Carrier the Fisherman

Dedicated to Louis Clinton Carrier, my grandfather

       I remember running through the forest of endless trees, skylight breaking through the branches and falling leaves. My rifle, an M1 Garand at my side, whipping back and forth with every jump and step I take through the uneven terrain. I run and run ‘til all of a sudden there's a clearing. Clouds charge overhead as a storm is brewing. I am out in the open knowing full well the enemy is near and around me. I run with no real destination, just this idea that anywhere I go is better than where I was coming from.

         I see a young boy being trampled by the others as they all try to escape the horror that we are trying to leave behind. I pick him up and carry him in my arms and I continue running. This frail boy in my arms, with his teddy bear clutched in his small fist, cold and on the brink of being lifeless. He stares at me with his bright blue eyes, reflecting in them the storm above us. We make our run to the tree line ahead and as we got closer and closer we realize that the enemy is already there, waiting for us to arrive. They surround us at all sides. I put the boy behind me and use myself as his own personal shield. It was at this moment I hear a shot. I look down at the quarter sized hole in my chest and fall to my death, the wind and feeling of life knocked out of me, and the last thing I see is a teddy bear falling from the endless trees and falling leaves.

       I feel the rain at my back and I wake up in a frantic panic alone. I turn to my side and take a deep gasping breath. My chest feels tight and I’m in pain. I see the quarter-sized hole left in my chest. Smoke is still rising from the wound and no blood is spilling out of me. I do my best to cover it. I'm in disbelief of what is happening to me. Am I dead? Is this hell? I see the bodies that lay all around me. Including the boy I carried in my arms. I crawl over to him, his body still cold like before, reuniting him with his teddy bear and I begin to feel a mix of anger, desperation and sorrow.

       After a while of laying with the dead, watching the rain fall from the dark clouded skies, I ask myself, "Can I still stand?" I use the fence post next to me. I cling to every edge to force myself up. Splinters and barbed wire cut at my skin. I inhale the smell of death, copper and gunpowder as I force myself to stand. I look around and I notice that I am standing alone. I walk and I keep walking, reaching out into the dark. Just like before, I walk with no destination in mind. Hours pass and I see lights and I find a group of vehicles pull up to my location. I can’t see who they are but I assume the worst, and it was at this point, exhausted, that I fell to my knees, accepting what I thought was my fate. I think of nothing and just close my eyes. Then I feel them grab me from my shoulders and lift me from where I am kneeling. They are my soldiers, brothers at arms. They carry me on their truck and I blackout from exhaustion.

    I feel soldiers holding me down while we traverse the uneven terrain, and there is someone digging into my chest. I awake slowly from my blackout and as I open my eyes I see the doctor reaching into the wound in my chest with the sharpest pair of pliers I've ever seen. Gunfire is everywhere. I look to my left and see a derelict tank with soldiers' bodies hanging off of it. To my right, I see a soldier grabbing the side of the vehicle while firing off his rifle as every shell falls and lays near my head. I feel a puddle of blood on the tarp near where my hand laid, the blood of my fallen brothers. That’s the last thought I have as I pass out from the pain….

      I awake gradually and find myself wrapped and bandaged, in disbelief that I am still here, still alive. I’m still lying in the blood-soaked tarp, soaked in the blood of all my brothers. The doctor comes over and in a callous, matter-of-fact voice, tells me, "We couldn't remove it. If we pull it... you'll bleed out. You don't have very long, son. Make your peace with God because you don't have many days left ahead." I think to myself, “Just a few days left?” At this point, I feel like I should already be dead, and this is just some nightmare.

A few months have passed and I’m now back in the states. I find myself in New Orleans, drinking at a bar wondering what I should do with my last days here on earth. I’m overwhelmed by the thought of death. My chest still hurts and I’m angry. Angry that I won't get to live my life. Angry that everyone around me in this bar is just squandering their life, spending it here drinking amongst me, the dead man. I drink and drink until I go numb in the chest. I get up and walk towards the back exit to lean against the brick wall to take a piss. Just then, I hear it. Yelling. Pounding. Breathing. Coming from the basement stairs of the bar I’ve frequented since I got here. I walk my way down the dark stairs and find a fighter's ring. Everyone is watching and gambling while the men circle each other in the ring. An overwhelming smell of sweat, cigarettes, blood and alcohol envelopes the room. The man in the ring takes out the other in a finishing blow and falls hard. So hard in fact that his breath and the dust from the ring floor shoot out at me. Dust rises from the ring mat as the spotlight makes it easier to see the particles in the air. The ringleader proclaims the winner and starts to yell, "The next fighter who tries to take on the winning challenger will now receive $50 dollars for the fight, and $300 for the win!" Now, it could’ve been the liquid courage or maybe my hopeless mindset, but I knew what's coming for me. No matter what, I’m a dead man. I feel I have nothing to lose and I want to feel my anger take on a physical manifestation of my frustrations. I am ready to fight.

