They Will Call Me "The Comber"

I have decided that I hate being a young man, and since I can't go back to being a kid, I shall retire and become an old man.

A beard shall be grown.

An AARP card shall be acquired.

And I will cash in my modest IRA savings and buy a condominium by the sea and a metal detector and spend my days beach combing for lost keys, rings, and teenage girls' cell phones.

My community will come to know me as the nice bearded fellow who spends his days treasure hunting along the shore. They will tell stories about me and ponder how I became the person I am today. "What do you suppose he did?" They will see my nautical tattoos and scars covering 70% of my body. And they will call me "The Comber."

One day, while I'm out sifting Kennedy half dollars from the sand, a young gentleman in a suit will approach me and ask for a minute of my time. I may refer to him as a whipper-snapper, or call him "son" even though he will be older than me.

"Your country needs your help, Mr. Crocker. We're reactivating you."

"You don't understand, son. I have strict orders from the President to never do those things again. I made a promise to my family."

"A promise means nothing when our national security is at risk."

I will close my eyes, steeling myself about what I should do next. Then, like an ancient sentinel of days past, I will rise slowly.

"Tell me."

Later, after a short ride in a black Lincoln Towncar, and being joined by a high-ranking military official, I will be lead down a poorly lit cinderblock hallway six miles beneath the earth's crust. Marines will salute as we walk past; government workers will press their backs against the wall to get out of our way; secretaries will be startled and spill coffee on their inky blue polka dot dresses.

I will listen to the Vice-President's plea, "Just one more mission, Mr. Crocker. Your people need you."

"Where is the President? I only answer to the President."

The quiet, craggy-faced, one-eyed man behind me will finally pipe up into the conversation. "Four hours ago, Air Force One went down over the island of Manhattan, which as you know, was turned into a maximum security prison facility. We need you to fly a glider in, under the cover of night, and bust him out."

"No way in hell. Why don't you send in the marines?"

"Can't do that, Jeff. We've received strict orders from one of the gang bosses, to not try a military incursion to bust him out. But if we send you in alone, in the darkness, you're our best chance."

My emotions will be a mélange of anger, hatred, and disgust and my twisted grimace will not betray those feelings. Everyone in the room knows how dangerous I am.

"They are going to execute the President 20 hours from now. You're our only hope."

"You leave me now choice; I'll do it."