David Corbett: Do They Know I'm Running

He sat propped on pillows in the mangled bed, his altar to insomnia, the bedside lamp still burning. Soon daybreak would smear the curtains with its buttery gray light. He shuddered. Strange, fearing the night, lying awake with the room all lit up like you’re some sniveling bed wetter, only to dread the dawn.

Across the room the rabbit-eared TV flickered. Nothing to watch at this hour, of course, just news any idiot could see through, no-name reruns. He’d squelched the sound, only to conjure not silence but the usual holocaust zoo tramping through his brain.

Focus on the physical, he reminded himself-the moment, as they say. The doughy mattress sighed beneath his weight. Armpit stench and foot funk added a manly tang. The rest of him was a wreck. He’d been hard and sleek after basic, plenty of PT, then hulking around the scalding desert with seventy pounds of gear, buffed and brutal. Now? A hundred and eighty pounds of discharge, a mess in the bed, a hash of scars weepy with some nagging infection.

As for his face, well. It was all still there, basically, and that was no small matter. He’d met another jarhead in the ward at Landstuhl who’d been trapped in a burning truck, an IED attack, all the flesh of his face melting from the heat. The doctors tried to put something back but there’s only so much magic in the bag. The guy came away hairless, beardless, his face a kind of mask-no chin, no ears, no nose-his remolded skin this mottled waxy pink. Sent home like that to Parkersburg and his hillbilly bride-to-be.

So, Godo thought, things could be worse. Nice mantra. Next time you’re in the moment.

He licked his rough lips, already parched again, but resisted the urge for another brew. Two six-packs down, plus Percocet for the pain, a Lexapro chaser for the depression, erythromycin for the nagging infection in his leg-so it went, every night, flirting with sleep, chasing off the sickness, the ghosts.

He’d made it through the night okay, though. Mostly. Nothing too stark, thank God. Just the Al Gharraf firefight in scattershot flashback, strobing through memory, blending with Diwaniyah, Fallujah… The jittery images stitched back around through memory on endless rewind-the crippling light of an RPG, deafening chaos, tracers vanishing into shadow, the shadows firing back, and the staggering upchuck stench of blood and shit everywhere, men he knew. Himself.

He pinched the bridge of his nose until polarized geometries flared and whirled on the backs of his eyelids, then his hand moved on, gently fingering the pitted scars on his face. Little ugly cousins to the ones on his legs, his arms, dozens of them, jagged red clots of seared flesh. Shrapnel so hot it cauterized its own scalding wounds. Not Al Gharraf or Diwaniyah or Fallujah. That other thing. But don’t go there. You held it at bay all night, don’t give in now. Be strong. Down that rathole lies the guilt. And, you know, screw that.

A tear threaded down his cheek. He made no move to wipe it away, preferring to pretend it wasn’t there. Instead, he reached up and gripped his head, as though to keep it whole. An invisible hatchet cleaved his skull and he fought back a scream, begging for time to pass, so he could take another Perc, the pain a banshee inside his skull. Breathe, he told himself. Pain is just there to betray you. Pain is illusion.

Time passed… two minutes… five… Gradually the banshee’s wail subsided, leaving a backwash of dread and leaden numbness. But that was okay. That was pretty good, actually.

He dropped his hands from his head and rose onto one elbow to liberate a hissing fart, then the next thing he knew a dog appeared in his mind’s eye, scavenging at dawn. Christ no, he thought, why now? He noticed it then-first light, the curtains-and everything coalesced. There they were, his squaddies, geared up in full battle-rattle, high on Rip It or ephedra or coffee crystals swallowed dry, Chavous in the Humvee turret manning the Mark 19, the rest lugging their M16s, throwing down the checkpoint… a crunching hardpack underfoot, the sky a whirl of grit, ominous flares of dawnlight in the east… the family of four, dad in his rumpled suit, mom in her hijāb , the bug-eyed boy, the swaddled infant, crammed into their rust-bucket Cressida with the single headlight… the horn-honking American pistoleros in their black Chevy Blazer, drunk on their own swagger behind the tinted glass… a shouting match with the Blazer’s driver, a dare, Godo’s big macho fuckup… the emaciated dog, arch-backed and trembling, lingering in the corner of his eye… noticed too late, the haji in the full-length abaya , garb of a woman, walk of a man, strolling up to the checkpoint… Godo preoccupied, Gunnery Sergeant Benedict stepping forward to cut off the cross-dressing haji… then the sheering blast of scalding light, ripping good Gunny Benedict into blood and wind.

Cutting the world in two, before and after.

His hand lurched toward the nightstand, reaching for the pill bottle, but he caught himself, drew back the hand. No. No more Perc, not yet. Not that kind of pain. Unless you down them all.

Better yet, a weapon. He had a Beretta 9mm in the drawer, two loaded clips, a.357 Smithy with speed loaders under the bed, keeping company with a Remington pump. Name one man who returned from war, he thought, and didn’t weapon up, if only to cut short the weirdness.

He closed his eyes. In time the dread and self-pity drifted back into the toxic beery Percocet fog. He forgot what he’d been thinking.

A timid knock at the door. “Godo?”

Roque peered in. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks flushed. He’d run home from somewhere. The big mystery-where?

Roque said, “You awake?”

“Take a wild guess.”

Roque ventured in, profile dappled with color as he snuck a glance at the TV. Godo had to admit it stung, knowing his hotshot musician faggot little brother wouldn’t share the room anymore. Neither of them could be quite sure what might happen when Godo shot up in bed in a howling sweat. But Roque wasn’t camped out on the front-room couch, either. He was sneaking out at night, getting some action, some poon, some pashpa . It was one more thing to hate him for-they were brothers, after all.

“It’s time to check your leg.” Roque turned away from the TV. “The dressing, I mean.”

“It’s fine.”

“You always say that.”

Godo cocked a smile, clasping his hands behind his head. “Really? Hey, here’s a thought.” He belched.

“When’s the last time you looked?”

“Oh, blow me.”

Somewhere outside a car door slammed. A dog started to bark. Like that, the thing materialized in the corner of his eye again: starving, child-eyed, razor thin, slinking in the rubble, waiting for a corpse to feed on. Benedict’s corpse, what was left of it.

Roque pointed to the leg. “You want to go back to the ER?”

Godo snapped to. “What?”

“You want to go back to the ER, have them drain off another six ounces of pus?”

“I want six ounces of pus, I’ll drain your dick. Where you sleeping these nights?”

Roque blushed. Godo wagged a knowing finger.

“Roquito’s got himself a mamasota .”

“Shut up.”

“Got himself a scraggle, a gack. A little bicha .”

Outside, another car door slammed. The dog’s barking grew more crazed. Godo felt a prickling of sweat on his neck. Hard to explain to people, this thing he had with dogs now.

“Godo, please, I need-”

“Que vergón, cabroncito .”

“I need to check the dressing on your leg.”

“Come on, humor me-who’s the lucky squirrel?”

For the merest second, a defiant gleam enlivened Roque’s eyes. He was pissed. Here it comes, Godo thought. Gonna tell me how hot his mamita is, maybe even spit out her name. But before that could happen Roque’s expression regained its put-upon blankness.