Fives and Twenty-Fives Page 10

  I pushed the stamp into the wet cement and handed it to Gomez. Then I knelt and, with the back of my pen, scribbled the date, the time, and our unit abbreviation. I wiped the pen on the leg of my flight suit before I jumped into the Humvee. It was the only visible spot of concrete on me.

  Doc Pleasant had Dodge sitting up in the backseat with a bottle of water between his legs and a tube taped to his arm. He looked better.

  “I know you feel like it’s the right thing,” I told him, closing the door behind me. “But . . . Just leave that stuff to the Marines, okay? They have a job, and so do you.”

  “Of course, Mulasim,” he said with his eyes closed. “Next time I will be . . . far more sensible.”

  Doc Pleasant tapped Dodge on the knee. “He’s good, sir. Just needed a little pick-me-up.”

  Dodge opened his eyes, turned to Doc Pleasant. “Shukran, Lester.”

  It was the first time I’d ever heard Doc’s given name. Dodge knew the kid before I did.

  Gomez called out on the radio, “Actual, we’re up.”

  “Roger. Oscar Mike.”

  “Saw you dancing back there,” Pleasant said to Dodge. “Pretty funny.”

  “You liked that, man? Next time you must do it with me.”

  “Where’d you learn that, anyway?”

  “Baghdad.”

  Small-arms fire cracked overhead as we passed the town. Two weak bursts, lacking commitment. The ambush they’d spent thirty minutes planning came together a few minutes late. I called in the contact report and rolled through. We didn’t even stop for it.

  “First time you’ve been shot at, Dodge?” I asked.

  “No, man. Like I said, Baghdad.”

  Crazy big show! At Siberia! This Friday! Featuring!

  THE BLOOD ROYALE. Metal/punk crossover from Austin, TX. Members of Gutbucket, The Drunks, Dixie Witch, Transfixr, Mala Suerte, Sap, Suburban Terror Project, and Bukkake.

  WINDHAND. Richmond, VA, female-fronted stoner/doom metal featuring members of The Might Could, Alabama Thunderpussy, and Facedowninshit.

  VERMIN UPRISING. First performance. NOLA-based metal duo.

  Lizzy

  I park my truck a few blocks from the bar, thinking this has gotta be the wrong place. Down the side streets, I see Ninth Ward shotgun houses, all dark and boarded up. Worse, some of them ain’t boarded up at all. Could be anybody living in there.

  And forget about streetlights. It’s a black hole. Any place you turn off St. Claude. But the sign above the door says clear as anything SIBERIA, in big, block letters. And the crowd of white kids, standing outside to smoke, confirms it.

  I unbuckle my seat belt, grab the door handle, and stop myself, just to give the potholed street and the trash-strewn sidewalk a good, hard look. Litter. Just an eyesore, right? A quick glance should be all you need.

  Look, a bag of chicken bones covered in flies.

  Look, an empty forty-ounce beer bottle in a brown paper bag.

  I shouldn’t notice that the bag looks a little too heavy, or that for some reason the breeze doesn’t make that empty beer bottle roll around. It shouldn’t take all kinds of science and a full goddamn minute of my life every time I step out this truck.

  But it does. I should just go home.

  My heart speeds up a little bit as I get out, getting madder at myself with each passing second. I’m about to walk into a heavy-metal show packed with knuckleheads. Not the best idea. I lock my overnight duffel in the truck next to my trauma bag.

  Dodge told me about how he and his friends used to put on punk-rock shows in Baghdad. Before the war.

  After we made it back from the mission where Dodge went down as a heat casualty before we’d even patched the first hole, Sergeant Gomez put me in charge of watching him. Told me to sit with him in the barracks, next to the air conditioner, and make sure he got hydrated.

  “Make this fucker push fluids,” she said, still wearing her flight suit from the road, still covered in sweat and caked with muck. “And don’t let me see him outside until after evening chow. You hear me? Not even to piss. He goes behind that poncho and pisses in bottles, the dumb motherfucker.”

  Dodge smiled up at her, sitting on his cot with a bottled water between his thighs. “Much thanks, my sergeant,” he said, slurring a bit. “Most kind.”

