You come back and try to assemble what you can. A story, in case someone asks\u2014but most don\u2019t. Not now, with so much going on. And it\u2019s not like you can relax; you\u2019re riled most days. You try out little piles of words\u2014hope they hold\u2014pray they pass for sense. And when you think you have it, when you find a little quiet and believe you can close your eyes, they come\u2014 fragments, bright shards, edges. They snag, even now. And then you see him.<\/p>\n
His face is stubbled with delusion\u2014disjointed, like a badly hung picture.<\/p>\n
You\u2019ve read about him by now. He was in my company. He\u2019d say things\u2014recite them, almost: \u201cWhat occupies the mind. The cause of action. It\u2026\u201d Then he\u2019d stop\u2014listening to himself\u2014before finishing: \u201cThe action that needs to happen for complete victory. We will lose here because we don\u2019t have it.\u201d He never explained. None of us asked. You didn\u2019t want to be in the same room as him. So, you kept your distance. He needed help, but out there nobody asked for that kind.<\/p>\n
Then one day reports came in: a bomb on a bus; civilians killed\u2014mostly women and children. He smiled more after it happened. Not joy\u2014completion. With each new report, he looked more whole, as if whatever was broken inside him had found its fit. You had no proof, but you knew it was him. It didn\u2019t change anything. Nothing stopped.<\/p>\n
It put the company in a bad way. You try for blankness. But all you can think of is dying there, alone\u2014your body shot up or your throat cut by old men. There\u2019s a threshold you cross when you come to a place like that. Is that what he finally did\u2014the guy in my company? And what did he find? Purity? Strip out all the interference\u2014then act? You didn\u2019t know.<\/p>\n
The sun rises on the horizon, setting it ablaze in reddish orange. You sit alone on an ammo can outside your tent and drag on a cigarette. Movement in the distance: people emerge from the village and cross the road to work the fields. You\u2019re run down\u2014only doing what you have to, hoping it\u2019s enough. Others have come here. Sacrifices have been made. The suffering is ancient and it gets inside your nerves. But at least when you hear the screaming, you know where it\u2019s coming from.<\/p>\n
And the days don\u2019t stop, they keep coming.<\/p>\n
That\u2019s fine. Good for nothing but moving along. You finish your tour and get out\u2014just another ruined head. You don\u2019t know what you want. You don\u2019t know what you need. People talk. You listen. You let it run through you. You have your nightmares.<\/p>\n
Sometimes a dream slips through. Like the other night, sleeping in the car, there you are with John Rambo, not the military cartoon with bandoliers, shooting a heavy machine gun with one arm, but the quiet one. You\u2019re walking along, trying not to be seen, making your way across the country. Headed toward the Pacific Northwest. Maybe Alaska. They say there\u2019s something elemental out there\u2014purity again\u2014strongest when you\u2019re alone on the water in bitter cold, with nothing to hold on to but work. Your friend would say, \u201cIt\u2019s the whiteness of the whale.\u201d He\u2019s in Seattle. That\u2019s where you\u2019re headed.<\/p>\n
But that isn\u2019t where I am now.<\/p>\n
Right now, I\u2019m coming off the interstate into La Crosse. It\u2019s not so ancient, it has a rugged beauty and a bridge out west. I can cross the Mississippi here. Funny: I never thought of the Mississippi this far north; I always kept it down south in my head. It\u2019s been a long day of driving, of thinking about that dream with John Rambo\u2014I can\u2019t remember if we said anything to each other. Old Style signs repeat\u2014one every other block. Old Style: a reckoning of time with a graceful irregularity. Comfort, maybe. I\u2019ve never been here, but why not? I wouldn\u2019t mind. Maybe someone will buy me a beer. An Old Style. So, I stop.<\/p>\n
I see a space and park the car. Four bars on the corner, none of them begging for attention. Neighborhood places\u2014brick and neon in the window, paint peeling around the doorframe. Everybody knows everybody. They don\u2019t look like they belong downtown. I pick the place with the stone-faced front. A happy hour sign that doesn\u2019t promise much. The door itself is dark, partly open. It feels like a dare. It\u2019s downtown\u2014how bad can it be?<\/p>\n
I walk in.<\/p>\n
I order an Old Style. This isn\u2019t so bad. Corn yellow poured into a pilsner glass, the kind my grandfather used. Baseball on the TV. From my seat at the bar, I can see the sun is still out. When I get to Seattle, maybe I\u2019ll stay for a while. They say it\u2019s beautiful. And for a minute, I can almost believe I\u2019ve got a future ahead of me.<\/p>\n
