Nelson DeMille - Spencerville

The men ranged in age from early twenties to late fifties, mostly good-old-boys as likely to buy you a beer as split your head with a barstool, and meaning nothing personal by either. The women were dressed like the men — jeans, running shoes, and T-shirts — and they smoked and drank beer from bottles like the men. All in all, it was a happy and peaceful enough crowd at this hour, though Keith knew from experience it could get a little rough later.

He swiveled his stool and watched the billiards game awhile. He'd had little opportunity to hang out in any of the few taverns in town because he'd been drafted and was being shot at about the time he could legally vote or drink. Now you could be shot at and vote, but still had to wait until you were twenty-one before you could order a beer. In any case, he'd hit John's Place and the Posthouse once in a while when he was home on leave, and he recalled that a good number of the men at the bars were recent veterans with some stories to tell, and some, like him, were in uniform and never had to buy a drink. Now, he suspected, most of the men in John's Place hadn't been far from home, and there seemed to him a sort of restless boredom among them, and he thought they had the look of men who had never experienced any significant rite of passage into manhood.

He didn't recognize any of the men his own age, but one of them at the end of the bar kept looking at him, and Keith watched the guy out of the corner of his eye.

The man got off his stool and ambled down the bar, stopping directly in front of Keith. "I know you."

Keith looked at the man. He was tall, scrawny, had blond hair down to his shoulders, bad teeth, sallow skin, and sunken eyes. The long hair, the jeans and T-shirt, and the man's mannerisms and voice suggested a man in his twenties, but the face was much older. He said in a loud, slurred voice, "I know who you are."

"Who am I?"

"Keith Landry." A few of the men around them glanced their way, but otherwise seemed disinterested.

Keith looked at the man again, and realized that he did know him.

He said, "Right, you're..."

"Come on, Keith. You know me."

Keith searched his memory, and a profusion of high school faces raced through his mind. Finally, he said, "Billy Marlon."

"Yeah! Hell, man, we was buddies." Marlon slapped Keith on the shoulder, then pumped his hand. "How the hell are ya?"

Keith thought perhaps he should have gone to the Posthouse instead. "Fine. How are you, Billy?"

"Just great! All fucked-up!"

"Buy you a beer?"

"Sure can."

Keith ordered two more Budweisers.

Billy sidled up next to him at the bar and leaned close enough for Keith to smell the beer on him, and other odors. Billy said, "Hey, man, this is great."

"Sure is."

"Hey, you look great, man."

"Thanks."

"What the hell you doin' here?"

"Just visiting."

"Yeah? That's great, man. How long you been back?"

"A few weeks."

"No shit? Great to see you."

Obviously, Billy Marlon was happy to see him. Keith tried to recall what he knew of Billy, what they'd had in common, so he could carry his end of what promised to be a stupid conversation. Finally, it all came back to Keith as Billy jabbered away. Marlon had been on the football team with him, had played halfback, but not very well, and mostly sat on the bench cheering on the starting lineup. Marlon had been the sort of kid who wanted to be liked, and there was little not to like about him, objectively, but most people found him annoying. In fact, Keith still found him likable and annoying.

Marlon asked, "You get fucked-up in Vietnam?"

"Probably."

"Me, too. You was with the First Cav. Right?"

"Right."

"Yeah, I remember that. Your mom was worried sick. I told her you'd be okay. Hell, if a fuckup like me could survive, a guy like you would be okay."

"Thanks." Keith recalled that Billy had been drafted right out of high school. Keith had availed himself of the college draft deferment, which in retrospect was a monumental government blunder. The rich, the bright, the privileged, and anyone else who could get into college had four good years of protesting the war or ignoring it, while the poor and stupid got killed and maimed. But instead of the war ending in a reasonably acceptable time frame, it went on, and the college graduates, like himself, started getting called. By the time he got to Vietnam, Billy Marlon and most of his high school class were already out of the Army or dead.

Billy said, "I was with the Twenty-fifth Division — Jungle Lightning. We kicked some gook ass over there."

"Good." But not enough gook ass to end the damned thing. "You saw some shit, too."

"Yes, I did." Apparently, Billy had been following Keith's Army career while probably regaling Spencerville with his own exploits. "You kill anybody?" Billy asked. "I mean up close."

"I think so."

"It's a kick."

"No, it's not."

Billy thought a minute, then nodded. "No, it's... but it's hard to forget it."

"Try."

"I can't, man. You know? I still can't."

Keith looked at his former classmate. Clearly, Billy Marlon had degenerated. Keith asked, "What have you been up to?"

"Oh, shit, not too much. Married twice, divorced twice. Got kids from the first marriage. They's all growed now and live in Fort Wayne. They went there when they was young with their mother. She married some, like, asshole, you know, and I never really seen the kids. Second wife... she moved away." He went on, relating a predictably barren life to Keith, who was not surprised by any of it, except when Billy said, "Shit, I wish I could do it over again."

"Yeah, well, everybody feels a little of that. But maybe it's time to go on."

"Yeah. I keep meaning to go on."

"Where you working?"

"No place. I do odd jobs. Do some hunting and fishing. I live a mile outside of town, west of here, got a whole farmhouse to myself. All I got to do is look after the place. Retired people living with one of their kids in California. Cowley. You know them?"

"Sounds familiar."

"They got the place sold now, so I got to find something else by November."

"Why don't you check yourself into a veterans' hospital?"

"Why? I ain't sick."

"You don't look well."

"Ah, I've been pounding the suds too much since I learned I got to move. I get real nervous when I don't have no place to live. I'll be okay."

"Good."

"Where you stayin'?"

"My folks' place."

"Yeah? Hey, if you need company, I can pay a little rent, do the chores, put some game on the table."

"I'll be gone by November. But I'll see what I can do for you before I leave."

"Hey, thanks. But I'll be okay."

Keith ordered two more beers.

Billy inquired, "What're you doin' for a living?"

"Retired."

"Yeah? From what?"

"Government."

"No shit. Hey, you seen anybody since you been back?"

"No. Well, I saw Jeffrey Porter. Remember him?"

"Hell, yeah. I seen him a few times. He don't have much to say."

They spoke a while longer, and it was obvious to Keith that Billy was too drunk. Keith looked at his watch and said, "Hey, I've got to run." He put a twenty on the bar and said to the bartender, "Give my friend one more, then maybe he should head home."

The bartender pushed the twenty back to Keith and said, "He's cut off right now."

Billy made a whining sound. "Aw, come on, Al. Man wants to buy me a drink."

"Finish what you got and be off."

Keith left the twenty on the bar and said to Billy, "Take that and go home. I'll stop by one day before I leave."

"Hey, great, man. See ya." Billy watched him as he left, and waved. "Great to see ya, Keith."

Keith went out into the fresh air. The Posthouse was on the other side of Courthouse Square, and Keith crossed the street and began walking through the park.