  She scowled at him, like she was looking for a reason to take offense. But after a few tense seconds, and after she’d pushed some of that black hair behind her ear, she turned to me and snapped, “Doc, save this asshole’s piss bottles. I want proof that he’s pushed at least five liters before morning.”

  “Aye, aye, Sergeant,” I said, my back straight until she’d finished storming out.

  Dodge’s eyes were wide like saucers when I finally sat down across from him. “Lester, truly, will she examine my urine tomorrow?”

  I nodded. “Probably. Not much for exaggeration, that one.”

  “Astonishing, Lester. This is the first American woman I have met, and she does not disappoint.”

  I laughed, despite having to skip my chance at a shower on account of him. And I guess because he was still woozy, not quite on his game, he started talking about his life in Baghdad before the war. Nothing too coherent. Things he probably wasn’t supposed to tell me.

  “My father and brother hated my rock music, and my friends,” he told me, “they always threatened to inform the state morality police of our performances.”

  “Why didn’t they?”

  “Because this would have been an embarrassment for them, you see. Important in government, my father and my brother. So to have the second son of Abu Muhammad singing American songs, dancing with girls at secret shows . . . this would not simply not do. So for my friends and I, this was some protection.”

  “What about your friends? How’re they making out these days?”

  “We were running,” he said, more to himself than to me. “But I left them when I came here to work.” Then he got quiet for a second. “I left them by the lake. They were okay. Yes. Safe.”

  “What about your dad and brother? They safe?”

  But Dodge was already done talking, his face behind that book of his. I took the hint.

  The doorman shivers in his thin coat, asks for five dollars, doesn’t bother to card me. Just looks me up and down. Kind of suspicious. I still got my work clothes on. Boots and jeans. The blue, speedee oil change shirt under my camouflage, duck-hunting jacket has my name on it. And I’m all smudged with dirt and engine grease. It’s probably all over my face and hair, too. There wasn’t time to shower or change before I drove up.

  The doorman waves me inside, and as soon as I step through the clear plastic sheet that acts for a door, I see why I might have confused him. I’m not the usual type for this place.

  In the dim lights and the cigarette smoke I see people who’re dingy and dirty, not like me, in my work clothes, but dingy and dirty because they’re working at it. The guys all got denim jackets with sewn-on patches, the dirtier, the more stained and trampled, the better. Each denim jacket tells a story. Every patch and every stain a battle. Like dress-blue uniforms with campaign ribbons. The stains are a measure of dedication. They tell everyone in the bar, without stooping to say it out loud, how they once saw Cannibal Corpse. How they stuck with it through the nineties and the sad grunge years and how they never cut their hair or stopped slam dancing and smashing barstools. Never gave in and took up what you might call productive behavior.

  The girls, the few of them mixed in here and there—they’re a different sort. All of them much younger than the guys, for one thing. I see a few serious metalheads, but mostly they’re just hangers-on. Girls in that dangerous phase, you know? Attached to some terrible boyfriend in a band or hoping to be at night’s end.

  I see Landry and Paul onstage. But I stop myself from waving or calling out to them. They’re the opening act and need all the metal cred they can muster for this. Some high school buddy waving like it’s the goddamn battle of the b
ands won’t help.

  It’s eleven thirty already and they’re only just setting up. Still pretty early for these metal types, I guess. I find an empty corner in the back of the bar and wedge myself into it, almost without thinking. I can see the whole club from this spot. No one can sneak up behind me.

  I cross my arms so anyone looking will know I ain’t interested. Not my first time at one of these. Landry and Paul dragged me to plenty of metal shows back in high school, and I remember how the best way to muddy up those patches on your denim jacket was to start a fight, pull some guy down into the beer and grime of the club floor, then get yourself dragged through the gravel outside when the bouncer tosses the both of you.

  Landry goes to the microphone. He shades his eyes and searches the crowd. Maybe he’s looking for me, or maybe there’s a girl he hasn’t told me about. He’s starting to grow a beer belly, stretching out the GWAR T-shirt he’s had since puberty. Coming in a little early, that gut. He never was much for exercise. He slings his guitar and says, “Check, check,” with that thick Cajun accent. Then, just in case anyone thinks he gives too much of a shit, he tosses out, “Check. Motherfucker, check,” and shakes out his hair. It’s an old-school mullet, but real close-cropped on the sides.

