T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

Mornings felt as if he’d fallen asleep with a kiwi fruit in his mouth. On his last morning with Charlie 1, when he had a terrible headache, pulsing and throbbing like a dick in the ear, they were patrolling Uptown, which meant driving and talking shit and looking for looters, which meant stopping anyone who wasn’t white or accompanied by someone white, like the three black teens wading through the park across from Tulane. They had heavy New Orleans accents and wore mismatched clothing, everything two sizes too big. The kids claimed they were going to the aviary at the zoo to feed the birds, but no one believed them, even though they carried a large trash bag with a few cups of birdseed in the bottom. So they all went to the zoo and scaled the fence. Amazingly, there were three parrots in the aviary, singing as if they recognized the kids. One hundred yards upriver, volunteers hauled bodies out of the water. Gently looping adults to avoid losing limbs, carefully turning an infant like a log before scooping it up in an oversized fishing net.

Daddy Mention looked in the trash bag again and sniffed. “Crushed crackers, peanuts, breakfast cereal. Birds don’t eat party mix. Where’s the beer? You gonna watch the Saints’ game?”

Everyone laughed except the kids.

Jokingly, Daddy Mention accused the kids of fattening up the birds in order to eat them. Their ages ranged from fifteen to eighteen, and they looked like tough kids, but immediately upon being accused of planning to eat the birds, the youngest one started running. Daddy Mention caught him before he’d gone even fifteen yards and marched him back. It’s hard to run with your pants binding your legs like a geisha’s kimono.

“Why you run?” asked Daddy Mention.

The youngest one shrugged. The oldest one started crying.

“Don’t let ’em punk you. Come on now,” said the youngest one, cutting his eyes. His skin was copper, almost reddish, and heavily freckled. His insolent attitude reminded Achilles of Pepper.

The oldest one continued to cry, sobbing in earnest. When he wiped his eyes, his pants fell down. The squad members looked at each other and stepped back. If he’d pulled a grenade out, Vodka or Daddy Mention might have jumped on him and it, but when he started crying, they backpedaled like he had AIDS. Dark skinned, with large, round eyes like a bird and hunched, heavy boxer’s shoulders, he was too big to cry.

“Don’t go bitch-eyed on me,” said Daddy Mention.

His friends patted the older one on the back and hugged him, and told him to ignore it. The older one shook his friends off and said, “We’re not animals.” He picked up a rock and threw it, hitting Daddy Mention squarely on the forehead.

Wilson, Vodka, Bryant, and Daddy Mention raised their weapons and yelled at everyone to get on the ground. The kids dropped to their knees, hands up, except the crying one, who remained standing and threw another rock. Achilles had to hand it to him: he was brave. Stupid, but brave.

Daddy Mention said, “Put it down.”

“We’re not animals.”

“Put it down, son.” Daddy Mention stepped closer. His finger was outside the trigger guard, but Wilson and Bryant had their fingers on their triggers. Daddy Mention yelled, “Zigga, put it down.”

Wilson and Bryant glanced anxiously at each other as they stepped back. Vodka echoed Daddy Mention, his voice steady. “Put the rock down, man. It’s going to be okay. What’s your name, son?”

From where they now stood, Wilson and Bryant would shoot each other. Achilles, who stood between them, backed out of their line of fire.

Vodka echoed his question. “What’s your name?”

“Terius,” said the older one, snot dripping from his nose. He identified his younger friend, the one who had tried to run, as Dooley. The third kid was named Jonas. “We’re not animals.”

“You’re acting like it,” said Daddy Mention. “Look at you.”

“You need to get that gun out of my face,” said Terius.

“You don’t make the rules here, kid, this ain’t The Corner, ” said Daddy Mention.

“You need to get that gun out of my face,” said Terius.

“What’s wrong?” asked Bryant. “You want lipstick on it?”

Terius threw the rock at Bryant and missed.

Daddy Mention struck Terius in the temple with the butt of his M16, dropping the kid like spilled water. When Dooley, the young one who resembled Pepper, tried to run again, Achilles hit him between the shoulder blades with the butt of his rifle, in the temple after he fell down, and once in the face to shut him up.

Achilles would have struck him again had he not seen movement on the other side of the park near St. Charles. It was a man pushing a stroller. Achilles scanned 360 degrees — the woods, the parking lot, the windows — catching them all in the rifle’s crosshairs, finger at the ready. At the riverside end of Audubon Park, known as the Fly, they were still fishing someone out of the water. Farther away, a woman on a second-floor porch beat a rug. On a side street, two men were stacking ruined furniture on the sidewalk. He scanned again, to be on the safe side, breathing steady. Kids were often a diversion to distract soldiers from the real threat, like a sniper. By the time he’d scanned the rooftops a third time, the kids were handcuffed with plastic ties.

Watching them struggle to walk and hold their pants up with their hands cuffed, Achilles wondered if they normally wore such oversized clothes or if they were wearing what they could find.

“I think you broke his jaw,” Wilson whispered to Achilles. “Collateral damage. We have to explain that.”

Vodka shot Wilson a stare that shut him up.

“Is it collateral damage when someone attacks you? I don’t think so,” whispered Bryant.

Daddy Mention griped, suddenly pissed. Speaking under his breath to Achilles, he said, “I’m in this swamp tagging kids when I’m supposed to be on furlough. Instead, here I am busier than a beaver at midnight on payday with this shit.”

“Where’s Darkwater when you need them?” mused Bryant.

Because the Humvee couldn’t hold everyone, Achilles offered to catch a ride with someone else. Bryant wanted to stay with Achilles, but Achilles wouldn’t have it. He wanted all of them gone.

Bryant looked around nervously. “You sure? I don’t know if it’s safe out here on your own, double-solo.”

Bryant was referring to the fact that if Charlie 1 left, they took their weapons. “I’ll be cool,” said Achilles.

Vodka, riding shotgun, slapped the door. “Let’s go.” Scanning the horizon, he added, “He’s survived worse.”

“He could always ride on top,” said Bryant.

Vodka, Daddy Mention, and Achilles shook their heads.

“No one rides on top,” said Vodka. “Let’s get oscar-mike, B.”

“Hoo-ah!” they yelled.

Achilles waved until they were gone, already knowing it was farewell. The birds called him back to the aviary, their caws sounding like someone frantically crying Come! Come! He spent a few hours there, feeding the birds and listening to the river, trying to forget the tension that had swept through his body when he found himself looking at people through a scope again, automatically arresting his breath as he rested the crosshairs over their hearts.

A patrol boat coasted by, the crew of three soldiers unconvinced of Achilles’s status even after seeing his badge and military ID. The driver, a blond kid, radioed Charlie 1 for confirmation. Achilles imagined all three of them facedown in the river, turning lazily with the tide, the water crimson and hazy. He’d been mistaken for a looter six times that week alone. He sought out their eyes, but none could hold his gaze. The driver and navigator were preoccupied with the radio knobs. The gunner stood at the edge of the boat, his glances darting from Achilles, to his mates at the radio, and back to Achilles’s hands, as if Achilles might produce a weapon they’d overlooked when they frisked him, like he had an SAW snookered up his ass. By the time the boat left, he was taking shallow breaths, the exhalations longer than the inhalations. He didn’t see them leave. He knew they waved. He knew that he had waved in response automatically, which pissed him off. He knew they’d apologized halfheartedly— Can’t be too careful. You know that. There are some real animals here. He was still rigid with anger. He’d never been frisked before Katrina. For a moment, he’d wanted to jump on the gunner and bite his nose off, swing the M60 on the other two, spice them up. Had Vodka left him a gun, he might have.