Fives and Twenty-Fives Page 2

  Popped Collar makes a move to get free, like he might still have some fight left in him, some pride. But Zahn just tightens his grip and puts more weight in his knee. Popped Collar winces.

  “Listen to me,” Zahn says softly. “I’m gonna let you stand up, now. And you’re gonna walk straight out that front door without looking back at me.”

  Zahn wants to say more, I can tell. He wants to explain to Popped Collar how easy it would be to crush his windpipe. Zahn wants to teach, dispassionately, the method. How to step inside your target’s stance and gouge for his eyeballs. How, while your target is in a panic trying to save his eyes, he’ll leave his throat open. How to sweep the legs out from under your target while keeping a firm grip on his arm. How, while your target is defenseless on the ground, you can send the edge of your bootheel into his exposed throat, just so.

  But Zahn’s not a corporal anymore, and the man he’s pinned in the corner isn’t a junior Marine in need of instruction. So, Zahn keeps it simple. “I’ll watch you die and not feel a thing,” he says. “Understand? Stuff like this? It’s fun for you. To me? It’s nothing at all.”

  Zahn gives the words a moment to sink in before releasing his grip. As Popped Collar stands up, my fingertips tingle at the thought that this guy might be dumb enough to open his mouth. But he goes right for the door without saying a word. His friends hasten to follow him out, in an orderly fashion, as they say. Kindergartners headed outside for the fire drill, holding hands.

  Zahn’s friends leave, too, after a few quick excuses and good-byes. So Zahn and I go back to the bar, finishing our beers like nothing happened.

  Then Zahn notices the book in my back pocket. I’d forgotten all about it. “Dodge give you that book, sir?” he asks with a smile. “Or did you steal it?”

  “I’m not really sure,” I say, feeling guilty at how reliably my ploy has worked. “I found it in my pack the day after he left. Either he left it there, or it accidentally got mixed in with my gear after Ramadi . . .” I swallow. Embarrassed by how offhand I use the word. As if Ramadi were an experience shared between the two of us. As if it weren’t much worse for him.

  “I read it as a kid,” I say, before we can settle on the topic. “Just giving it another crack. He left some notes in here. Mostly in Arabic, but the ones in English, they’re pretty funny.” After a sip, I add, “Really, though. Quit it with the ‘sir.’”

  “You ever hear from him?”

  “Who? Dodge?” I say, like the idea of finding him never occurred to me. “Never even knew his real name.”

  “Doc does, I think. You ever get in touch with him?”

  Doc. Some of my guilt evaporates as the ploy backfires, and Zahn makes it clear that if I want to ask questions about Dodge, I’ll have to discuss Doc Pleasant.

  Clearly, Zahn hasn’t forgotten. And why should he?

  The bartender walks over before we can get into it, telling us we should leave.

  We walk back to my apartment the long way, enjoying the cool of the night. We chat like normal friends, forgetting all the facts that should make that impossible.

  At my apartment, Zahn sees just how I’m making out: a tattered old couch, a lonely chair, and a mattress wedged into a corner. It seems to set him at ease.

  He starts by investigating my book piles. “I’m noticing a real pattern here, sir.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “This one set of books? All about the boats? Kept nice and neat. This other set? A clusterfuck abortion. I get the sense that you don’t think much of advanced finance.”

  I go to the refrigerator and grab two beers. “Well, that’s not exactly true. Finance isn’t my favorite, but . . . I don’t mind it. Always liked math.”

  “Why are you in school, anyway? Thought you finished with all that a while back?”

  “Getting my master’s. The G.I. Bill is too good to pass up.” I open his beer for him. “How about you? Thinking of using your benefits?”

  I regret the question instantly. We had a nice conversation going, with none of the rank-based tension that so often poisoned our Humvee, and I had to ruin it, jumping in like the chipper lieutenant of old, with sprightly, unsolicited advice.

  But Zahn doesn’t seem too worried about it. “Never really been the college type,” he says, and we leave it at that.

