and the blood ran off my sandal, like rain from a gutter, into the puddles of alcohol on the floor.

An ER is not where one wants to be during a bachelor party, not that anyone ever wants to be in the ER, but one would at least expect an ER to be full of excitement. On this Saturday night, the ER was not full of excitement. George Clooney's big break was a series of unjustified lies. The ER was full of people sleeping, who walked to the bathroom like men with small prostates, in the middle of the night and drowsy from sleep. Also, the nurses in the ER aren't as helpful as the ones on television.

After I signed in, they told me to take a seat, without cleaning my foot. I was still bleeding. When the second nurse called me in to take my blood pressure and temperature, I was still bleeding. As he took my temperature, he called the first nurse on the phone and yelled at her, "we can't have this. You've got to clean these people up before having them track blood all over the waiting room." I was unaware I tracked blood all over the waiting room, so I started laughing, which caused the thermometer to drop out of my mouth. I was the Jimmy Fallon of patients and had to get my temperature taken twice. The next two hours I kept thinking this wait would be shorter if my buddy Horatio Sanz were around.

The first nurse then came by to clean my foot. She would have had an easier time cleaning it when I first came in; now, the blood was drying in black clumps that needed to be scrubbed off like grease from a frying pan. The same clumps began to dry on my sandal, making it hard to walk on because the clumps were forming into little teeth. My own blood bit me as I walked, and the only place I had to walk was the bathroom, which I used every time I had to go or needed to make a phone call. If the idea of making phone calls from a bathroom sounds dirty, then imagine I used the bathroom in a phone booth.

Speaking of communicating the fact that one is in the hospital, never leave messages or send messages that say, "in hospital...will be okay." I did that and it was a mistake, causing more harm than good. Where was Walter to communicate that I was fine and didn't want anyone to worry? The clumsy keystrokes of my heart caused worry without Walter around to translate them.

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On Sunday afternoon, with my toe bandaged, my girlfriend and I sat down for a picnic. We both had sandwiches and Dominion Ginger Ale, from Earl's, in Arlington. Moments like that allow one to feel like Neil Armstrong, but where was Walter to express my joy?

Without him around, I told her that sitting there with her was the best part of my weekend. She then asked me, "Is it me or the sandwich?" Not wanting to be completely vulnerable, I told her it was 40% her and 60% the Pork and Fries sandwich. No one wants to be entirely vulnerable.

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Novelists place narrator's in their books to guide the reader, and, from 1916 to 2009, Walter Cronkite was a narrator. His voice, like a typewriter ribbon, bandaged our wounds, and, last night, as I unwrapped the dressings around my toe, I couldn't help but feel more exposed than ever. Going from the 20th century into the unknown will require all of us to walk with the courage of Walter Cronkite, for it was his steady courage that allowed him to understand the human condition and let his audience know the times in which they lived.