Ben Fountain - Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk

Sure. The Bravos bar up for a quick round of Jack and Cokes, and Harold’s a sport, he keeps the bottle belowdecks as he pours. They slam down the drinks just in time to be rounded up and led into the chilly hall, where Josh gives them the drill for the press conference. He has a clipboard now. His hair is a perfect delta wedge. His entire person looks freshly dry-cleaned.

Will the cheerleaders be there?

“Yes, there will be cheerleaders.”

Yaaaaaaahhhhhh-woof! What about those lap dances?

“No lap dances in front of the press, guys.”

What are we supposed to do at halftime?

“I don’t have those specifics yet. I do know Trisha has some kind of role for you.”

Who the fuck’s Trisha?

“Guys, come on, Mr. Oglesby’s daughter. You just met her. She’s been planning the halftime show for the past six months.”

Tell her we can sing!

“I’m sure you guys are great singers, but we’ve got Destiny’s Child for that.”

Yeah, we wanna meet—

“I know I know I know, but guys, it’s Destiny’s Child. Getting you in there might be a little above my pay grade.”

You dah man, Jash.

“I’ll ask. But I can’t guarantee anything.”

More laughs, a smattering of wolf cheers. Bravo is pumped. They stand around long enough to realize they are waiting for something, for Norm it turns out, at last he arrives with his cloud of an entourage that includes a photographer, a video guy, several family members, and a big chunk of the Cowboys’ upper management.

“Ready?” Norm asks, beaming at the Bravos. “I expect you guys are pros at this by now.” He scoops one of his grandsons into his arms and off they go through the stadium labyrinth, as intricate as the guts of a battleship. Billy’s head is pounding, but Josh, so alert and duteous in other matters, has forgotten his Advil again. The ache forms a kind of aura or envelope around his head, with localized boreholes of quite specific pain, as if a nail gun is firing spikes into his skull.

Outside the media room Norm hands off his grandson and waits by the door while the Bravos form up. “Great,” he is murmuring, “super,” “fantastic,” “outstanding,” a gaseous blather of free-form superlatives aimed at no one in particular. It is a little embarrassing to see him this way, like watching the fattest kid at a birthday party circling the cake, clearly wishing he could have it all to himself. In any case Norm is first through the door and his entry cues a cataclysmic shriek, from the cheerleaders Billy sees when he crosses the threshold, a pom-pom waving, boot-stamping, thunderclap howl that jumps abruptly to a 4/4 dogtrot chant, a cheer! and well why not, it’s their job:

American soldiers strong and true,

The best in the world at what they do,

Thanks for keeping us safe and strong

Against all those who’d do us harm!

Billy takes a seat onstage with the feeling that the war has attained new heights of lunacy. Norm is urging the medias to stand up! up! a mostly male crowd of forty or fifty reporters who don’t seem terribly thrilled to be stage-managed, yet they stand, they clap, they break into grudging smiles, they are lifted by the moment in spite of themselves, and Norm gestures toward Bravo and raises his arms as if to say, Look at what I brought for you!

He is said to be a marketing genius, is Norm, and sitting there amid the flaming hairball of media lights Billy has the weirdest feeling that none of them exists except in Norman Oglesby’s mind. Norm is beaming, clapping, gesturing toward the Bravos. His blue eyes glitter with a special, no, a holy light, he is so completely certain of the Cowboys brand that God is surely on his side. What higher calling could there be? What greater good in life? Any profit to the team is truly God’s work, and all creation must bend to His will.

The room is a hothouse of plastic and epoxy smells, the burnt-dust fug of large electronics. “U-S-A!” a cheerleader yells, and the rest take up the chant, “U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!” and Norm is chanting and clapping, rocking with the beat. So many cheerleaders, enough to line three walls of the room — the sheer volume of exposed female flesh sends Bravo into a mild state of shock. Photographers crab-walk close and flash off in Bravo’s face, singeing eyes and probably cauterizing pieces of brain. Camera crews are bunched at both sides of the stage, a two-foot-high riser with the fudgy give of plywood underfoot. The stage is backed by an incurving bulkhead of sorts, a fabric screen stamped with the Cowboys star and Nike swoosh logo. It’s actually kind of a crummy room, more like a union hall or underfunded rec center: fluorescent lights, that horrible all-weather carpet everywhere, steel-tube chairs with hard plastic shells. Norm takes the last seat at the table and bellies up to the microphone.

“ I, ” he begins, but has to pause for the handful of cheerleaders who simply can’t shut up. He smiles, looks down at his hands, and chuckles at their zeal, which draws a responsive chuckle from the medias.

“ I, ” he resumes, and waits out the last shrieks as the cheerleaders finally get a grip on themselves, “ I ”—another pause, this time for effect—“and the entire Cowboys organization”— kai-boiz, Billy mouths to himself, scratching an itch on his inner ear—“are pleased, privileged, and extremely honored to have with us today the outstanding young men of Bravo squad, these true American heroes here to my left. If you want to talk about a group that knows how to suit up and show up, here they are. They are the best our nation has to offer, and our best is absolutely the best in the world, as they proved on the battlefields of Iraq.”

The cheerleaders cry out, their orgasmic shriek quickly morphing into the lockstep U-S-A! chant. Have they been told to interrupt, Billy wonders, or do they just know to do it on their own? The role of cheerleader being secondary by definition, yet cheerleaders themselves exhibitionists by nature, he starts to sense the conflict at the core of every boy and girl who ever fanned the fires of team spirit, the private anguish of always cheering for others when you’re the one busting it body and soul. Nobody cheers for the cheerleaders! And how that must hurt, the goad for many a deafening scream of crazed enthusiasm. Norm is chuckling, shaking his head as if to say, Those girls. Off to the side, the Cowboys brass are chuckling too.

“I’m sure,” Norm resumes, “everyone is familiar by now with the Bravos’ exploits, how they were the first to come to the aid of the ambushed supply convoy, they went straight into the battle with no backup, no air support, outnumbered against an enemy who’d been preparing this attack for days. They didn’t think twice about the odds stacked against them, they even suspected it was a trap, and yet they went right in without hesitating—”

Several of the cheerleaders cry out, but Norm holds up his hand. He will not be interrupted now.

“Fortunately for us, a Fox News crew was embedded with the group that arrived shortly thereafter, so it’s possible for us to see for ourselves what these fine young men did that day. And I have to say, I have never ”—Norm’s voice grows husky, he hunches close to the microphone—“I have never, been prouder, to be an American, than when I saw, that, footage. And if you haven’t seen it, I urge you to do so at your earliest opportunity…”

Billy’s mind wanders. Now that he’s settled down somewhat he can give the cheerleaders his first considered look, and he had no idea there are so many of them, they are a life-sized sampler of rapturous female flesh with all colors on display, all flavors of sculpted tummy and supple thigh, scooped waist, contoured flare and furl of hip, and such breasts, oh Lord, such volumes of majestically fulsome boob overflowing the famous tail-knotted half shirt, yes, at any moment an avalanche could burst forth and bury them all, only a few scant inches of besieged cloth save Bravo from utter annihilation.