T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

“Of course,” he said, wanting to use Merriweather’s line— Do you have any black in you? — so she could say no, and he could ask, Do you want some? Was she the demure type who wanted to be ravaged or the aggressive mare who wanted you to don spurs and slap her ass? Did she say shit like, “Give me that black dick, give it to me Daddy”? Did she shave her pussy? What did it smell like? Did she swallow? Do anal? Had she been with a black guy before? Weren’t most people in New Orleans Catholic? Did that make her a dirty virgin? He’d slip his thumb in when she came. He’d always wanted to do that. Yes. He’d slip his thumb into her ass on the first go-round, just to let her know he’s a cave dweller. A spelunker (another word he learned from the Germans in the next camp). No, he wouldn’t buck being her soup-kitchen commando. Besides, Merriweather always said, “When a woman kings you, wear the crown.”

And he felt like a king, until she mentioned having noticed his fondness for certain jokes. Did he know more?

She must have overheard him swapping jokes with the volunteers at St. Jude. Achilles knew he should remain stone-faced, but being alone with her made him so giddy — yes, giddy — that he rambled off a list. What do you call a cleric on fire? Why shouldn’t civilians carry guns? Why do blacks prefer the air force? How do you get an Afghan to take a bath? How many Kurds fit in a phone booth? What do you call a thousand Iraqis at the bottom of the ocean? How does an Afghan practice safe sex?

“He marks the camels that kick,” said Ines.

“What’s Afghanistan’s national bird?” asked Achilles.

“Duck,” said Ines.

“What do you throw a drowning Afghan?” asked Achilles.

“His wife and kids,” said Ines. “Yadda, yadda, and what do you call an Afghan cleric?

“Holy shit,” said Achilles. “You know them all.”

She nodded. “And they’re not funny, unless you have a soldier’s sense of humor.”

Ines slapped the table, spreading her long thin fingers as if to keep it from floating away. “Well?” She slapped the table again. “Are they funny?”

Of course they were. Did he have a soldier’s sense of humor? Yes. They put the fun in funeral. They laughed when heads scalped by shrapnel were dubbed sundaes, or when tossing grenades became known as blowing kisses, while throwing up became known as tossing a grenade. They laughed in the hospital when Merriweather screwed on his roommate’s foot, the one that looked like a giant ice cream scoop, and said “Transformer, motherfuckers. Take me to Baskin Robbins.” When you were mad enough to punch a baby, there was little to do but laugh until the blood left your feet. But this was the interview, so he gave the interview answer: “Of course they’re not funny.”

“I knew you were different, but not that much.” She winked. “Why aren’t there any Walmarts in Afghanistan?” she asked, adding a sneer certainly meant to make him think she believed what she was saying, but that he recognized as her disgust at the joke.

“Because there’s a Target on every corner.” Achilles snorted, unsuccessful in his attempt to hold back his laughter. “But I’m laughing at you, not the joke.”

“Of course,” said Ines. She finished her coffee and motioned for the check.

“You were serious about only one?”

Ines stared at him for a moment before saying, “I should probably see the other guys.”

Achilles nodded. “It’s nothing, really.”

He insisted on walking Ines to her car — a beat-up Carmen Ghia. Before getting into her car, she reached out and touched the scratch under his eye. “So who’s your brother, Odysseus?”

Waiting for his answer, she buckled in and when she turned back to him, the moon was in her eyes and he knew that he was the soldier who’d saved her life, noble and august, tall and true, and part of him rejoiced that Troy wasn’t there to take that away. He said, “It was this or Hercules.”

Ines said, “I guess it’s no different than Biblical names, or us naming kids after famous Americans. How many Abraham Leroy Lincolns and George Washington Johnsons do you know?”

Achilles shrugged. He knew none.

“Exactly. Too many to count,” said Ines, starting her engine. The car rattled like it was going to take flight, or disintegrate. The body was mottled with primer and rust, the original yellow faded to the color of earwax and the left taillight covered with an oversized bandage. It was the kind of beater rich kids tooled around in on weekdays, the kind of car a poor person would actually fix.

“When can I see you again?”

“I have a boyfriend, Achilles. As I said, I only wanted to thank you for your help and share a different side of Nola. I’ll be seeing you.”

“Do you have Margaret’s number?”

“Of course.” She scowled and drove off.

Back at Wages’s he tossed and turned, albeit dressed. That feeling he first had when Wexler ran into the minefield, which subsided after his discharge, was stronger than ever in New Orleans. A kind of paranoia, it was the suspicion that his life was irreparably damaged, that everything he touched was scarred and singed. His grandfather always said, “Don’t write checks your ass can’t cash.” After a few weeks in Kabul, Achilles knew he was writing checks that other people’s asses were cashing.

It was like the book they read in middle school about the big dumb guy who pet rabbits to death because he didn’t know his own strength, or understand his place in the world. When Achilles first read it, the book meant little to him, but he thought about the story during every leave and wondered how he and his friends would fit into the world now that they knew what they were capable of doing. Wages was at the casino. Wexler worked construction. Merriweather was looking for a part-time job with kids. No purpose. Unlike Ines.

Ines. The taut pull of the T-shirt across her chest, the gentle curve of her belly, the shake when she walked. Those glossy heart-shaped lips, kissing question marks. His dick in those lips, a kind of Cupid. His groin felt heavy as his cock thickened. He saw Ines bent over the sofa, ass poked up, cheeks blossomed out, looking back in shock as he rammed into her, biting the pillow to keep from screaming. He would pause for a minute and let her savor the sensation of being impaled by his meat sword. Then withdraw, and return so slowly she’d wonder if it’d ever stop coming, like a long train easing into a tunnel. She’d look back at him with that face that said she worshipped him.

Just as Achilles began kneading his dick, Wages came stomping down the hall. “Have you tried calling boardinghouses?”

Achilles couldn’t see the bottle but heard sloshing liquid. He pulled the covers over his head.

“He has to be staying somewhere. Let’s get oscar-mike, Connie.”

Hearing his army nickname, Achilles perked up. His hand to his ear like a phone, he said, in a bad British accent, “Conroy’s room please.”

“I’m serious and you’re doing a bad Slurpee slinger impression.”

As his erection subsided, Achilles admitted it wasn’t a bad idea. This was the time Troy would most likely be in. Over the next hour, they called every hotel to no avail. Achilles experienced the same intense disappointment he’d known at the green camelback. Wages also looked forlorn, like it was his damned brother missing.

“We tried.” Why was he consoling Wages just because Wages had to be in charge of everything? It was four a.m. Bethany would be home any minute, see him getting drunk only hours before his shift, and give Achilles the stink eye. Hadn’t she known he liked to drink when they married? Everyone else knew. He didn’t cause trouble, but he had a high capacity for high octane, as he put it. Achilles cocooned himself in the sheet and dove onto the couch. “Good night!”