He Joined the A‑Team
He was my best friend. Same block, same bikes, same bunk bed at camp. Watched A‑Team and Dukes with him. Chased snakes and crayfish and crick chubs. After high school, he went straight into the Army. Didn’t even ask me to go with him. Just slung a duffel over his shoulder and said, “See ya, Murdock.” (I was Murdock, crazy; he was Hannibal, always making plans).
Turned out I couldn’t join the Army anyway (ADHD). Got a job at the tire place instead. Was dunking a Pirelli, looking for leaks, when his brother came in and told me he was dead. Killed in Africa. Body unrecovered.
There was a tribute in the paper, and a memorial service with soldiers firing rifles, blowing bugles. His mother cried.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “He’s not really dead. That’s why there’s no body. It’s all part of his plan.”
She hugged me. Kept crying.
…
Nobody else believed Hannibal was alive. An old-timer stopped me on the street. Said, “I sure am sorry about your friend. But he died for freedom. You should be proud.”
“I am proud — proud he fooled so many dummies.”
My parents were concerned. “We want you to talk to a therapist. You need to grieve. You need closure.”
“Nothing to close.”
One evening over supper Dad said, “Okay, if he’s alive, then where is he?”
“Impossible to say.”
“Why?”
“Because he joined a secret unit of crack commandos. These guys were sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn’t commit. After they escaped they went underground and became soldiers of fortune. Now they’re getting older and need new recruits.”
Dad dropped his biscuit. “Are you talking about The A‑Team?”
“Affirmative. And you can’t find the A‑Team unless the A‑Team wants to be found.”
This wasn’t a hunch — I knew for a fact Hannibal had joined the A‑Team. He started hatching his plan when we were kids, and it was finally coming together. Soon, he’d show up with the team and sweep me away to a life of adventure.
Word got around. People tried to convince me I was wrong. My old high school guidance counselor stuck his nose in the garage.
“Look here,” he said. He was wearing his gray suit, waving a picture of Mr. T in my face. “This is a photograph of an actor. He played B.A. Baracus on a television series called The A‑Team. His real name is Mr. T.”
“No it isn’t,” I said, shoving a Goodyear Nordic onto a hub. “It’s Lawrence Tureaud.”
“So you do know The A‑Team isn’t real.”
“The TV show? Duh. But it was based on actual guys.”
He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled. His breath hadn’t improved since my school days, and there were still tuna salad stains on his lapel. “You honestly believe your friend faked his own death so he could join a gang of rogue mercenaries?”
“Hell yes. The A‑Team is the baddest of the bad. Where else would he be?”
“He’s deceased. You have to come to terms with that.”
…
Years passed. Too many. Tried to stay out of bars, be a good boyfriend to Jenny. But her cooking was lousy, and she wouldn’t believe me about the A‑Team.
“Just let him go,” she’d say. “It’s time to start a new life. A real life. With me.”
Wasn’t ready for marriage — not while my best friend was out there kicking ass with the A‑Team. Thrills, action, gorgeous babes… and what did I get? Jenny’s chewy pancakes. A pile of steel-belted radials.
Resisted as long as I could, until she laid down an ultimatum. “It’s either me or the A‑Team. Choose.”
Maybe she was right. If the A‑Team hadn’t come for me by now, they probably never would. Some best friend.
…
Jenny enrolled me in grief counselling. After a couple months, I was able to admit Hannibal was dead. The A‑Team stuff was a delusion, brought on by psychological trauma.
Jenny was satisfied with my progress, and sent me to the church to make wedding arrangements. Nobody was around. As I was leaving, a bearded guy in a robe came out of the sacristy.
“I’m the new pastor,” he said. “How can I help you?”
Told him I was thinking about getting married.
“Married? You might want to read this first.”
He handed me a pamphlet. Opened it and saw six large words, printed in black ink: YOU HAVE JUST FOUND THE A‑TEAM.
The pastor removed his beard and lit a cigar.
“Howdy, Murdock,” he said. “Long time no see.”
—
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