Ben Fountain - Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk

“Billy!” woofs Dime. “You’re flaking on me.”

“No, Sergeant. I’m just thinking about dessert.”

“Thinking ahead, good man. God- damn I trained them well.”

“They certainly can eat,” Albert observes. “Hey, guys, you can slow down. It’s not going anywhere.”

“It’s chill,” Dime answers. “Just keep your hands and feet away from their mouths and you won’t get hurt.”

Albert laughs. He is having only a mixed green salad and fizzy water, along with a barely touched “Cowboyrita” on the side. “I’m gonna miss you guys,” he tells them. “It’s been an experience getting to know you fine young men.”

“Come with us,” says Crack.

“Yeah, come to Iraq,” A-bort urges. “We’ll have some laughs.”

“No,” Holliday objects. “Albert gotta stay here and make us rich, ain’t that right, Albert.”

“That’s the plan,” Albert responds in a studiously mild voice, and there, Billy thinks, there it is in that soft deflation at the end, the almost imperceptible slackening of ego and effort that denotes the triage mode of the consummate pro. “I’d just get in the way,” Albert is saying, “plus I’m pretty much your classic pacifist twerp. Listen, the only reason I went to law school was to stay out of Vietnam, and lemme tell you guys, if my deferment hadn’t come through, I would’ve been on the bus for Canada that night.”

“It was the sixties,” Crack observes.

“It was the sixties, exactly, all we wanted was to smoke a lot of dope and ball a lot of chicks. Vietnam, excuse me? Why would I wanna go get my ass shot off in some stinking rice paddy just so Nixon can have his four more years? Screw that, and I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. All the big warmongers these days who took a pass on Vietnam, look, I’d be the last person on earth to start casting blame. Bush, Cheney, Rove, all those guys, they just did what everybody else was doing and I was right there with ’em, chicken as anybody. My problem now is how tough and gung-ho they are, all that bring-it-on crap, I mean, Jesus, show a little humility, people. They ought to be just as careful of your young lives as they were with their own.”

“Albert,” says Mango, “you should run for something. Run for president.”

Albert laughs. “I’d rather die. But thanks for the sentiment.” The producer is clearly enjoying himself, a smiling, avuncular presence not so much slumped in his chair as taking full advantage of it, as comfortably shored against gravity’s downdraft as Jabba the Hut on his custom throne. “Why’s he fucking calling us?” Crack asked when Albert first got in touch, after a quick Internet search confirmed that he was what he said he was, a veteran Hollywood producer with three Best Picture Oscars from the seventies and eighties, plus the distinction of having produced Fodie’s Press and Fold, the biggest money-losing film in the history of Warner Bros. “It was that year’s Ishtar, ” he likes to say, laughing, wearing the flop like a badge of honor, for only an A-list player could engineer that kind of legendary bust, and anyway the third Oscar came a couple of years later, so he was redeemed. The midcareer sabbatical was his choice. The paradigm was shifting, the studios moving away from long-term producer deals, plus he’d just gotten married for the third time and was starting a new family. He had all the money he’d ever need and decided to step back for a while, but now, three years on, he’s itching to get back in the game. Thanks to old friends he’s got a solo shop on the MGM lot, with a secretary and assistant provided by the studio. “I like where I am right now,” he told Bravo in their first face-to-face. “No overhead, no pressure. I feel like a kid again, I can do whatever I want.”

And if his hot young wife (Bravo googled her too) is miffed that he’s not home on Thanksgiving Day, well, she’s a good kid. She understands the demands of his work. Albert watches with interest as several Stadium Club patrons stop to pay their respects. The men have the hale good looks and silver hair of successful bank presidents or midsized-city mayors, tanned, fit sixty-year-olds who can still bring the heat on their tennis serves. Their wives are substantially but not offensively younger, all blondes, all displaying the taut architectonics of surgical self-improvement. So proud, the men say, going around shaking hands. So grateful, so honored. Guardians. Freedoms. Fanatics. TerrRr. The wives hang back and let their men do the honors, they look on with vaguely wistful smiles and not an ounce of evident lust.

Enjoy your meal, the men say in parting, with the stern yet coaxing manner of white-glove waiters. “They sure do love you guys,” Albert observes after the group moves on. Crack snorts.

“If they love us so much, how about if their wives—”

“Shut,” Dime woofs, and Crack shuts.

“I mean everybody loves you guys, black, white, rich, poor, gay, straight, everybody . You guys are equal-opportunity heroes for the twenty-first century. Look, I’m just as cynical as the next fella, but your story has really touched a nerve in this country. What you did in Iraq, you went head-to-head with some very bad guys and you kicked their ass. Even a pacifist twerp like me can appreciate that.”

“I got seven,” Sykes says, which is what he always says. “Seven for sure. But I think it was more.”

“Listen,” Albert says, “what Bravo did that day, that’s a different kind of reality you guys experienced. People like me who’ve never been in combat, thank God, no way we can know what you guys went through, and I think that’s why we’re getting push-back from the studios. Those people, the kind of bubble they live in? It’s a major tragedy in their lives if their Asian manicurist takes the day off. For those people to be passing judgment on the validity of your experience is just wrong, it goes beyond wrong, it’s ethics porn. They aren’t capable of fathoming what you guys did.”

“So tell them,” says Crack.

“Yeah, tell them,” says A-bort, and Bravo strikes up a spontaneous chant, tell them, tell them, tell them like a frog chorus or monks at prayer. The nearby Stadium Club patrons smile and chuckle like it’s all a high-spirited college prank. As abruptly as it started, the chanting stops.

“Tell Hilary to tell them,” says Dime.

“I’m trying, hoss. Lotta moving parts to this deal.” Albert’s cell hums and the first thing he says is, “Hilary’s officially interested.” Then: “Sure she is. It’s a very physical role and she’s a very physical actress. Plus she’s a patriot. She really wants to do this.” Pause. “I’m hearing fifteen million.” Pause. “Will there be politics?” Albert rolls his eyes for Bravo’s benefit. “Larry, you know what von Clausewitz said, war is simply politics by other means.” Pause. “No, you illiterate, not The Art of War . The German guy, the Prussian.” Silence. “My ass you read The Art of War . You might’ve read the CliffsNotes for it. I could believe you read the blurbs.” Albert’s eyes glower down as he listens. Big listen. Mouth twitching, hairy fingers fribbling the tablecloth.

“Tell me this, Larry, how could you make a movie about this war and not be political? You want a video game, is that what we’re talking about?”

The Bravos glance at one another. Could do worse, is the general thought.

“Okay look, how about this for politics. My guys are heroes, right? Americans, right? They’re unequivocally on the right side and they also unequivocally kicked ass, now when was the last time that happened for this country? There’s your politics, Lar, it’s all about feeling good about America again. Think Rocky meets Platoon and you’re on the right track.” Pause. Eye roll. Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh. “Listen, we’re at the Cowboys game right now and I’m telling you, I’ve never seen anything like it. They can’t take a step without getting mobbed, it’s like the Beatles all over again. People respond to these guys in a very visceral way.”