T. Johnson: Hold It 'Til It Hurts

Bridges shrugged. “It’s a joke. A horse never really walked into a bar and ordered a drink.”

“Yeah, but we know that’s not real. Get your facts straight.”

“Let him finish,” said Achilles.

Hausman huffed. Achilles nodded at Bridges. “Go ahead.”

“So anyway,” Bridges continued, “the scientists are in the park studying the bears, the Alaskan bears, and no one hears from them for a long time, so the park ranger goes looking and finds their campsite destroyed and bloody and a trail of bear prints, Alaskan bear prints, leading from the tents to the forest. He follows them and finds the female gnawing on a bloody boot. So he has to shoot the Alaskan bear and cut it open and see if it ate the scientists. When they look inside, they find the Russian scientist in her stomach. So the park ranger turns to the other ranger, and you know what he says?”

“When did another ranger show up?” asked Hausman.

“He was there all the time. They travel in pairs. Anyway, know what he says?”

Everyone shrugs.

“You know what this means. The Czech is in the male.”

When Achilles laughed, the other guys joined him, except Hausman.

“Go ahead, ask me,” said Achilles. Hausman was ROTC. He deserved to ask a question.

Hausman turned to face him, took a deep breath. “What’s it like?”

Achilles took him by the arm and led him away. “What have you heard?”

“All sorts of weird stuff. Like it’s the Wild Wild West, but it’s great. There’s no women. It’s like being God. It’s a dog’s life.”

“It’s all true.”

Hausman bit his lip, seeming to consider this an even greater dilemma. “All of it?”

“Every last bit.” He wanted to tell him that’s life, the fuck of it, the good, bad, and mixed in everywhere, you just choose a side when you can. “You hear about the big shit making heroes and cowards, selfish and selfless.” Katrina had been no different. There were the heroic and the craven. Those who nearly died helping others and those who looted. There were white vigilantes in Algiers shooting unarmed black survivors, and there was the river of volunteers. That was the hardest part to accept. You had to choose a side. The young white couple who opened a flower shop in the Seventh Ward did; so did the street preacher, even if no one wanted to hear it. He understood why the old-timers said, You have to live it to know it.

Hausman looked even more uncertain than he had before.

“Don’t go.”

Whistles and cheers erupted behind them and Achilles went back inside to find the lights dimmed and the DJ playing. Achilles stood at the end of the bar — where as a kid he had always imagined sitting — taking it all in, and noticing for the first time the picture of Troy behind the bar and the pile of newspapers. The local press had printed extra copies. Near the photo sat a bucket and a sign made of spiral-bound paper and printed in marker: Like Many Who Lost Loved Ones In Rescue Efforts The Family Asks That Any Donations Be Made To Charitable Organization (no s ). Posted behind the bar was a picture of his father that he didn’t recognize, an old photo of his dad and three friends wearing fatigues and green army wifebeaters. Earl, the bartender, handed it to Achilles. “That’s me and your old man one week before we came home.” He tapped the third head. “Nally didn’t make it. Bad luck.” He handed it to Achilles.

When Achilles opened his wallet to tuck the photo away, Earl saw the small photo of Achilles and his squad.

“You bring me a copy, you can put that one up.”

Achilles handed him the photo, his only one. “This is a copy.”

Earl slipped the photo into the same spot where his father’s had been. “You need to have a beer and some quiet, you come up here anytime. Every man needs a Batcave, and this is it. You’re one of us now.”

That struck him as oddly familiar. Recalling that night he spent pinned down in that cave in Afghanistan, he held Earl’s gaze for an uncomfortable moment during which the feeling that he was being insolent settled into a current of affection so strong he had to restrain himself from hugging the man. He’d never really thought about Earl before, or any of the cranky old men that gathered at the VFW. He’d thought they’d been up here because their wives wouldn’t let them watch the Redskins on the big TV when it conflicted with Golden Girls.

Achilles imagined his father after returning from Vietnam. His dad, Earl, and Nally had only been seventeen when they were shipped off. Maybe the VFW was where they could feel as if Nally was still with them. Achilles felt as if he knew Nally. They’d talked about him like a kid who moved off to college, and then even farther away, his new life soon too busy for him to visit home often. Gone, but not dead. They must have met here every Friday because it was the only place where they didn’t need to talk about what happened because everyone had been there, whether in Desert Storm, Bosnia, Vietnam, Korea, or the Big One. Was lining up at these taps their version of Wages’s ritual? If he stayed here, was this the only place he could go? He would have to come here when he felt that burn, his spine stiff as rebar and his muscles trembling, when he wanted to choke the fucking pizza delivery boy for wearing a POW shirt, when he wanted to put a brick through the head of the TV news reporter because she was spewing some crap about the war, when he imagined replacing Dale, or reenlisting, when he thought too hard about going back for Pepper. He’d have to come back here, sit with these men and watch hockey and football and basketball, and complain about the alderman shutting down the only strip club within a hundred miles.

“You ought to go grab the little lady for this one,” said Earl when “Stand by Your Man” came on. The song was over by the time he found Ines, but they went out on the dance floor anyway, shuffling in the sawdust to “That’s Easy for You to Say” by Junior Brown, her ear pressed to his chest and her hand on his face. She’d been doing that all day, in lieu of speaking.

“Baby, your heart beats so slow. You’re always so calm.”

The DJ dimmed the lights.

She told him about all the people she had met: high school friends, teachers, neighbors. “They all loved Troy so much. I wish I could have met him. He sounds like he was great. You already knew that. He came to New Orleans to look for you.” She kissed him and frowned. “You smell like smoke.”

“I smoked a cigarette,” snapped Achilles. “The truth is out.”

Ines stepped back, her hand still on his face. “Maybe you should dance with your mom.”

“What’s that mean?”

Ines waved to his mom, who waved back.

“Mom doesn’t dance, but I’ll ask her.”

His mother’s smile grew as he neared. “You’re finally getting your hero’s welcome.”

“You don’t want to dance, do you?”

“Always.”

While they were on the floor, the record skipped as the DJ cut the song short to play “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.”

“Achilles, thank you.”

Her voice was barely audible above the sound of the entire bar singing along to the song—“ Cowboys like smoky old poolrooms. ” Her hair was now nearly all white, and she moved slowly, shuffling more than dancing. “ Ain’t easy to love and they’re harder to hold. ”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Achilles, you know you couldn’t have done any more than you did.”

“Yes, Mom.” He stopped dancing and backed away from his mother, leveling his eyes to meet hers.

“He chose his own path, you have to choose yours.”