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by Jack R. Johnson
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I get my own mail now—I walk to the end of the driveway every day, that’s how much my leg has improved. My biggest problem is trying to avoid Chuck Hutchins, my neighbor who is a Civil War reenactor. He wants to know what it was like, and what do I think about our terrorist strategy now?
If I have a Miller Lite for these morning encounters, the conversations go better. I sip beer while Chuck fills me in on the minutiae of Civil War reenactment. How he uses urine to make his uniform buttons look old enough; how no one is allowed to bring anything anachronistic, like brand cigarettes, you have to roll your own. No cell phones. Cell phones are a big no, no. Everyone is forced to go into airplane mode. Chuck explains that he is up on current events, too, so I can confide in him, especially about war. He loves war. He knows all about Syria and the no-fly zones, ISIS clinging to Mosul. I explain that I was in one little strip of one little backwater neighborhood in Iraq, and then I got blown up; and that was that.
“Sure, sure, but you know, just signing up makes you a hero, Ronnie. That’s something, don’t you think?”
I tell him maybe, but the truth is, I spend most of my time here trying to forget I was ever there, watching television, or reading this book I’ve been working on—How Successful People Think.
My girlfriend begged me to read the book; said it would help me out. She suspects I have problems. Chuck thinks she watches too much Oprah, Dr. Oz and all that psyche talk, but I can kind of see both sides. For example, Maxwell, the author of this book, writes that I need to use Big Picture thinking. I know Max is onto something like boot camp with its oo rahs, and hurrays! Positive thinking. It’s like you have to have perspective. I get that. When you climb a mountain top, you can see how life is playing out along the paths and ridges and valleys, but when you are in the valley, doing the walking, it’s not so easy. There are times like that, when the book is a mountain and I can see everything. Other times though, I just can’t climb it. Besides, it makes me think of Creasy, and that depresses me all over again. Max would likely say Creasy was not a Big Picture thinker, which is true. He was stuck on all the little details there.
***
Here’s the dirty secret about military work—it’s boring. And then it’s terrifying. But mostly it’s boring. It’s like a super valley of pitch blackness, sucked of all light, until there’s a bright explosion, and then there’s nothing but light, an over exposure you might say, and you can’t get it out of your head.
If you’re on guard duty, even the ugliness – like the trash all over the place – becomes interesting because there is nothing else to distract. I watched just to see how bad things could be. Then, sometimes, there’s a small miracle and a little slice of beauty cuts into your day. A kite, say, red and green, swirling against the over-head clouds; a school boy game of soccer played with a dirty rubber ball. Sometimes a girl shows up. Out of the blue.
***
I saw her on guard duty one afternoon, just like any other afternoon on Piryani street. I’d never seen her before. She was at the end of the street when her hijab blew away in a dust storm. I picked up the hijab for her, brushed off the dust, and handed it to her, and she took it and said, “Thank you,” in English – no accent.
“You’re welcome,” I said, doing my best not to gape. That was it, although I couldn’t stop staring at her. Everyone else saw me staring, too. My guess is that’s what gave Taro the idea. After Taro saw her, she saw him watching her, and her eyes darkened, turned suspicious—and she hurried away. That was the problem I thought, later. The way she looked at Taro. Fear is a like an invitation to that guy, like he feeds on it; the fear makes him feel superior in a way, and then he wants more fear just so he can feel bigger still. That’s sick, I know, but that’s the truth. I’m not going to lie anymore.
I tell Chuck sometimes that fear moves the world, and Chuck agrees. When we talk at my mailbox he tells me about his job as a financial investor while I sip on my Miller Lite. He says there are only two motivating emotions in the financial universe: greed and fear. Greed, he says, is fear as well, only disguised. “You’re just afraid someone else is going to make those bucket loads of money before you do.” There’s this other type of fear, too; where things happen and you’re never quite sure why or how. It’s like our fear of God, maybe, or ghosts.
***
Here’s another thing I fear.
I’m afraid that one-day Taro will call me and tell me he needs me to say what happened.
