T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

“I never was good at corners,” said Wages. “Believe it or not, it was the pressure. You’re out there by yourself, and everyone’s looking for you to make a difficult assist or an impossible shot. At least you have a chance with a penalty kick. A corner is shooting into a crowd, hoping to hit the right person, while everyone jostles to jump on the bullet.”

The high-pitched pandemonium of children’s laughter drifted over to them, galloping above the bel canto of the ducks. On the field behind them, smaller children played soccer.

“That’ll be you soon.”

“What? I’ll be young again? Go through this shit again? Fuck that.” Wages spat. “You know she did it so I won’t go back.”

“What?” asked Achilles.

“Got pregnant. It’s an emotional ambush,” said Wages, lighting a cigarette.

What about the photos, the starfish card, the closet they were converting to a nursery? He’d thought Wages happy.

“I sent her money and all. She didn’t need to work while I was away. It was better that she concentrated on school, on the nursing degree, and kept busy. She didn’t have to work. She had it all. That’s why I couldn’t save any fucking cash. Still she went and did this to me. I got to get up at the fucking crack of my ass every damn dawn to search people and make sure they aren’t stealing from a casino . I didn’t wear a suit before except for a funeral. Now I’m sporting these secondhand undertaker jobs and VFW bingo shoes because my feet are killing me from that fucking shrapnel.”

Wages held his hands palms up, like he was holding a bowl. “Eight years in. I was going career. I ran a clearing squad without a single casualty. I lead a team that rescued three POWs. I took down a sniper. And now, I’m making sure someone ain’t stealing from a casino? I’m protecting the bandits, like the first time wasn’t bad enough. There’s my supervisor, fat fuck, heaving and whatnot when he walks, can’t even halfway fit his fat ass through the door — no lie — a fucking pumpkin on toothpicks telling me what to do every day. He’s so fucking fat in the face and his cheeks are so big and his lips are so little and his goatee so wild it’s like having a conversation with a hairy asshole. I’m a fucking professional soldier. He pokes me in the chest sometimes. But, I got a kid on the way. I worked so hard to get out of that fucking old uniform. I started in the kitchen. Me! Catching the bus home in a uniform. You could change, then your clothes smell like that nasty dishwater. Imagine being on the bus with people asking you about hot slots.” Wages shook his head. He ground out his cigarette, abrading the filter and scattering the tobacco until there was not a trace. “You need a job? I can get you a job. I’ve at least got that pull.”

“No.”

“What’s up with your woman?” asked Wages.

“Nothing serious,” said Achilles, surprised by the sudden turn.

“Nothing serious doesn’t happen three nights in a row,” said Wages. “Playah!”

“I’m just Achilles.”

Wages laughed. “Right, Player. Nothing serious? That’s always how it starts. Then, you’re stuck. It’s not like I want anyone else. I just don’t want her making decisions for me. All the while before people were making decisions for me. You know what I mean, especially with Troy’s reckless ass. People do shit, then suddenly you’re obligated. Women will emotionally ambush you. The domestic I-E-D is ‘improvised emotional device.’”

A woman walked by pushing a stroller with twins.

“Remember the Krugers?” asked Wages.

Achilles nodded. The Krugers were three brothers stationed together. Everyone said it was a stupid idea, until two died on the same mission. Then no one mentioned it at all. “Kruger” became synonymous with bad luck.

“We’re lucky, ain’t we,” said Wages.

“Luckier than most,” said Achilles.

“What did Jackson always say?” asked Wages.

In unison, Wages and Achilles said, “God loves everybody, he just loves some of us more.” They fell into raucous laughter, bobbing their heads like rappers as they listed everyone that God didn’t like, chanting the words to the beat of Jay-Z’s Hard Knock Life , but changing the chorus to Jesus Christ don’t like that shit! Jesus didn’t like: the Taliban; the young, orange-bearded herder struck down trying to save his goat from being run over; Nintendo; the local who scrambled off with an armful of their bootleg DVDs and ran right into the minefield behind the school (everyone else knew it was there); all insurgents, everywhere, all the time; flat-chested women; or Kurds: many had incurred the Lord’s displeasure. On the other hand, God loved the Airborne, all Infantry, all Rangers, most Marines, some air force enlisted, three sailors, a few Canadians, good mess cooks, America, tits, Xbox, oral, and soccer players. By unspoken agreement, they didn’t mention Ramirez, Lionel Dinkins, Merri’s kid, or Jackson, who’d always hated that song.

One of the younger kids shooting the free kicks overshot the goal, and the ball rolled toward them. Wages adroitly used his foot to pop the ball up to his hand, holding the ball overhead until the boy was close enough to hear Wages advise, “Use less toe.” Wages dropped the ball to his foot, balanced it on his instep, and lobbed it to the kid, who yelled his thanks. The kid scored on his next shot and beamed a smile at Wages, who waved back.

Wages pointed at the kids on the other field who were on their backs in a stretching circle. “Remember those three guys with their heads and feet all to one side?”

“No.”

“Outside Faizabad. All lined up like hieroglyphics.”

“Nope.”

“The three, all looking south,” said Wages, gesturing excitedly, moving his head and arms like a dancer in that old Bangles video. “Doing that sand dance. Remember?”

“Yeah,” said Achilles, though he didn’t.

“I knew I wasn’t imagining that shit,” said Wages, punching Achilles on the arm. “You going to be here on Turkey Day? We’re going to her parents’ on the North Shore.”

“I don’t know.” That was still a couple weeks away. Achilles hadn’t thought that far ahead. His plan B was reenlist. His plan A, he hadn’t yet conceived. “Should I be gone by then?”

Wages grabbed him by the arm and shoulder and gave him the micro, a close stare. “You don’t ever have to be gone. The pact stands. Wife or no wife, kid or no kid. There’s a place for you like there’s a place every time Bethany’s sister gets fired or her boyfriend gets sick of her tired-ass pussy and tosses her out. I endure all her friends and all the crazy couple activities. Movie and dinner. Wine-tasting shit. Even ballroom dancing, once. I endure those dudes run by their bitches. You dial them up and the wife wants to talk to you first. ‘How are you? How’s Bethany? Did y’all see so-and-so movie?’ Sometimes you just wanna talk to the man. I compromise a lot.” Wages nodded until Achilles joined him. “So, don’t insult me by saying you’ll be gone. And don’t worry if she looks pissy sometimes. It’s like a nine-month period and, anyway, a woman’s got to have something to be upset about. Besides, you’re the godfather.”

Achilles nodded. Did that include responsibility, or just fucking people up if they messed with the kid?

“Let’s get that beer,” said Wages. But instead of walking toward the road, Wages turned and walked closer to the lake. His back to Achilles, Wages said, “Don’t worry about her. I’ll say sorry, kiss her up, you know — flowers, chocolate, scrambled eggs — love her up, shoot her in the ass with the cat pistol to show her who’s boss. It’s not like I torqued her. A woman will always give you a second chance if you love her, right?” He faced Achilles. “I never did that before. I swear. You know that, don’t you Connie?”