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

When Alston returns with the drinks, he says, “Guess what this is,” but Dax grabs the tumbler and hammers his drink.

“Shit,” Alston says. “You’re not that big.”

“Work to do,” Dax says, and points at the woman.

“One-armer,” Alston says.

“What?”

“See how she sits. That’s on purpose. Listen, I got no issues with it, but I know you.”

“What?”

“That girl has one arm. Go check her out. Can’t tell from here.”

Dax stays seated and examines his empty glass.

“Hey, no problem, big boy,” Alston says. “Go do your thing. I’ve had one-armers, one-leggers.”

“Shut the hell up,” Dax says. “You’re so full of shit.”

“You kidding me? What do you want to know?”

“Nothing. Please.”

“One-armers are great, because you don’t have to adjust anything, but the one-leggers fuck you all up. She was cut to the hip. The whole angle in there — I don’t know, man. And you don’t want to stand ’em up. Jesus.”

“Only you,” Dax says.

“Hell no, some people like that crap. I don’t like it and I don’t dislike it. Doesn’t matter to me. Decent face, green light.”

“Got a feeling you’d take them without a head.”

“I got my limits, man. No tits, no way. I’ve been down that road. Sad as fuck. You get the shirt off and one is missing and she’s all fucked up emotional about it so you can’t say anything, but I say something. Can’t get past it. Happened twice. Cancer or some shit. These gals come in from the hills where they practiced the nukes back when. Beautiful chicks, but I can’t touch ’em after I’ve seen that.”

“You’re cheering me up,” Dax says.

“I should be. That one’s got one arm. What you need two for? You got one dick, unless the war’s changed you.”

“Yep.”

“And I’ve never seen her before, which is a good sign. Legs on her too. You might like it.”

“Sure.”

“What? The thrill gone? The root root will kick here in two seconds. Fix everything.”

“It’s horrible,” Dax says.

“Childhood.”

“Yours.”

“I guess. I wouldn’t go back. You better not be going. Nothing good in Rutherford. It’s all gone.”

“I don’t know,” Dax says.

“You know. There’s nothing there. I can tell you’re going. You’re already there. It’s a mistake. You don’t need the city, Dax. There’s nothing worth knowing. Not good for you. Don’t go. You’ll screw yourself.”

“I’m not sixteen, A. I know what I’m doing.”

“No, you think you do, but you’ve been away. It’s not your fault. You go back, it’s over. Start new.”

“You’re not listening.”

“Far away from Rutherford.”

“Travel agent now? Where’s the place for me, O great one? Tell me.”

“It’s not home.”

“I’m not you. Don’t want to be you.”

“Don’t stall. Go talk to her.”

“No, you’re a travel agent and a gold miner,” Dax says. “You hunt deer. You take shit from the ground.”

“The drink feels good, huh?”

“I want to be as smart as you,” Dax says.

“You don’t want to be me.”

“Smart as you,” Dax says.

“You started too late.”

“I should go down south, maybe?” Dax says. “The sun will be good for me.”

“You’re chicken shit. She’s at this bar for a reason.”

“She’s looking for deer hunters.”

“You won’t go, but I will.”

Alston stands and takes a step away.

“Oh, I know,” says Dax. “Key fucking West.”

Alston stops and turns back. He steps to the booth, grabs Dax’s empty glass, lifts it a few inches off the table, and slams it down.

“Fuck, I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and turns and walks to the bar.

From Alston’s front steps Dax stares south beyond the ridge line at the white glow in the otherwise black sky. Digging the gold, killing the mountains. Five minutes since his last cigarette; he leans his head back on the front door. He’s always liked the black, early-morning calmness and thinks he might look for something where he can work at night and sleep during the day-lit morning.

The faintest sound of crushing rock arrives from the distant white glow, then Alston’s footsteps inside the home. Dax guesses he’ll have another couple minutes on his own before Alston joins him outside. He didn’t expect these fifteen minutes alone, especially after they left the casino empty-handed and Alston pleaded with him on the drive home to move out west. He told Alston he’d think about it, but Dax already knows there’s nothing here to connect to, nothing that excites him. There’s too much space to feel close to anything. Up to this trip, Fort Carson was as far west as he’d ever been, and that was far enough. Colorado, Nevada — these were places to escape to after you’d lived a life. You could sleepwalk here and get by. There weren’t enough people, wasn’t enough buzz to get you to wake up.

Alston is wrong about Rutherford. Dax knows he’s not returning to just his hometown. It’s Rutherford and Newark, the traffic, exhaust smell; the local Pancake House, nearby skyscrapers, Madison Square Garden; taxis and cops with attitude, Connecticut pricks; airplanes everywhere, back-yard pools, everything familiar and foreign and kinetic. There, you’re always awake.

But Alston’s words have tweaked him enough that he questions accepting his well-intentioned stepmother’s offer to crash at their place while he figures things out. His childhood bedroom might kill him at twenty-seven. She’s told him the jobs are waiting for him, which he believes is shit, but even so, where to start? He knows tons of ex-army security guards, but he’s done with uniforms and guns, save for the pistol he’ll keep for home protection, but that one will be locked up.

Torres called him a couple days ago to let him know about a possible speaking gig for veterans and that Ellis had hurt his foot and was coming back to Carson early. Torres had few details on Ellis. As for the job, Dax would have to travel, which seemed to suit Torres fine, but Dax isn’t sure he could pull it off. He can’t think of a single wartime story he’d want to tell, no matter how motivational, funny, or gut-wrenching. Besides, he struggles with the details: his memory of war is the girl in the road. Already all else blurs beside her. He knows about the patrols, laughter, showering, sweat, and boredom that filled his two tours in Afghanistan, but none of it feels real — there’s no focus or faces or sounds. His war is his rifle in his hands, gunpowder in his nose, a girl in the road. How could he tell that story? Why would he want to?

The doorknob turns and Dax leans forward.

“Big guy like you,” Alston says, stepping past Dax, “you’d make sixty a year collecting bonds out here. Sixty, easy. I’ll wake the boss up right now. We start tomorrow. Send the rest of your shit whenever. We only have to get like a quarter of the money back to break even. You think business will ever slow down? You think this place is gonna turn into Disneyland? We’ll get you a.357 or something. You’ll never use it, man. Don’t worry. Just shave your head and get yourself a killer tattoo. Show ’em your forearms. They’ll give us more money than they owe.”

“I got a tat on my back.”

“You gonna walk backwards without a shirt all day?”

“I could get one of those Mike Tyson jobs on my face.”

“You do whatever the hell you want.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re goddamn brothers. You know that?”

“Yeah,” Dax says.

“Hey, talk when you’re ready, okay? When you’re ready, let it fly.”