I know I’m supposed to say, “Nothing that I know of, it’s all good.”
He will say, “Exactly, my brother. That is what I am talking about, that’s all you need to say.”
This hasn’t happened yet, but it’s what I fear because then I’ll know they were responsible, and I’ll have to make a choice.
***
When I first explained this to Katrina, she said it was fine, I was following orders. When I tried to tell her again, she said I was being weird.
“You were stationed there on guard duty and you heard some stuff. What you heard could have been from anywhere. It’s Iraq, right? So, what makes you think it was your guys? Even if it was, there’s probably a good reason.”
I shrug, “it’s a gut feeling.”
“What does that mean, ‘gut feeling’?”
“The way they acted. I don’t know.” I frown and try to think of the reasons, try to list them out, but all I see are the girl’s eyes again, darkening.
***
Later that night, when I can’t sleep, I get up and pad around the kitchen, remembering Taro and Trawler, trying to get a clearer picture. I’m pretty sure Taro was the first one out of the building. Trawler was still back there. Clement came out next, looking pale. I asked him what was going on.
“Nothing, don’t worry about it.”
“What did you hear?”
“I didn’t hear anything,”
“All right,” I said, “whatever, I didn’t hear anything either, then.”
Taro lit a cigarette and came up to us, out of the darkness, smirking. His face was wide and pale. He flashed his brims gangsta sign. On the back of his fingers he had tattooed four letters, blue-green ink, one for each finger, L.O.C.A. On the flesh between his index finger and thumb, were three small blue-green dots. Those, he explained, represented the crazy life. The way he looked that night made me think something was up, and then, what he said: “Okay, no talk, right? But that was wild,” he blew smoke in my face, “That was, man…. that was wild.”
“What was wild?”
Taro frowned, “Nothing. Just shut up, Larson.”
“Where’s Trawler?” Clement asked.
“Still back there…” Taro laughed and his teeth shone in the blue street light.
When Trawler finally showed up, I tried to see if he was any different. He didn’t seem changed in any significant way, not on the outside. His harelip was darkened and inflamed, but that always happened when we were out in the heat. Otherwise, he had the same faded, gray eyes and stone face he’d always had, a kind of permanently vacuous expression. If he was guilty of anything, you couldn’t tell by the way he acted the next day, either. Not him or Taro. They were all business as usual.
***
Katrina shakes me awake before she starts her laundry downstairs, around eight AM. I had fallen asleep on the couch in front of the television again. Law and Order reruns. I roll over and grab a warm beer from the coffee table and head for the mailbox. Chuck strolls out in his Civil War costume. He’s in a Confederate infantry uniform of some type, but I can’t tell his rank.
“Looking good, Sergeant” I tell him.
“Thanks, but I’m a corporal.” He points to the V on his gray sleeve. “No upper band, see?”
“Oh, gotcha. Where are you headed?”
“Gettysburg. Big reenactment.”
That’s when I ask him about Sherman’s march. Had he ever thought about doing that? It just pops into my head. How would a Confederate reenactor handle Sherman’s march? I mean, you don’t see anybody reenacting Hiroshima or Nagasaki or the battle of Khe Sanh, for that matter.
“Sherman’s march?” he asks. He pulls his chin back and studies me. Chuck is a sizable guy. On groomed days, he looks like Colonel Sanders, white hair, white goatee, pink veined cheeks, heavy paunch. When he pulls his chin back, it’s a major effort. His expression tells me I’ve gone from war hero to dangerous freak with a single question.
“I just—no.” He stares at me, shakes his head, “No, I haven’t.”
“Right,” I say. “War is hell,” I add, looking inside my mailbox. Of course, it’s empty. It’s only eight in the morning; I’m always a little early, that way. “General Sherman said that.” I add, and because I don’t know what else to say, I wish him luck, “Happy war day!” I toast him with my Miller Lite.