  We empty my fridge of beer, get ourselves really drunk. He sits on the couch while I lie faceup on the floor, and we stay up all night talking. We talk about everything. About Gunny Stout. About Doc Pleasant and Dodge.

  We talk about the day Marceau started tap dancing. It began as combat satire, an attempt to blunt the tension of a mortar attack. With the alert siren wailing late one night, and the platoon scrambling into their body armor in advance of the impacts, Marceau cut a lane through the hut with a few self-stylized shim-sham moves, held his helmet against his chest like a chorus girl’s top hat, and ended with a real windmill flourish. That became his trademark. And somehow, despite the dozen times I saw him do it, it was always surprising and hilarious. He even ordered a set of instructional DVDs to watch on his laptop during off-hours, earnestly devoting himself to the art and craft of tap.

  Later, when we run out of funny stories, we talk about Gomez. Zahn says he went to see her in Dallas and met her sister.

  When I first ask the question, I refer to her as Sergeant Gomez. But when he answers, he calls her Michelle. It’s an admission on his part, as if I didn’t already know. But it seems important to him, this confession. I wonder if it has anything to do with his missing wedding ring.

  I don’t press him on it.

  “What about you?” I ask. “How have you been?”

  He shrugs. “Divorced.”

  “I was about to ask. Sorry to hear that.”

  “And I have the headaches. The kind that put you on the floor. Useless, you know? Just . . . losing time. Hour after hour. Waking up places, not knowing how I got there.”

  “I know,” I say, and somehow it’s the truth.

  “I won’t say it’s why I can’t hold a job. Doesn’t help, though. I’ve been to the VA, but the concussions aren’t in my file. Not service related.”

  “Because you don’t have a Purple Heart,” I say, before he has to.

  “Nope. Don’t have that.”

  It’s my fault, of course. When Zahn went down, we requested an urgent casualty evacuation, watched his temperature spike and his pulse slow subthirty. But it didn’t count. He wasn’t out for more than thirty seconds, and there weren’t any holes, no blood. Just a concussion. So no Purple Heart. That was the rule back then. I didn’t know it. I would’ve lied on the paperwork if I’d known.

  “And I have the bad dreams,” he continues.

  “Yeah, I used to be like that.” I sit up, roll my shoulders back, and present an image of confidence. Like when I was a lieutenant. It helps me lie. “I have dreams, still. But it’s different now. A couple times a week, I’m in the sky over the big lake. Just watching. Marines at Taqaddum load up convoys. Men from Ramadi creep out in their taxicabs, nursing those old crates through the checkpoints, perfectly calm. All around Habbaniyah and Fallujah. Right under the plateau. Right under our noses with those wired-up shells in the trunk.”

  “Yeah,” he sighs. “I know that one.”

  “Except lately I’m having a different one. I’m crossing the Atlantic in a sailboat. All alone. A storm’s coming, a gnarly, black squall-line. But I’m not even nervous. I just rig the storm sails and the weather vane to keep the boat facing into the wind and strap myself to the rail. The storm grows and the waves crash over me, but I don’t panic. I just let the wind take me, not scared at all.”

  “Huh,” Zahn grunts, looking for the point.

  “It just takes time,” I lie. “First you’re there. Then you’re watching. Then, a little while after that, you’re having different dreams entirely. Just takes time.”

  He gets up to grab the last two beers. “What about Doc Pleasant?” he asks again.
“Ever hear from him? He might need to hear something like that.”

  “No. I mean, I know he lives down here. Louisiana, somewhere.”

  “You should find him. Check in.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Might be good for you, too, sir.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  From: Hospitalman Third Class Lester Pleasant

  To: Commander, First Marine Expeditionary Force

  Re: Charge Sheet

  I have been advised by counsel that I am charged with violations of Article 121 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, namely larceny and wrongful appropriation of government property.

  I understand that I am subject to discharge from the service under other than honorable conditions. I understand that I am entitled to have my case heard by an administrative separation board.

  I hereby waive my right to a hearing. I will accept the ruling of my commanding officer. I have no statement to make in my own defense.

