T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

She collapsed, her soaked body quivering with each sob. Curling into a fetal position, she kicked her shoebox into the water. Achilles managed to grab it before it sank, but several of the photos were wet. Daddy Mention was studying the sky, biting his lips. Vodka’s mouth was pursed, like he had bitten something sour. Wilson kept wiping his eyes. Bryant was blinking like he had salt in his. The soldiers on the platform were breathing heavy, one with his hands on his knees. The other one pointed his weapon at Achilles. “What about him?”

“What the fuck about me?” yelled Achilles. “You couldn’t even handle her.”

“He’s with us,” explained Vodka.

“He better watch his attitude.”

“You need to watch talking about me like I’m not here.” Achilles thrust his chest out. The soldiers fingered their rifles.

“He’s a two-timer, and he’s helping us out here.”

The soldiers lowered their rifles.

It was decided that they’d get Achilles a badge, a nametag, something, anything . As Vodka said, “Otherwise, it’s like someone finds your pit bull walking the street and they just want to put it to sleep.”

“I know that’s right,” said Daddy Mention. “A zigga can take one look at you and see you’re nothing but trouble.”

And it wasn’t even noon.

Nola had lost the extra pounds she’d gained over the years and fit back into her prom dress: the high ground of the French Quarter, the original borders, where Charlie 1 spent their nights crawling up her skirt to hang out at Jock-Os on Bourbon Street.

Up and down the strip, the few people who were out moved in clusters and bumped into each other, though the street was nearly vacant. A street preacher, who had often stood outside St. Jude, warned them all: “Repent, repent. Fold yourself into the wings of the Lord.” He had a new sandwich board. The front read, The Lord Has Spoken, And You Have Not Listened. Don’t Make Him Tell You Again. On the back were Bible verses, mostly from Genesis and Revelations. Inside the bar, the whole company gathered and played pool and shot the shit in the back room. When gunfire went off, everyone scrambled to write their name on a dollar and toss it in a hat. The money was divided between those who correctly guessed the caliber of the weapon. Vodka played one dollar, to save face it seemed, Bryant played none, and Daddy Mention always played five and usually won. As he explained, “I’m from West Oakland.” They were just like his old crew. Bryant was Wexler, Vodka was Wages, and Daddy Mention was Merriweather; he even slapped his hands on the table every time he stood, like he’d had enough.

And passing through the bar to the bathroom, the snippets of conversation were just what Achilles remembered. Sometimes you have to backhand these heifers on the ass. Ugly girls give better head. This dude running around like he was on fire, well, he was on fire, but … His ass could be his mouth and you wouldn’t know the difference. Jesus loves NASCAR. The obsessions were the same as well. Charlie 3 was upset because they hadn’t seen anyone except two Israeli commandos doing private security in Uptown. Charlie 2 bragged about seeing some Darkwater guys shoot a cat, though they couldn’t agree on whether it was alive before that moment. Darkwater was a private security firm that employed ex-special forces. Decked out in all black, they weren’t dressed to blend but to intimidate.

“Cat, zero. Darkwater, one,” said Daddy Mention.

“Those guys are assholes,” said Bryant. It was the first time he’d raised his voice, which was unusually deep for such a small, wiry man.

Vodka said Jesus was his commander in chief and he wouldn’t soldier-of-fortune for Darkwater or any other crooked mercenary outfit that lured away good soldiers trained on the U.S. dime. Wilson said he’d work for Darkwater, or any other private security firm, because they paid more per week than he earned in a month.

“That’s right, working for those dead presidents. Fuck the live one,” said Daddy Mention.

“That’s our commander in chief,” said Wilson.

“He’ll be my commander in chief when he’s on a twenty-dollar bill,” said Daddy Mention. “Until then, he can’t do shit for me, though I’d let Laura rub lotion on my ass.”

“That’s sick,” said Wilson. “She’s like forty.”

“Exactly. Think about it. When was the top last down on that convertible? It would be like a virgin.”

“I don’t know about the face,” said Wilson.

“Lying like you care about faces, after that skank you pissed back in Columbus,” said Vodka. “Put a sheet on her head and pretend you’re ripping up some magic carpet. Tell him something, Achilles. You know.”

Achilles said, “After your first month, any T&A is going to look good because you’re never going to see them together unless you pay one to raise her shirt while you’re paying another to raise her skirt. You’ll fire a rocket if you see two oranges bouncing in a sack. Vodka’s right. Put a paper bag on her head and call it a burka.”

Vodka laughed. “Like the Ain’ts, ain’t it?”

“You’re all right,” said Daddy Mention.

They were all “all right.” They fit like keys. They were down like four flat tires. But Achilles couldn’t help but wonder what Ines would say if she heard him talking like this, if she heard his soldier’s humor. And the more he thought about it, it wasn’t funny. The Darkwater guys they’d seen that day had offered to take Achilles off of Vodka’s hands. “We’re headed to the kennel,” one said.

It took a moment for Charlie 1 to realize the Darkwater guys were pointing at Achilles. Vodka explained, “He’s not a looter, he’s with us.”

He’s with us , not he’s one of us , Achilles thought. Then, Stop reading into everything, like Ines!

The Darkwater guys had drifted off with long faces. When they were out of sight, everyone spoke at once, except Achilles. He patted his pockets. He didn’t have his military ID with him. He wore old jeans and Hi-Teks, and wondered what would have happened if he’d been alone.

But he wasn’t. Achilles felt at ease, as Ines suggested he would. Soldiers are your tribe. It would have been a perfect life were Ines there to greet him when he climbed the seven stories up to their condo, and lay in their bed with only the stars as company. But she refused to talk to him, so every night he slept three hours, rising at midnight, which was when Ines shut down the phone bank.

While they eventually let him go, it was always a hassle, not to mention demeaning, to be treated as a criminal by the patrolling guardsmen. He was unaccustomed to being greeted with Let’s put those goddamn hands where we can see them! So he cut through alleys and backstreets. Moving from shadow to shadow, it was easy to stay hidden in a city lit only by stars, yet he was edgy, hoping to remain unseen, knowing it would be impossible to explain that he was acting like a criminal to avoid being treated like one.

Once at Mrs. D’s, he ducked into her neighbor’s stripped azaleas and spent the night keeping an eye on Ines. It was tiring, but being drunk with exhaustion only made everything easier to bear. People came and went, passing within inches of him. Ines would sit at her window and look outside, sometimes writing by candlelight. Once he thought she stared right at him, and he waved. He wasn’t surprised when she didn’t wave back. Of course she couldn’t see him; as he’d said on their first date, invisibility wasn’t a superpower. It really wasn’t hard at all — people didn’t look around very much.

Watching Ines hugging strangers, he thought that maybe women were brave in ways men couldn’t understand. But they still needed protection, and as one who never prayed, he believed protectors were earthbound.