***
When you think about the history of war, something like Piryani street is no big deal. The trick is not to get lost in the details. Stay up on the mountain top. That’s where all the smart people are. That’s where the generals are, and the go-getters. You can stay positive that way. Don’t get lost in the details. I think that’s what happened to Creasy, why he just tried to walk away one day. They stopped him at the gates and sent him back and eventually they gave him a discharge because he kept trying to walk off the post and the guards got tired of sending him back. It was a funny enough routine, until it wasn’t funny anymore, and it became a little sick.
I think he feared that he might never get back to normal again, like Iraq had invaded his head and changed him. Like the way the sand there can gets into everything. Staring out the window this morning, watching Chuck leave for his make believe war, something occurs to me that I haven’t thought about in months, not since that evening.
I walk into the house and find Katrina. She’s downstairs, separating underwear from socks and shirts. I tell her what I remember: that Taro had come out of the building with a scarf around his neck, light blue. Usually, I could see his spider web tattoo on his neck, but that evening I couldn’t, because of the scarf. Like the girl’s hijab, I say. Katrina’s face screws up in confusion. I try to explain that the scarf is what makes me think it was them. She nods her head but doesn’t look up. I tell her that’s how it comes together in my mind. The noises, the way Taro leered, and that scarf that covers his spider web tattoo. “Plus, you should know, I really heard the shots, and the scream. I heard how wild and scared it was.”
“Alright, honey,” she says, “alright.”
She pulls a black sock from the underwear pile and throws it into the other pile. She’s humming something I almost halfway recognize, but I can’t tell for sure. I think it’s some kind of love song. I say, “Seriously, Kat. I’m not making this up.”
***
That evening I try to read How Successful People Think again, but it’s ridiculous. I can’t get past the beginning of the fourth chapter that reads, “Expose yourself to good people.” I wonder how do you know who is good and who isn’t? It’s not like folks go around with a checkmark or thumbs-up symbol tattooed on their forehead. I drink one Miller Light and then another. Just before we’re ready for bed, I decide. I tell Katrina that I am going to make a phone call.
“You need to calm down,” Katrina says. “You’ve been drinking. You’re getting all worked up and it’s not good, Ronnie.” She presses her body close, as though to calm me with her presence.
***
That morning, Katrina wants to know how I’m feeling. I tell her I’m fine. I tell her I’m still going to call. The whole while Katrina keeps saying, “Are you sure?” She’s scared for me, scared for both of us.
***
I learn that their names were Lava Amin, Mohammed Amin, Said Amin and Shams Amin. The investigating officer, Captain Ted Talbott, said that Shams Amin was the girl that I saw: fourteen years old, youngest in the family. CENTCOM had a file on the incident and an ongoing investigation, but he said that he did not think that it would go far. Mohammed Amin had an old single shot rifle that he kept for protection underneath his stove in the kitchen so it was an insurgency problem. He’d heard that the grandfather and grandmother still lived in the village and had already been paid off.
***
When I was in Iraq, before he left, Creasy gave me a red book by Rumi and I remember it was about a fellow named Shams. At first, I thought they were lovers and Creasy said that wasn’t what it was about. I think of the girl named Shams and wonder if there is a connection, but then decide that is crazy; that an Iraqi girl should be channeling a message from a Persian poet. How did that make sense? The book was all about love and God and sayings like this: “The summary of the advice of all prophets; Find yourself a mirror.”
He said I should read it to help fight the ghosts.
“What ghosts?” I asked.
“All of them,” he said.
***
Captain Talbott tells me that I did the right thing in calling him, and not to let it bother me. Taro and Trawler cleaned out a nest of insurgents, and there was some collateral damage, that’s his read. Part of me is relieved when I hear this and another part is doubtful, and the two battle each other. I want to argue with him and explain that I have my doubts, that the way they acted was more like Sherman’s march, though I have no idea what that was like either.
“Captain, with all due respect, these guys—”
“Yes?”
I blather something about her hijab and the scarf that Taro was wearing. How I couldn’t see his neck tattoo anymore.
“Yes?” Captain Talbott repeats, like he’s not able to see the point.