  Lester Pleasant

  Marceau made coffee so thick and strong you could stand your spoon up in it. Said he learned to make coffee down in the basement of the Cedar Rapids First Methodist. His parents would bring him along when they set up for meetings and have him make the coffee. Something to do, I guess. Something to keep him busy.

  Addicts like it strong, but little Marceau didn’t know that. Just grew up thinking this was, like, normal. That coffee any thinner than tar wasn’t worth shit.

  The other Marines in the platoon hated it at first. Banned him from the coffee mess. But after a while, when those days without sleep started piling on? Sergeant Gomez put Marceau back on coffee detail. And naturally she chewed his ass a little bit. Like it was his idea in the first place to stop making coffee. Marceau didn’t mind. Just smiled. Never seemed to get to him, that sort of thing.

  Real coffee, like the kind Marceau used to make? It’s the only reason I keep coming to these meetings. Sure, I haven’t got much else going on these days. But real coffee? A goddamn good reason to come to meetings even if I did.

  I take a three-swallow sip as a bearded roughneck goes up to get his one-month chip. Just came in from the Gulf, this guy. An hour off the crew boat, still wearing a blue jumpsuit smeared with muck from the bottom of the ocean. Didn’t even stop at home to change his clothes or get a hot shower. We give the guy a round of applause, and he smiles like he just won something.

  He wanted that chip so bad. Wanted it in his pocket before driving home past those highway bars. Places that would cash his check, no problem. I picture him jumping off that crew boat in a panic, throwing gravel as he peels away from the docks, running red lights all the way to the Houma First Baptist. A classic white-knuckle. Keeping a death grip on that chip, like it’s a lifeline. Like it’s real. But sooner or later, when he realizes that it’s just a goddamn poker chip, he’ll let go. Walk down to the bar, feel himself falling, and enjoy it.

  The applause fades and the meeting ends.

  The Baptists stand in a circle to say the Lord’s Prayer.

  The atheists gather over by the coffee to ask the universe, or whatever, for serenity.

  I walk between them, out through the double glass doors and into the quiet parking lot.

  Night turned cold since the meeting started. First cold night this winter. I jog to the truck with my hands down my pockets. The heater’s been broke for years, and the window on the driver’s side won’t roll up all the way. I tore out the carpet so it won’t stink when rain pools up on the floorboards. I never lock the door, just do a quick walk around before getting behind the wheel. Habit, I guess.

  My trauma bag sits on the passenger seat. Another old habit. I got my scissors and gauze in there. A few rolls of tape. I got a real compression bandage, and a combat tourniquet, too. Made it myself. Tied a length of webbing around a wooden spoon handle and sewed on some Velcro. Works pretty good.

  I got splints cut from old beadboard and a twelve-foot length of rope. I even got a packet of QuikClot. I stole that from the field hospital in Bahraia and smuggled it out through Kuwait when they sent me home. Reacts with the iron in your blood, this stuff. Cauterizes everything. Sprinkle it on a bad wound, then watch it catch fire. Smell it burning up.

  I got it all stuffed in my old backpack from high school. One of those green JanSports. Fits okay. Wish I had more room, though. Wish I could organize it just right. I need a few more compartments. All I got is the big one for books and the little one for pens.

  It’s all covered in black marker. Things I scribbled on there back in the day. Band names, mostly. Dumb ones, too. Bands even Dodge liked. I even got Judas Priest on there. When I look at that now, I’m like, Fuck Judas Priest. And anyway, they’re like cave paintings to me. Scribbled by some prehistoric dude with a torch, a charcoal nub, and some time on his hands.

  Got almost everything I need in there, though. And tactically rigged, too. Straps and slides all secured with electrical tape. Nothing dangles. Nothing makes noise. But I still wish I had more compartments.

  I leave the parking lot and turn south on the levee road. It’s late and cold, but Dad’s still out in the shed, probably. My blood gets up just thinking about it, and now I’ll stew about it the whole ride home. Stupid.