  Paul gets behind the drums and rubs his shaved head. He’s had it shaved like that since I’ve known him, only now it looks less like a choice and more like he’s halfway to bald, for real. Getting thinner, too, as Landry puts on weight. Must burn off a bit of that beer weight behind the drums.

  Paul counts it off and they launch into their first number.

  The whole drive up, I was wondering how Landry and Paul could have a legit metal band with just a guitar, drums, and Landry on vocals. But even on the first riff, I hear their strategy. To make up for not having a buddy who plays bass, Landry has his old guitar plugged into a bass amp and Paul has an extra kick-drum going. They’re not the first to think of it, obviously, but it’s a good sound. Landry steps away from the microphone and smiles at Paul. They rock out for a few bars. Having fun, looks like. Paul grits his teeth and closes his eyes. It may not be the usual thing, what they’re doing up there, but the metalheads start moving around a little bit. Like bubbles stuck to the bottom of a pot just before the water boils.

  Then Landry goes to the microphone and ruins it.

  Much as I love the guy, and he is a good friend, you can’t ignore that Cajun accent. It just ain’t metal. The crowd, with the denim jackets and long hair, stops vibrating almost as soon as he opens his mouth and moves away from the stage like someone took the heat off the pot. They go back to the bar for more beer, back to the walls to lean and wait for the headliners.

  I’m liking it, though. Okay—maybe Landry doesn’t know what he’s doing, maybe it’s accidental, but there’s something to this.

  Paul hits both kick drums hard. Landry pulls a dirty riff down the strings and keeps at those lyrics, whispering just to stay on pitch: “I’ll show you where I’m from, I’ll show you where we bleed.”

  In some crazy-ass way, that Cajun accent of his might even help, you know. Almost like he’s doing one of those old, French fais-do-do songs. It’s thick and mean and ugly, but there’s a truth at the bottom of it, like he’s up there onstage standing knee deep in swamp mud. I rock my head up and down a little, trying to get the rhythm of it. Trying to like it for the right reasons, if there are some. I blink and try to bring the stage back into focus. But the smoke and the bright lights sting my eyes so I squint and watch the dance floor instead.

  It’s empty out there save for one hazy figure. I squint harder and a little blonde thing comes into view. A regular Tinker Bell, wearing a ponytail and what looks like a yellow . . . She actually came into this joint in a fucking sundress? I blink again, thinking I’m imagining this. The cigarette haze parts a second later and I make her out properly.

  She’s staring at me. Has been this whole time. Her lips are bright red, smiling like she thinks I’m funny. Like she thinks I’m checking her out and it makes her want to laugh.

  My cheeks burn. I look away. Embarrassed as hell.

  Landry hits the last note of his second song, and realizing the crowd ain’t going to applaud, he goes right on, “Next song, it’s called ‘My Maw Maw’ll Kick Your Ass.’”

  I look back at Tinker Bell, mostly making sure I didn’t just imagine her. This sundressed Tinker Bell of a girl. Sure enough, there she is. Still looking at me, too. Only now, she’s seen me look her over twice. Makes me want to jump out of my skin.

  Just watch Landry, I tell myself. Show some damn discipline. Just keep your eyes on him until it’s time to leave, then get some sleep on his couch, nice and soft.

  I get Landry fixed solid in my line of sight, and everything else fades from view. Tinker Bell, the metalheads, the walls, and the smoke. All of it. Then I feel the elbow in my ribs. I jump back into the corner with a thud.

  “Whoa. Hey, sorry . . . ,” I hear her screaming above the music. Loud, but still clear and girlie. “Didn’t mean to spook you there, guy!”

  I look her up and down. She’s got bangs like Bettie Page, only dyed crazy blonde. On her forearm, she has a tattoo that looks like a rubbing of cypress bark—BURY ME UNDER A TREE IN LOUISIANA, it reads. She’s got dark eyes. Freckles. And she’s still smiling at me.

