Of Immortalized Warriors

I have found that when an old friend calls you and, finding you unavailable or unresponsive, leaves imploring you to call him at a moment's notice, and it's life-or-death, the matter is more relevant to him than to you. When it comes to helping someone or doing him a favor most people are able to hold their impatience within reasonable limits. So when I finished reading a report with just enough time to take a cup of coffee, and to visit my favorite website before departing for the Smithsonian, and was told by Joan Moaney, a partner, that James Isner had stopped by earlier and wished for me to give him a call, I felt that I could safely ignore his request.
“Economist?” she asked me.
She gave the business card a second glance.
“He's a professor now.”
“I see that,” she said. “Don't you want to read the message on the backside?”
“Sure, I suppose.”
“Very well.”
She turned up her eyes. She gave me the card, turned to a desk by the window with a view of Market Square, and took off her coat. Joan Moaney was a perceptive woman of about sixty-five years. I was sensitive to the fact that she knew we shared a few of the same experiences in life. Her alert appraisal of my casualness suggested that she was keen about my present feelings. When I finally gathered up my papers and laptop computer, she made it a point in her kind, clear voice to see to it that I make time for old friends.
“Dr. Isner is very nice. You should take him out for a drink tonight. He said he is staying at the Hilton right up the street.”
I turned away briefly.
“Say is rain still in the forecast? I forgot to check the weather radar.”
Joan Moaney smiled.
“No, you should be all right on your motorcycle.”
“Great, the pickup is in the shop again, so long.”
“My impression was it is rather important.”
“Joan, I'm running late.”
“You'll find the parkway as you like it this afternoon.”
“Excellent, a favorable traffic report, too.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Cooper.”
I had not seen Jim in a couple of years and then only in passing at a professional basketball game; he had always been a good old boy, a true Southerner, and when we ran into each other he had displayed his raucously aggressive voice by calling out my dated tee shirt.
“My God, the Bullets!” he cried, holding up two large beers. “Perfect, I always thought the Wizards was a ludicrous nickname―good to see you, Riley.”
“Wow, one always runs into an old buddy at the most awkward time.”
“I'm in town just one more day. Let's get together tomorrow night, you free?”
“I certainly am,” I replied, as I was pushed forward by the heavy crowd in the passageway.
“I'll shoot you a message when I get back to my seat.”
“All right.”
I had not known Jim for about twenty years without learning that he kept in his back pocket the mobile phone in which he stored all of his contacts. I was therefore not taken aback when I did not hear from him. It was impossible for me now to persuade myself that this urgent desire of his to talk to me was free from a personal need or desire. Later that day as I walked my dog around the block I turned over in my mind the possible reasons for which Jim might want to see me. It might be that an art-loving girlfriend had implored him to get tickets to the opening reception of the Caravaggio exhibit or that a new dean, seeking ties to the National Endowment for the Humanities, had desired Jim to put me in touch with him; but I could not do my old friend the injustice of supposing him so disingenuous of representation as not to give him a call, so it could hardly be that he maintained an ulterior motive.
Except Jim no one could show a more genuine regard to a fellow Marine whose ideas were recently expounded by the National Geographic Society, but no one could more genuinely turn away from him when academic rivalries, natural events, or someone else's success had cast a doubt on his research. Every man has his ups and downs, and I was cognizant that at the moment he was on the hot seat. It was obvious that I might have found reason without confronting personal casualty in our relationship, but he was a sentimental person and if I hurt his feelings for no reason whatsoever, I well knew his ego and stubbornness could possibly inhibit all future communication; but I was a curious person. I had also my own interest in the friendship.
I had watched with wonder his rise in the academic world of economic theory. His transformation might well have served as a model for any apprehensive military officer entering upon the pursuit of a new career. I could think of no one among my generation who was more in tune with the American dream. This, like a man's right to unfettered freedom in a liberal society, might have been the dominant factor. He was utterly unaware of it though, and yet it must have seemed to him sometimes little short of a tragedy that he had not been able with it to win the Noble Memorial Prize in Economics. I cannot but think that he saw the falseness of contradiction when he studied the two schools of thought represented by the works of Friedrich Hayek and John Maynard Keynes and found out that the former won the prize and the latter was unable to outlive his father. He researched his death and found an obituary in the New York Times. If that was it, he must have told himself, he did not really want to be a noble laureate like Hayek; and when the admiration of respected reviewers of his dissertation, writing many comparisons to the revolutionary Keynesian policy of the 1930's (and the antagonists lined up with equal zeal), he must have sighed with relief of one who after long hours of hard work has earned not only a doctorate degree but advanced new horizons in his field of study. Anyone who had recently discovered his ability to challenge certitudes in true believers could deny that at all events he deserved to be a professor at Cornell University.