I sit, watching the game, letting the beer take the edge off. Regulars start coming in. Nobody bothers me. The weight of not being anywhere in particular. It\u2019s almost peaceful.<\/p>\n
The bartender buys me a round. The game\u2019s in the late innings. One more pop, and then I want to find a truck stop, get some food, look at a map\u2014keep moving. The inning ends and the screen cuts to a \u201cNews at 6\u201d teaser. A boy in uniform. Clean face. Clean lines. A voiceover: \u201cTonight at six: a report from the front…\u201d<\/p>\n
Someone down the bar says, \u201cGod bless \u2019em.\u201d<\/p>\n
I forget. I don\u2019t mean to.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d I mutter. \u201cAmerica\u2019s Viagra kick gone wrong. A four-hour hard-on turned into how many years?\u201d<\/p>\n
I wasn\u2019t looking at anyone, just my pilsner glass. The big, fluffy head doesn\u2019t last long. I watch it collapse into a thin layer of foam.<\/p>\n
Then a shift. Chair legs scratch the floor. An old guy on a stool moves, gestures with his chin. Another man comes at me. I\u2019m not paying attention. The punch catches me on the side of the head. I go down.<\/p>\n
He\u2019s over me. Staring down. His face is a kind of certainty.<\/p>\n
\u201cGuys like you. Piece of shit. Why are you even here? My son\u2019s got no legs left. Fighting for you.\u201d<\/p>\n
He kicks me hard in the ribs.<\/p>\n
I hear, \u201cCan somebody get this guy out of here?\u201d I wonder who they\u2019re talking about. Me? Then: \u201cHe\u2019s not from here.\u201d<\/p>\n
I know now. It\u2019s blown up. I try to breathe. The floor is sticky. The TV keeps talking. The failure that begins with one man. If I could just talk to him. Tell him. He kicks me again\u2014for Christ\u2019s sake\u2014and it spreads. It doesn\u2019t stop at the bar. It doesn\u2019t stop anywhere. Because men do not know themselves.<\/p>\n
Again, there is a threshold you cross when you come to a place like this. Keep your mouth shut. We would never do that. Blow up a bus with women and children inside? No. Never.<\/p>\n
But we\u2019ll buy a gun and shoot people up. That\u2019s different. That\u2019s a right. At least it\u2019s not a bomb.<\/p>\n
That\u2019s cowardly, we say. I hope he doesn\u2019t have a gun.<\/p>\n
Because we tell ourselves we\u2019re better than that\u2014God and country, handed down. Our violence is clean and familiar. We like to think we know what we\u2019re doing.<\/p>\n
Another kick in the ribs.<\/p>\n
Just because I\u2019m still moving.<\/p>\n
\u201cChrist almighty\u2014leave him.\u201d<\/p>\n
Old Style.<\/p>\n
His boot goes into my ribs and the thought splits and reforms:<\/p>\n
Old Style. Of course.<\/p>\n
We don\u2019t have that where I\u2019m from. But they sure have it here. I wish John Rambo were here. I almost smile at that. The stupidity of it. The inevitability.<\/p>\n
Another whack, this time in the head. It\u2019s getting confusing now.<\/p>\n
I need to breathe.<\/p>\n
Is the sun still out?<\/p>\n
I can\u2019t see it anymore. Voices, feet shuffling.<\/p>\n
I need to breathe.<\/p>\n
Is this the threshold I crossed?<\/p>\n
I can\u2019t see the sky anymore. It seems just out of reach\u2014the sky\u2014where they like to keep it.<\/p>\n
Now it\u2019s getting quiet.<\/p>\n
I need to breathe.<\/p>\n
Is this a hand on my back, pointing me west? Is this what returns me to the path?<\/p>\n
I need to know what color the sky is.<\/p>\n
They say it\u2019s so beautiful out there.<\/p>\n
If you can get there.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Others have come here. Sacrifices have been made. The suffering is ancient and it gets inside your nerves. But at least when you hear the screaming, you know where it\u2019s coming from.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":25593,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-24711","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-robert-parillo"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24711","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=24711"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24711\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":25592,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24711\/revisions\/25592"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/25593"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=24711"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=24711"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=24711"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}