  It wasn’t a coincidence, him starting in with that tractor nonsense right when I got home. Needed a distraction from my bullshit, and I don’t blame him. But it’s years now, and he’s still trying to fix that thing. He’s clumsy, too. He’ll knock over a jack stand one night, grabbing for a wrench or something. He’ll kick it, not watching where he puts his feet. You have to watch where you put your feet.

  He ran away to that shed, and I went to my room and put my trauma bag together. Two boxers in their corners, waiting years for the bell. And this whole time I’ve been thinking about the fastest way out to that shed. Organizing my trauma bag, too. Making it perfect.

  It helped me gather my thoughts, at first. Helped calm me down. I even took the trauma bag with me to my first job interview. An ambulance job. Thought I’d just walk in the front door and tell the receptionist, “Hey, I’m a corpsman just home from Iraq. Was a combat medic for the Marines over there. Seen everything. Gunshot wounds. Traumatic amputations. Everything. So should I just jump in the next ambulance going out and get started, or what?”

  It wasn’t so simple, of course. Besides the application, they wanted to see things. Military documents and whatnot. I went all hot and red, lied and told the lady I had all that stuff out in my truck. She looked at me, with this heavy backpack on my shoulder, and raised her eyebrows. Like, “What you got in there, then?”

  I went out to my truck and punched the ceiling. Over and over, until my knuckles bled. Fucking idiot. Did I think they wouldn’t ask?

  So, I sat around for a few more months, until I ran out of money. Then I went back to work at the oil-change place. Same place I worked at in high school, same stuff I was doing before. All my high school friends are gone, years now. Finishing up college at Nicholls or working offshore. Some, like Landry and Paul, are just fucking around in New Orleans.

  I’ve been up there to see them a few times, Landry and Paul. They still message me once in a while saying I should come for the weekend. Still trying to convince me to move out my dad’s house. Landry messaged me just a few days ago. He and Paul are starting a new band, and he wants me to come see them play. Just the two of them, trying something new. There’ll be girls at the gig, he says. College girls.

  I get home a little faster than I should, driving too fast, turning off the highway and throwing gravel. Lights are on in the shed. Just like I knew they would be. Stupid.

  I park my truck and carry my trauma bag up the front steps. The door squeals on its hinges and I think about the rusted jack stands holding that damn tractor up. Those threads are gonna give out one day, and that tractor is gonna fall over. I imagine Dad pinned under the axle with his leg all crushed and bleeding out. All that thick, red blood. Thick with oxygen not go
ing where it’s supposed to. Oxygen just soaking into the dirt.

  Those spots where blood soaks in? Right into the dirt? Plants always grow there. I never knew that before. We’d convoy by the same places all the time, and all those places where I knew there’d been a lot of blood? Sure enough: green, healthy plants.

  But Dad . . . he’s always been clumsy. Knocked out my top-left incisor when I was twelve. We were working on my truck, the one that became mine anyway, and he spun around without looking and clocked me with an eight-pound wrench. Put a nice, big gap in the side of my smile. When I enlisted, it was like wearing a sign: LESTER PLEASANT: JOINED THE NAVY TO ESCAPE SOUTHERN POVERTY. I never thought of myself that way. Didn’t even know my missing tooth was all that obvious. Navy sure keyed in on it, though.

  The other sailors up at corpsman school—all those junior achievers?—they talked all about how the Navy would set them up for swank paramedic jobs back home. How they were only in it for the college money.

  “College money,” they’d say. “I’ll do four years at the pharmacy handing out pills, then go to nursing school with that college money.”

  Then they’d look at me, like four years of my company was the price they’d have to pay. But goddamn if I didn’t show them the minute I got my hands on a trauma kit. It was like I was born for it. They could see it, too. All those achievers. So could the instructors. None of them could lay a chest tube like me, rig a splint, or do a field tracheotomy. I aced all the written tests, too. A natural.

  I made first in the class. So, at graduation they gave me my choice of duty station. I picked corpsman, First Marine Expeditionary Force. This one sailor, this girl from Ohio, actually laughed out loud during the ceremony. Like, “Why the hell would he choose the Marines?”