I can’t get the words out, because I’m not one hundred percent, and maybe I’m wrong, and then I’m a real asshole. Maybe it happened just the way the report says. I thank him for his time. After I hang up, Katrina walks back into the living room. I’m sitting on the couch, staring at my hands.
“Well?”
I shrug, “Nothing.”
“Well, what did he say?” She sounds exasperated, like I should know that she’s needs more details.
“They knew about it, they found an old rifle. So they were insurgents.”
She smiles, her face opening with relief. She walks over to where I am sitting and gives me a hug. Her hair is wet and I can smell coconut shampoo.
“See? You were so worried. It was nothing. Everything is fine. You did your job. It’s over now.”
She hugs me again, and leans in to kiss me.
I bite my lower lip, move to the refrigerator for a beer. She’s irritated by my hesitance, “You need to forget about it, okay? There’s nothing more you can do.”
“Right,” I pop the bottle open, “I know that.” I sit back on the couch and take a swig. I feel defensive, as though she is blaming me for not believing that I’m free and clear. Then I remember Rumi. I lean forward and touch her knee, “We can neither guess the future, nor change the past. Isn’t that right?”
She nods, her eyes widen a little, surprised, “That’s right.”
“That’s Shams.” I say, “But not the girl. The girl is dead. She can’t change anything. She can’t guess.”
“There’s nothing you can do about her,” Katrina whispers, “You did your job like thousands of others, Ronnie. Alright? You have to—”
“I know that. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, right?”
Through our living room window I can see Chuck Hutchins, riding his lawn mower in civvies, shorts and bulging, sweat stained t-shirt, making wide sweeps around his yard. He’s still wearing his Confederate cap to keep off the sun. “Look at what a great job he is doing.” My own lawn is a mess by comparison. I even have an old toilet in my backyard with flowers growing out of it. Really redneck.
“What?” Katrina asks.
“Look at Chuck’s lawn, it is a miracle, isn’t it? Look at the hat he’s wearing.” I laugh.
“Ronnie.”
I laugh again, but I feel empty; and I am furious for some reason, furious with myself, with him, even with Kat. I sweep the front door open, walk outside in my sweatpants. Chuck waves when he spies me strolling toward my mailbox. There’s a small space that he’s missed under the wide magnolia tree, “Hey Chuck, you missed that, see?” He nods, continues mowing. This irks me, “Corporal,” I shout, imitating a drill instructor, “Do you see that?” I amble forward, take another swig, “Right there.” I point at it, making a pistol of my thumb and index finger, “Let’s get this squared away, corporal! What do you think this is, some kind of fuckking holiday?” He wants to be left alone, doesn’t want to play war anymore. That’s his privilege, after all, to play war whenever he wants, and when he doesn’t want to play war, he can go back to his pretty lawn. He looks over his shoulder with a quick, frightened glance, then turns to his garage, like I’m not even there.
How long I stand in his yard, breathing heavy, gulping at the air, I don’t know, but at some point, I hear Katrina.
“Ronnie? Come on, baby. Let’s go home.”
I feel her hand on my shoulder, turn, and her face comes into focus; her startling blue eyes. I think of Creasy on his last day, packing up, “I’m out of here, dude. Color me gone.” The guards caught him that last time, and shipped him home for good. I wish I could do that; end everything that happened, and that never stops happening, wave my hands in the autumn air, abra cadabra shazaam, and just like that they disappear, I disappear, like Creasy, like a ghost that’s finally gone.
But I’m still standing there on Chuck’s half mowed lawn, bare feet buried in waxy magnolia leaves, clutching a Miller Lite. It’s like I can suddenly see myself from miles away, how small and ridiculous I must appear. Like, I’m seeing myself from the mountaintop.
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Jack R. Johnson is a monthly columnist for North of the James Magazine in Richmond, Virginia, an editor of The Alliance for Progressive Virginia blog and a contributor to Style Magazine. His published works include short stories, articles and the novel, An Animal’s Guide to Earthly Salvation. His latest novel, In Black and White, is scheduled to be published by Propertius Press in 2023.
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