Dave Eggers - Your Fathers, Where Are They? And the Prophets, Do They Live Forever?

— Son, did you really kidnap me to talk about the Space Shuttle?

— Mainly, yes.

— Holy Jesus.

— Kev said he was going to be an astronaut, and he did everything he was asked to do to become one. But now it means nothing. That just seems like the worst kind of thing, to tell a generation or two that the finish line is here, that the requirements to get there are this and this and this, but then, just as we get there, you move the finish line.

— Now son, just so I understand. You’re saying I’m the one who did this, that I personally moved the finish line?

— I think you were in a position to hold the line.

— You do see me sitting here, do you not? Do you see a man who is missing two key limbs? Do you think a man missing two key limbs and a thumb, all of them taken in a piece-of-shit foreign war, is part of the machinery you’re talking about? You think I’m the enemy?

— Well why were you in Congress if you weren’t part of the machinery?

— I was in the machinery to try to fix that machine, you dummy! Why the hell do you think there were a half-dozen Vietnam vets on the Democrat side of things in the Senate and House? Someone had to talk some sense down there.

— How did it happen, by the way? I know I should know, but I don’t.

— How did what happen?

— What happened to your leg and arm? Sorry to be indelicate.

— I don’t think you’re in danger of being confused with a man of delicacy or subtlety, son. Before I tell you, I should ask, did you happen to bring any of my prescriptions here? I need them for my stumps and for my arrhythmia.

— I grabbed what I could. I didn’t have much time. They’re in the duffel bag behind you. I also brought the bottle by your bed. Which was a surprise to me, that you have a bottle of gin by your bedside. That seemed like some kind of cliché, the aging vet drinking himself to sleep.

— Now you actually are being indelicate. That’s really none of your goddamned business, kid. And just because there was a bottle by the bed doesn’t mean this is some kind of long-standing habit or ritual.

— Fine.

— I don’t know why I’m explaining myself to you.

— You’re right. No need. It’s not why you’re here. And anyway, I understand if you need some help getting to sleep. I haven’t had to go through what you did, I haven’t really seen fuck-all compared to you, and I need eleven hours every night to sleep six or seven. So I would never judge.

— Thanks. That’s a comfort.

— No problem.

— Son, in your head, is this what qualifies as bonding?

— See, you’re being so condescending, and I didn’t want you to be that way toward me. Do you think I’m somehow inferior because I wasn’t part of some war? Because I wasn’t drafted and grew up in peacetime and never had to struggle the way you have?

— No. I don’t.

— I do.

— You do?

— I do. I grew up next to this base, sir, and my father was a contractor here. And I’m pretty sure that I would have turned out better, and everyone I know would have turned out better, if we’d been part of some universal struggle, some cause greater than ourselves.

— And you think Vietnam was that?

— Well, no, not necessarily.

— So what the hell are you talking about? Do you know how fucked up most of the men who came back from Vietnam are? You’re damned lucky your dad didn’t have to fight. You wanted to be part of that?

— No. No, not that exact conflict. But I just mean …

— You wish you were part of some wonderful video game conflict with a clear moral objective.

— Or something else. Something else that brought everyone together with a unity of purpose, and some sense of shared sacrifice.

— Son, judging just by the fact that you’re kidnapping people and chaining them to posts, I knew you were confused. But in actuality your brain is plain scrambled. One minute you’re complaining about your astronaut buddy who didn’t get to ride on a cool spaceship, and the next you’re saying you wish you’d been drafted. I mean, none of this squares, son. What exactly brought you to this point?

— I don’t know. Actually, I think I do know. It’s because nothing’s happened to me. And I think that’s a waste on your part. You should have found some kind of purpose for me.

— Who should have?

— The government. The state. Anyone, I don’t know. Why didn’t you tell me what to do? They told you what to do, and you went and fought and sacrificed and then came back and had a mission …

— Kid, do you know how I lost my limbs?

— That’s why I was asking before. I assume you saved lives. You got a Bronze Star and …

— No. I didn’t save any lives. I was eating lunch.

— What? No.

— I lost my limbs because I was eating my lunch near the wrong dipshit who hadn’t secured his grenades.

— That can’t be true.

— Listen. I was alone, eating my lunch. This kid had just rotated in from Mississippi, and he was some idiotic bumpkin with too much energy. He thought we were friends, so he came running toward me, pretending he was charging at me like a moose. Just some dumb thing young men do. A grenade fell off his uniform, the pin was pulled, and it rolled directly to me and landed at my feet. I just had time to turn my head away when it went off. That was the moment of unified purpose and shared sacrifice that separated me from my limbs.

— That’s depressing.

— Yes, it is depressing. So when I got back I tried to talk some sense into anyone who thought going into some country on the other end of the world to exert our will would be a cute idea, and the main problem with a cute idea like that is that these plans are carried out by groups of nineteen-year-olds who can’t tie their shoes and who think it’s great fun to run around goofing with grenades poorly secured to their uniforms. Wars put young men in close proximity to grenades and guns and a hundred other things they will find a way to fuck up. These days men in war get themselves killed far more often than they get killed by someone else.

— I guess.

— Do you understand the difference, son?

— I think so.

— Because I look at you and wouldn’t trust you with a book of matches. You’ve got a head full of rocks, kid. And there are a hundred thousand others like you in the desert right now, and it’s no wonder they’re killing civilians and raping women soldiers and shooting themselves in the leg. I don’t mean to besmirch the character of these young men and women, because I know most of them are the salt of the earth, but my point is that they should be kept safe and kept out of the way of dangerous things. Young men need to be kept away from guns, bombs, women, cars, hard alcohol and heavy machinery. If I had my way they’d be cryogenically frozen until such a time as we knew they could get themselves across a street without fucking it up. Most of the men I served with were nineteen. I’m fairly certain that when you were nineteen you couldn’t parallel park.

— Do you know that we met once? It was when I was fifteen. Do you remember Boys State?

— Of course. I voted to refund it every year it came up for renewal.

— I went.

— You went to Boys State?

— In Sacramento. 1994. I did all the Boys State things — watched the legislature, learned about democracy, saw some politicians speak. I even ran for lieutenant governor in that mock election.

— How’d you do?

— I lost. I was asked to quit.

— Why?

— Doesn’t matter. They were probably right.

— What’d you do?

— There was an essay component to the whole thing, and I thought it would be good to sign mine in blood. Like Thomas Paine.