John,
I can't watch war movies anymore. Full Metal
Jacket and a screaming Gunnery Sergeant Hartmann; Apocalypse
Now with a side of crazy Kurtz; Platoon and Willem
Dafoe falling to his knees. All because of you,
fuck you very much.
*
You
announce it on Easter Sunday. The day we are supposed to dye eggs ugly
pastels
but instead settle for drinking a case of Schlitz. Dad sticks his chest
out in
boastful manly pride when we all know he hasn't done anything harder
than smack
us around the last few years, mom can’t get over your haircut,
and fat Aunt
Shirley keeps plugging away on that ambrosia fruit salad she brought
over. No
one likes that salad. We feed it to the dog after she leaves and he
gets the
runs on mom’s antique rug. Everyone looks at me like I should say
something.
Like I can save you. Instead I call you an idiot (everyone else wants
to say it
so why not me?) and I end up under your arm in a headlock. You always
did like
to beat the shit out of me.
*
Before
you leave you issue words of warning. If I do drugs or blow off school
you’ll
break my arm. If dad puts a hand on me, you’ll break his throat.
You both got
that? you ask, like either of us have options.
Dad
says, You’re in for a helluva fight, John. You laugh and lead me
out of the
room. You take me with you. Always.
Only
Dad gets the raw deal. He’s afraid of you.
*
Sitting
on the kitchen counter, smoking cigarettes on our last day together. We
Febreze
the hell out of that kitchen so mom doesn’t find out. I
don’t know what I
expect but it definitely isn’t the condom you pass me, or the
confession that you’re
only doing this to get away from home. It’s not to help the
country or because you’re
patriotic, you’d wrap yourself in the flag and tar and feather it
if it would
get you out of this house. Fuck the government, you say, Steve Earle
style. You
just want somewhere else to take your depression. A desert seems the
place to
go.
You
make me promise to nail Chrissy Flanagan, a girl I’ve had a crush
on since
sixth grade. She looks good in yellow. With her red hair and curls, the
two of
us only imagine what else she has in store down there. You go through a
stoic
checklist. You’ll serve, do your time, and then come home.
You’ll move me out,
somewhere across town, into an apartment with you.
A
good plan, Levi, you say. The best plan.
*
The
letters I read in your room so they can’t haunt mine.
They’re your words, I
need your space. I get one a week. In these letters, pieces of
scribbled script
(you are the only guy I know who still uses cursive), you sound
different. You aren’t
angry anymore, just tired. Regretting going isn’t an option, but
you sure as
hell won’t do another tour. You miss pussy and beer too much. You
miss me. Mom cries
at night and dad drinks. But it’s not because you’re gone.
It’s just because they’re
assholes. I smoke your cigarettes in your room and it’s like
you’re back. The stench
seeps into the walls and your sheets. When they pound on the ceiling
with the
end of the broomstick I pound back on the ground with my fist.
*
I
go down on Chrissy Flanagan after Sadie Hawkins. She asked me,
how do you like that John? And she’s so pink and nice and
tight. She touches my chin, brings me up to her level. She smells my
breath and
doesn’t pull away. She’s kind of awesome like that. You
remind me of your
brother, she says. I flinch and she stammers, Not like that, I
didn’t mean it
like that, Levi.
Nervous
laughter as she slips her black underwear back on. It’s because
you look like
him, Chrissy says. I see you and I
remember him in the halls of Johnson County High. Before he left.
He
was so tall, she says, and I take her in my arms. She doesn’t
remember what I
do. You were taller than everyone.
*
We
used to go down to Lake Elmo and catch catfish. You gutted, I cooked; I
could
never stand the blood and entrails. We’d get drunk and skip
stones. You never
talked a lot except when you drank. But when you really did talk, folks
listened. I sure wish I would have. Because I didn’t know you
were telling me
the truth that day.
I
got nothin left for me here, you said. Soon, I’m breakin ground,
kid.
Where
you gonna go, John?
Anywhere
that doesn’t have my name on it. Anywhere that ain’t easy.
Your
voice—soft and calm. I never took you seriously until you filled
out the
paperwork. Enlisted like you were such a badass motherfucker. You even
got that
skinhead haircut. That time at the lake, one of the last times, I
remember you
glancing at the sky and asking for rain. I had a bite but I never
reeled it in.
*
I
get into a fight after class. You’re 10,000 miles away and I
still can’t help
shouting for you. If you were there you’d break the guy’s
jaw. Instead I break
his nose and get expelled for two days. When I get home, Mom sits me
down and
dabs my face with peroxide. She doesn’t say much except, You
fight like your
brother. You fight like a man. And she doesn’t sound proud about
it.
*
When
the letters stop, when they tell me how you died, I keep wondering if
you have
a face. And when I see the closed casket I know you don’t. I keep
my head down
the entire time because if I see one more person point and whisper,
That’s the
brother, like it’s some kind of curse, I’ll climb into the
goddamn coffin with
you, John. I really will.
*
He’s
not supposed to talk like this but he does. Your friend, a big soldier
with a
broad jaw and tattoos across his knuckles, named Kurt or Mark or
something
equally forgettable, breaks down in the pew. I stand there awkwardly,
wondering
why I can’t cry like he can. He wipes his eyes, says, Aw,
man.
Fucking...Christ, man. I'm weeping here.
You
looked for a hand signal, too slow, and they shot you down. That
hospital bed
was the first moment of peace you had in months. Kurt/Mark says you
begged god
to let you die. That you asked for me, screamed for mom, and then you
just
died. I think it’s funny because you
hated god and mom. I call him an asshole and leave. I hear that guy in
my
nightmares.
*
When
they give me your dog tags it really kicks me in the fucking chest. I
shove the
tags into the pocket of my jeans. The one thing you leave me with. A
souvenir
of cold metal in my pockets. I hate your guts, John. I’ll never
forgive you for
dying. The things I can’t do without you could fill a goddamn
book.
*
Chrissy
crawls through the window. She keeps her hand on my back while
I’m a little
pile of misery in your bed. She comes
every night. Says, Levi, and rests that calming hand on my back. It
puts me
out. I may have nailed her once but just like that I already love her.
It’s
funny if you really think about it because every time I fuck Chrissy
Flanagan
I’ll think of you, John. It’s wrong but I will.
*
The
sheets still smell like you. Diesel from your jalopy and fumes
from your
Marlboros. Streaks of grease from the beds of your nails. You
gave up your job
at the gas station to go and die. I hope you’re happy. I hope
your car never runs
again. I hope you liked the desert when you were there. I hope it was
enough of
the world for you to see.
