One of my high school friends is a full-blooded Columbian.
Her parents immigrated from South America and opened a family-run business. Her two older sisters married Columbian nationals who moved to the U.S. as well. She met my childhood friend in high school and they married shortly after college. He’s half Puerto Rican and Caucasian. All of the good Columbian men were taken.
The first time I met a Columbian, I didn’t even know it. I was too involved in childhood pirate fantasies, donning an eye patch, toting a plastic sword, and sporting a makeshift bandolier crafted from a weathered and worn 1970’s hippie belt. The two Columbian men wore dress shoes, slacks, sports coats, and open collared dress shirts. And sunglasses inside my cluttered, dark home.
They visited my brother. At that time, my brother wore his hair long. You know, like late 1970’s weed smoker long. His friends sported the Ted Nugent look as well. They wore cutoff jeans, listened to loud rock-n-roll, and smoked anything that held a flame. Of course Ted abstained from drug use. These two Columbian men were also different. But unlike The Nuge, they stood in stark contrast to my brother and his pot smoking pals.
Upon initial impressions they appeared quite civil.
They rang the doorbell of our middle class suburban home. They acted polite and reserved. My brother acted the same way, which was completely out of character when greeting his social guests. I couldn’t tell if he was scared or embarrassed by their presence. They did look kinda weird without frayed jean shorts on. What did I know? I was too busy swashbuckling my way through a make believe San Juan Harbor.
But a certain unease hung in the air. Perhaps the inability to fully see their eyes behind the tinted lenses fostered this disarming sensation. Maybe it was the nervous vibes my brother gave off. Looking back, they probably wore sport coats to hide the weapons tucked into their waistbands or snugly snapped inside their holsters. I lacked the capacity to truly appreciate or recognize this armed discretion.
Was I in danger? Perhaps from secondhand smoke, but that was yet defined as a thing. Maybe they were some sort of drug kingpins, but most likely just low level narco-enforcers. I say this because I learned years later that my brother was not only moving coke for Columbians, but skimming drugs and money from them as well. Not his finest hour.
My brother Bill wasn’t a bad guy.
Quite the contrary. However, his cartel cohorts may have been some evil jokers. Late 70’s, early 80’s Columbian drug traffickers were not known for their kind demeanors and dispositions. Not that the following decades made them more affable. Looking back, they could have been absolute sociopaths that never experienced remorse or regret. Repetition can really desensitize a guy.
Naturally, when Columbian drug thugs visit your mother’s home and you’re faced with the consequences of your actions, you make radical life changes. I mean, you don’t want Tony Montana pissed off at you. I know, I know. Scarface was Cuban, but you and I get the point. Fascinatingly, my brother did not. Addicts are funny like that.
Bill’s friends gave him the nickname “Chopper”. People that didn’t know him mistakingly thought that my brother flew helicopters at some point in his life. He did get high, but not aeronautically. One of his close friends, George, explained it to me. He said my brother didn’t cut lines of cocaine, he chopped lines of cocaine. Hence, a nickname is born.
Although a continent away, Pablo Escobar and his Columbian associates were not people to jerk around. Bill may have wanted to change his ways, but he failed to heed the warnings. So to cut their losses and insure against future disloyalty from subsequent replacements, the Columbians eventually placed a contract on my brother’s life. Nothing personal. It was just business. Of course their business was death, one way or another.
I’m sure this is not how Bill saw his life scripted.
An abrupt change of plans constituted the most viable path to survival. A barber sheared his long, flowing locks and Bill enlisted in the United States Navy. Fortunately it was the early 80’s and the military was not overly selective of enlisted personnel. You were slinging coke for Columbians? Welcome! You’re on cot number 37.
Now I had no idea this was all unfolding under the surface. I do not know if the rest of my family was also in the dark. I just knew my brother cut his hair. That was freaky enough for this Blackbeard wannabe. When I discovered the truth years later, I thought Bill’s undisciplined and reckless life of addiction represented an utter lack of foresight and planning. Who would pen such a story?
If he hadn’t joined the Navy, perhaps the Columbians or some de facto hitman would have killed him. Maybe he would have simply disappeared, never to be seen again, leaving us to wonder what became of our brother, nephew, cousin, and son. A few years later, federal indictments came down. My brother was called off of his ship in the Indian Ocean to testify.
I think the government let him slide since he attempted to change his life.
That and testify. However, by the time he returned to the states, those indicted pled guilty, avoiding a trial and Bill spilling his side of the beans. Bill’s weakness became his saving grace. His addictive behaviors and tendencies forced him to flee from a world rapidly spiraling downward. In the end his shortcomings ultimately delivered him from a life destined for an early demise. God’s grace can play out in funky ways.
As far as I know, nobody ever again arranged business decisions and partnerships to exterminate my brother. Like a feline felon, he used his nine lives in their entirety. Ultimately his death had nothing to do with a calculated, corporate decision handed down from ruthless businessmen. Unless you want to pin the blame on big tobacco for lung cancer fatalities. The drug business is seedy no matter what side of the law it falls on.
I wonder how long those Columbians that visited my house lived or how their lives played out. Maybe they’re still alive today. I doubt it. The life expectancy in that line of work isn’t too great. I know this now. Back then I was lost in a childhood fantasyland, pretending to be a rule breaking, weapon wielding Caribbean pirate. And that sounds more Puerto Rican than Columbian.
