Jesse Goolsby - I'd Walk with My Friends If I Could Find Them

He hasn’t been swayed toward this army idea, but when he imagines college or a job, nothing comes to him and he hears his father’s low voice in his head: “A paycheck, free post living, free food, free school.” Dax thinks, How can everything in the military be free? When was the last time we really got into a fight? Vietnam? Iraq? Does Iraq count? A few days of bombs. Night-vision tracers on CNN. A falling refrigerator.

Dax has fired a gun once outside Watertown with his WWII army vet grandpa, who has also been pushing the military route. Empty beer bottles near a creek in autumn. He remembers the silver revolver, the bunny-eared rear sights, the fierce percussion, and the still-standing bottles. His grandpa’s voice—“Fun, isn’t it?”—and Dax thinking it was something, but fun?

Dax snaps out of his dream when a lifted truck pulls into the spot next to his car and someone jumps out. The person races in front of the truck’s headlights, then jerks the Camry’s back door open and reaches inside. Dax stands and starts walking back, and by the time he’s close enough to see clearly, a man towers over Alston, punching and punching, and Janelle, pantless, is at the man’s back, tearing at his neck and face. Dax’s body comes alive, and he races across the field and lunges at the man, but Dax is thrown off and he feels a punishing pounding on his face and chest. He tries to rise but can’t. The man lifts a grunting Alston from the pavement and rams Alston’s head into the Camry’s door. Janelle lies in the first cut of grass holding her stomach, her naked lower half kicking at the sky. The man walks over to Janelle, pulls her up by her hair, walks her to the truck, throws her in, and leaves.

Dax’s chest burns; rocks dig at his back. Alston moans.

“Al-ston,” Dax says, trying to find his lungs. “Alston.”

“Shut the motherfuck up.”

Dax touches his body, but everything is too new to know anything. He goes to his knees, then stands and staggers over to Alston, who drags himself up into the passenger seat.

“Drive to my house,” Alston says.

“What the fuck, Alston?”

“Conley, that sorry-ass, messed-up dick. I’m killing that motherfucker.” Alston says this calmly, and Dax worries that he might be telling the truth. Dax flicks on the interior lights and sees Alston’s inflating face.

“Call the cops, A,” Dax says.

“Drive to my house. I’m not asking.”

“I’m calling the cops.”

Dax reaches for the keys in the ignition.

“Fine. Listen, you won’t see me after tonight.”

“What?”

“Don’t call anyone.”

“What?”

“Stop and listen to me.”

Dax has his hand on the key but doesn’t turn it. He stares at Alston, who seems transformed, happy.

“Give me a sec.” Quiet everywhere, then the soft sounds of traffic a couple blocks over. Alston touches his own arms and neck, then smirks.

“You’re not gonna see me after now. I knew it was coming.”

“What?”

“Shut up and listen. That dude should’ve killed me.”

“Alston, don’t be crazy.”

Alston shakes his head. He pulses his hands into fists, in and out, in and out, each time slower than the next.

“Damn, he’s a tough fuck,” Alston says. “Didn’t see that coming.” He laughs. “Okay, all right. Okay. Thinking. I’m thinking. Just sit here for a bit.”

“Alston.”

Alston slaps his face and blinks three times. His eyes narrow and Dax wonders if he’ll cry.

“Okay, brother. Here it is. If you go into the army, shoot first. Prison is better than dead.”

“What? Calm down. Calm down.”

“You aren’t listening, Dax. Listen for a sec.”

“Fine.”

“Be a medic or something, but if you get a gun, shoot that motherfucker. If ever in doubt, shoot first. Prison is a ton better than dead or paralyzed or no arms or eyes or whatever.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“And one more thing.”

“We’re not fighting anyone.”

“And one more thing. Listen. You’re not going to see me again.”

“Sure.”

“And one more thing.”

“What?”

“I forgot.”

“Fuck you, A.”

“Don’t worry about me. I know you will,” Alston says. He opens the door, stumbles into the night, and disappears around the corner of the gym.

When he arrives home, Dax steps into his living room. His father and his father’s girlfriend, Angela, sit on a blue leather couch.

“I’m okay,” Dax says before they can ask.

“You don’t look so bad,” says Angela, a fortyish brunette whom Dax believes is too good for his father. She likes her martinis, but she’s well-spoken and even dragged Dax’s father to a couple of Dax’s basketball games. “Did you take an elbow during the game?”

Dax sees himself for the first time in the living room mirror and realizes that Angela is right: he appears fine, with only a scratch on his left temple and a black mark on his red T-shirt.

“Dax, sit down,” his father says. “I was just finishing this story. You won’t believe it.”

“I’m tired, Pop,” Dax says. “Alston’s out of his mind. Got the shit kicked out of me. I’m headed to bed.”

“Here’s the story, honey. Someone called him the n -word on the golf course,” Angela says.

“Angela, please.”

“But you’re white,” Dax says. He touches his stomach, surprised there’s no pain.

“No shit. That’s the point. How does that make sense? There weren’t any black guys around. And even then.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Angela says.

“Who was it?” Dax says.

“Another golfer,” she says. “What do you say to that?”

“I should’ve laughed, I guess. I don’t know. Bizarre.”

“So what’s the point?” Dax says.

“There’s no point, honey,” Angela says. “People don’t know how to speak.”

“I’m white,” Dax’s father says.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

Angela reaches out and holds Dax’s father’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Why are you sorry?”

“It’s just I’d be sorry for anyone being called that.”

“It shouldn’t mean anything.”

“Well.”

“To me, I mean,” Dax’s father says. “I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t mean anything. It can matter to you but not mean anything.”

“I was playing golf. Wild.”

Dax waves good night, walks down the hallway to the bathroom, pisses, brushes his teeth, inspects himself in the mirror, washes his face, walks to his room, undresses, and climbs into bed. He glances at the Cindy Crawford poster on his wall before turning off his bedside light. He touches his forehead and runs his fingers through his hair, finding, then flicking away a piece of gravel. His chest lifts and depresses. In a weird way, he wishes he was more badly hurt; maybe then he’d have the courage to call the cops. He runs his fingers along his rib cage twice, then down his sides to his hips. Alston’s stupid, but Dax doesn’t believe he’s kill-someone stupid, so he has no one to save, as long as Alston saves Janelle.

Dax shifts to his left side and wonders how Alston will break Janelle out. He imagines a near future with Alston and Janelle at the local bus ticket counter, wild and nervous, and then the dim, southbound Greyhound filled with grim-faced nocturnals with little to lose. He knows Key West is near Miami, but he’s not clear on exactly where Miami is, only that there’s water everywhere. He pictures a map of Florida, then alligators, then an island with high-walled mansions. He imagines Alston strolling around in a pink shirt serving drinks at a party and sneaking one for himself every time he refreshes his tray.