T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

Wexler and Sammy were playing cards on the front porch. A sheet of gray clouds hung low in the sky. Achilles honked from the street. Wexler waved. Achilles honked again.

They waved him up to the porch and returned their attention to the game. Achilles trotted up, marched Sammy to the car and buckled him in, then stomped back to the porch.

The floorboards creaked as Wexler shifted his weight. “He’s a natural card shark. Better than the Duke,” he said, flashing his grin, as if to say, All is forgotten.

Shot through with love, Achilles closed the distance and wrapped Wexler in a bear hug. When Achilles at last felt his friend hug him back, he said, “Thank you.”

Stepping back, he opened his mouth to say good-bye, but settled for raising his hand. As he walked back to his car and pulled away, he didn’t look back, careful to avoid seeing Wexler make those stiff turns and limp back into the house. He didn’t turn even to look in the rearview mirror when Wexler called, “Connie, wait.”

As they drove off, Achilles said, “Remember what I said earlier, right Sammy?”

Sammy nodded. “Brothers keep secrets.”

“That’s right. And where were we?” asked Achilles.

“We were talking to Merrywhen, Mary …”

“Merriweather,” said Achilles.

“Merriweather. Right!” He smiled with satisfaction, settling back into the seat.

“Because?” asked Achilles.

“Because of the funeral. Because Wexler is dead.”

As he drove, Achilles snuck sideways glances at Sammy. In the hotel lot, Sammy asked, “Why does your friend walk like a robot?”

“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“And where were you?” asked Sammy.

Troy asked a lot of questions too. Why aren’t my palms the same color as my skin? Why isn’t my skin the same color as yours? Why is Achilles so much darker than the rest of us? Why did our parents give us away? Were we bad? Can they take us back? Why do we have a menorah if we’re not Jewish? Achilles was embarrassed by these dumb questions to which even he knew the answers. The skin in our palms has less melanin, is thicker, and has keratinocytes. We’re black, but our parents are white because their ancestors evolved in different climates. Melanin comes in two types, pheomelanin, which is red, and eumelanin, which is very dark brown. I have more eumelanin, which was determined by four to six genes that I inherited from each parent. We didn’t do anything wrong. No one can take us back or return us. We’re not on loan like library books or returnable like merchandise. And, that’s a kinara, not a menorah. Achilles had answered with disdain, realizing now that he knew the answers because he had asked the same questions.

There were also unasked questions. If he’d been Troy’s complexion, would girls have liked him more? If he hadn’t had a brother, would he have been his father’s favorite? He’d envied his brother, his ease, the way the air parted for him, the way Troy wasn’t followed in the store or pulled over when their mother sent him on an errand, or triple-checked at the bank, all things that Achilles never told his parents about because they never happened when he was with them, and they never happened to Troy. So it had to be Achilles’s fault. Yes, he’d envied his brother’s skin, his “light-complected” genes. Yes, he’d begged, entreated, pleaded with Troy to tell no one that they were adopted so that his brother’s skin could be his own.

SOME ARE BROWN, MOST ARE BLACK. SOME ARE SLEEK, MOST MATTE. SOME textured, most flat. A few have bright splashes of color for the younger crowd, on others are earth tones for the mature customer. The greens vary from light to verdant, the browns from oak to mahogany, the camouflage from desert to woodland to traditional. Long barrels, bolt action, breach loaders. Large caliber for game. Target pistols for sport. Air rifles for children. Being a sporting goods store, they stocked oddities like a fluorescent orange shotgun, a handgun with plastic ribs lending it the futuristic look of a laser pistol, and a selection of gift sets with matching knives, holsters, and ammo bags, all nested in festively colored molded plastic inside cellophane-wrapped boxes adorned with glossy photos of bucks and buxom women. Achilles settled on a black.260, a handsome machine with clean lines, a smooth wooden butt, and none of the superfluous attachments that make cheaper rifles and pistols more attractive to kids. It was pricey but reliable, important because he hadn’t time to zero the sights. The rifle was one that aficionados consider well made, manufactured by an Eastern European company with the unofficial slogan Preager Velond Pistols, Intl. — When the shooter wants to send the very best.

Not all agreed. Among his friends, five loved Preagers; four thought them acceptable. They also disagreed on the best SAW. Three said RPK because it was a lighter gun. The rest liked the Browning because it had more firepower. It was a moot debate, because they were assigned the RPK. They argued anyway — what else was there to do when there was nothing around to shoot at? They also disagreed about the best heavyweight boxer of all time, the most realistic version of Madden NFL, and what to do if killed. Most said, “Burn my body.” Jackson, Wexler, and Ramirez were holding out for resurrection. This conversation started the week before Jackson died, prompted by another squad humping a fallen friend across three clicks of mountainous terrain.

Wages said, “I don’t care if I look like a bag of smashed assholes. Mail me back to Nola. I don’t care what’s left.”

Merri said, “Mamma don’t need to see me all like chicken parts and shit.”

Jackson said, “If nothing’s left but smoking nuts, ship those salty apples home.”

They did. Jackson’s corpse traveled with them for a day, getting a whirlwind tour of southeast Goddamnistan, as Dixon dubbed it the day of the IED. Jackson’s body was with them when Wexler lost his mind, when Merriweather got shot, and when Wages took out that sniper. A rough forty-eight, and halfway through it, Merriweather suggested the tax, the only thing the squad agreed on. Merri, who prayed silently each a.m., tapped Jackson’s black body bag and said, “I know they’re treating you well up there, my man.” He later followed with, “What are we doing? We need to tax these fuckers.”

Their first consensus. Tax those motherfuckers. Fuck interrogation and dropping mofos off for AI. If I get smoked, level the place, go Vietnam on them, get medieval, like the Crusades and shit. Get jiggy-Jihadi-Hutu-Tutsi right back at them.

Dixon said, “Yeah baby. I like the cut of your chin.”

Wexler, who usually kicked dust on the topic, chimed in. “Torch it all.”

“That won’t get you into heaven,” said Dixon.

“It will make us feel better,” said Troy.

“Right on! Eat that anger. We don’t get down, we get even,” said Merriweather.

Can you go to both heavens? Can you bring the virgins to our heaven? Jokes circled the room, including mention that Hitler killed ten to one. At that Wages cut them off: “Everyone is going home, in one piece.” It was decided, though — manifest extreme prejudice.

As Achilles planned to. Would he have told Troy? Yes, and Troy would have joined him. Troy had heart, prey drive. Achilles always knew he could trust his brother without question. He remembered their big fight over the truck, tumbling down the driveway. Their mother running outside screaming, their father on her heels with his rifle, laughing once he saw that it was only his sons who had provoked his wife’s howling anger. And why were they fighting? Their father chuckled at the explanation. Their mother cursed and pushed — yes, pushed — them into two separate rooms and asked them again. Two hours later, their answers remained the same. Troy (on a Britpop kick) was like, “Because Achilles is a right faggot.” Achilles (on an NWA kick) was like, “Because Troy is a spoiled punkass bitch.” As far as Achilles knew, the truth died with Troy, as did the day they skipped school to go into DC for the Chuck Brown performance, and how the garage window really broke. What about all the habits he didn’t have to explain (mayonnaise on eggs, that he shit every night at four a.m. local time, how Jet magazine gave him a hard-on)? What else did only Troy know about him? What had he forgotten about himself that died with his brother? Which of those things, if any, could he tell Ines? He would make a list and carry it with him.