      The noise around me from the crowd is overwhelming and yet, when I speak, everyone can hear me when I say in a calm and quiet voice, "I'll fight." The surrounding individuals hush and stare at me. The spotlight moves towards my direction and shines over me and the crowd sees just a man, drunk, in wrinkled uniform… and the crowd starts to roar with cheers. They push me up the stage stairs, grabbing my shoulders cheering me on. I climb over the side into the ring and I'm asked to take off my shirt and shoes. I remove my cuffs, take off my shoes and remove my shirt, exposing my bare bandage wrapped chest covered in old blood from the stitches. Everyone goes silent. The ringleader looks me up and down and asks if I really want to do this. I nodded my head in my drunken stupor and he knows better than to ask me this question again. They begin to prep me for the fight, wrapping my calloused hands and knuckles. Some gamblers notice and realize this is not my first fight and begin to change their bets. My opponent is this monstrous being, hairy from knuckles to shoulders and all around the back. He doesn’t see me as a pathetic wretch like the others who were betting against me in the audience. Instead he sees me as an obstacle. As someone who is in the way of his survival. I know this look because I've seen it before and he knows I've seen it too. It was then that I knew, I had the respect of this fighter.

       The bell rings. I step to the left then forward! I throw two punches: One to the side of his temple, the other towards his chin and in a quick instant, everyone sees him fall. He slams on the mat dizzy and unable to stand. The fighter begins to laugh on the floor as he tries to make his way back up. He then falls over and passes out. The crowd gets quiet from sheer disbelief. All I can hear at this point is the sound of me putting my shirt and shoes back on. I leave the ring and grab my winnings from the ringleader's hands and make my way towards the basement exit.

It's been ten years since that fight. It’s hard to imagine a time when I felt I only had days left to live. My chest no longer hurts. I found the love of my life. Inez is stubborn like me and although we couldn't understand a word out of each other, we knew we were made for each other. I started working as a fisherman and she would work cleaning houses. She was a very independent person. She wanted to work and regardless of what I said she would still go to work. I proposed and we married. At first she got cold feet and hid in the chapel restroom, but as always, I went after her. I started yelling through the door, "Inez I love you please come out of there! You know I care about you! We both want this." Of course Inez would respond, “"No quiero casarme contigo si ya no puedo trabajar. Eres un tipo guero que solo quiere atraparme en una vida en la que no tenga independencia". I'll be honest, I didn't understand a word she was saying and she couldn't understand me either, but there I was whispering through the door. "Look, I believe we both want this. We're crazy about each other. I promise I'll learn Spanish and we will have long and meaningful conversations for the rest of our lives. Will you come out of there Inez? Please?" Inez unlocks the door. Cracks it open. She says, "Voy a seguir trabajando".

I answer, "Yes, trabajarrr" I have no idea what I just agreed to, but we were off to be married.

Two years have passed since our marriage. We have a family now. One little girl is named Estella and we have another on the way. We're going to name her Margie. Times are getting tougher, and I find myself back at my late-night basement activities to make ends meet. My knuckles are calloused from hard work and the many men that have faced me in the ring. Inez often finds blood in the money I leave on the living room counter, and we have fights about it from time to time. My arguments now are a little more Spanish fluid. Inez yells, "No puedes apoyarnos así" I learned that if I just say "Si, yo entiendo, te amo" over and over again she will calm down. We know we need to move from this place and find a balance in both our lives and for the lives of our daughters. It was then that we decided to move.

We now live in Port Isabel. My daughter was just born. We have a house now. Although it's not much, Inez and I have made it our home.

       I decide to go out on the small wooden boat behind the fence near old William's place to catch our dinner for the day. Inez tells me, “No te tardes” and I respond “Sí, lo entiendo. Te amo Inez, y volveré pronto.” I take the boat out in the water by myself listening to the seagulls fly overhead. The sun is shining and the clouds are pure white. The sun feels warm on my skin and I take a deep breath of that ocean air. It's been many years since my brush with death and for the first time in a long time I feel complete and driven with purpose. I'm on this little boat fishing, excited to bring what I catch home to my family. Excited to cook for my wife and daughters. Just then I feel a sharp pain in my chest. The wind and feeling of life being knocked out of me. I feel the scar on my chest. I fall over and the last thing I see is a small wooden boat floating in the waves above the sea.

Victor Benavides is an English teacher and aspiring writer from the south Texas borderlands. He graduated in 2019 with a master’s in business administration and will soon graduate with a master’s degree in English studies. Growing up in the lower Rio Grande Valley, he was always fascinated with the power of words and how they can help a reader transcend into different literary worlds.