  “No. You didn’t spook me. I’m just, you know, watching.” I look away again. For all I know the conversation’s over.

  She elbows me again, harder. “You like this?”

  “What? The music?”

  “No, the shitty metal bar.” She cocks her head to the side, like she’s annoyed with me or something.

  “Well, see, it’s my buddies up there,” I yell into her ear. I take a breath between each sentence so I can fight against the speakers. “So that’s why I came. But, yeah, I kinda like it.”

  “Why? What’s good about it?”

  Landry breaks into a fast, almost-rockabilly verse. “Maw Maw benches two-fifty . . . ,” he wails. “And you can go fuck yourself . . .” I wonder if this girl’s quizzing me or something. Like it’s some kind of magic trick, finding a way to enjoy this stuff.

  “Look, it’s not good or anything. I know that. I just like it. Bad in all the right places, I guess.” I chuckle to myself, sure she’s already done listening to me. “It’s like they’re growing up. You know? Not lying about nothing. Grown-up enough to admit they love their maw maw. That they’re Cajuns from Houma who never seen Brooklyn.”

  I look down at her. She’s still here. Still listening. Still smiling, too. She bites her lip and punches me in the chest. “Come buy me a drink.”

  “Yeah? Okay.”

  She turns and walks toward the bar. I stumble after her.

  “I’m Lizzy,” she calls out over her shoulder.

  “Lester,” I shout after her.

  “Yeah, it’s on your shirt.”

  At the bar, she orders a PBR. “I’ll let you pay for this because they’re only a dollar and I won’t feel like a whore.”

  I fumble with my wallet and scramble like mad for something to say. “So . . . you like this music?”

  “Sure.” She smiles. “It’s better than the shit coming up next. At least it’s different.”

  “Why are you here, then? If what’s coming up next is shit?”

  She shrugs. “My classmates, I guess. You can’t be an art student without a side venture in punk or metal. It’s like . . . a requirement?” She takes a swig, then gleefully belches.

  I get that it’s my turn to say something, so I blurt out, “I like art.”

  “Oh!” She laughs. “How very civilized of you!”

  Just then, as Landry and Paul go offstage, the crowd starts to sway in our direction. They’ve been waiting for the house stereo to come back on so they can slam dance to some proper shit. A barstool falls over. A mosh pit starts to form, and someone groans. It’s all so forced and annoying. Mostly, though, I’m thinking of this girl, Lizzy, this little Tinker Bell, ex
posed and getting pushed against the bar by this mass of fat, sweaty men.

  I look down. Sure enough, she’s grimacing, trying to keep from getting pinned to the rail by this fat guy behind her. Quick, without thinking, I step in between her and the crowd and try to shield her a little. But the crowd’s begun to swell and get serious about this mosh pit. I reach out and lock both arms against the bar with Lizzy inside up against my chest.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” But I can tell she’s nervous. No more flip, college-girl edge to her voice, like before.

  Another barstool crashes over, and I can tell by the way Lizzy crumples to one side that it must’ve landed on her foot. She’s about to go on the floor, in her nice sundress. Down there with all that broken glass and all those angry boots.

  I throw another elbow and then a knee to clear the area around me enough so I can bend over and pick this Lizzy chick up. She’s on my shoulder and I’m headed toward the door, shoving fat guys out the way. I burst through the plastic sheet and onto the cold street, jogging down the sidewalk with this girl on my shoulder, one-handed. I reach into my pocket for the keys to my truck, open the door, and toss her gently up on the bench seat.

  I reach for my medical bag, but realize all of a sudden that this is crazy behavior.

  A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. Is this girl gonna think I’m some crazy serial killer trying to kidnap her?

  Then I hear her laughing. Goddamnit, I’m already in love.

  “You’re pretty forward, Lester.”

  I smile and put my fingers through my hair, embarrassed—but at the same time . . . not. “Sorry. Just seemed like you might’ve broke your foot.” Then I laugh, too. “That was a little crazy, I know.”

  “Absolutely not. Most fun I’ve had all week. I can’t even remember the last time a man spirited me away from danger.”

  “I got some tape in the bag. Lemme see if I can wrap that foot for you.”

  “Are you a paramedic or something?”