Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel)

by B. T. Urruela

  He said he’d be in town this weekend visiting family in Pittsburgh and would love to see me. While I’m excited to see him as well, I’m nervous. I’ve managed to put the Army in my rearview for the most part these days, but I know seeing him again will rehash some of those old memories, and it’s going to hurt just as much as it’s going to make me feel the warmth of nostalgia.

  I haven’t seen Jensen since my hospital days, when gauze was wrapped around my head and pain medication was pumping through my veins. My right eye just days removed, leaving an empty socket, the remaining eye staring off in the distance, unfocused, my mind lost in the pain of my present state. In the world of the medicated half-living.

  Jensen was always a good soldier, a friend even, but he disappeared just like the rest of them after I was wounded. He moved on with his life and forgot about his good ol’ one-eyed Sergeant.

  Leaving his dinner invitation unrequited for a few days, I knew I would eventually cave and text him, agreeing to a meet-up. As much as I resent those who I served with, who so easily seemed to turn their backs on me when shit hit the fan, I still have an innate desire to see them, to feel that camaraderie once again, to tell those old stories. I feel a need to escape my present, the counseling session with Carleigh the other day stirring up a lot of shit, bringing about feelings and emotions I’ve stuffed down for a long time. Feelings of inadequacy and disillusionment. And a frequent desire to snuff out any sort of feeling with whatever substance I can get my eager little mitts on.

  Those same feelings and emotions I carry with me on the ride to Pittsburgh, plans to meet Jensen at his hotel bar awaiting me. It’s not that seeing him will bring up some of that resentment. I can push that aside. I worry more about seeing him, hearing about his current life in the military, and feeling that empty, aching loss I feel when I think about being there again, fighting for something. Feeling worthy. The same feeling I get when I watch military movies now. I just can’t stand when those ‘what-ifs’ bombard my every thought. It’s a hollow, fruitless feeling.

  When I enter the hotel restaurant, I spot Jensen sitting at a corner booth where he said he’d be, though he didn’t warn me about his unnatural growth.

  “Jesus, dude. Are you eatin’ the steroids one spoonful at a time?” I ask with a laugh as I approach.

  Jensen’s eyes brighten as he spots me, and he stands, pulling me in for a hug.

  “Holy hell, man. Look at you. The man, the myth, the legend himself,” he says as we release hands and take a seat in the booth across from each other.

  My eyes are still on the biceps that threaten to shred his shirt sleeves with the slightest flex. I motion toward them. “Seriously, Jensen. Did they stop checkin’ for ’roids, or did you find some shit that’ll go undetected? How much have you even fuckin’ gained?”

  He shakes his head, waving me off. “Twenty pounds. And it’s all natural, baby. I’ve just been hitting the gym harder the past couple years. Cleaned up my eating.”

  “Fuck you!” I shake my head, waving him off as well.

  “No lie. Gym built.”

  “‘Needle in the ass’ built.”

  He flips me off. “Shut up, tell me what you’ve been up to, fucker! How’s freedom?”

  “Not as good as that fightin’ life you’re still livin’.”

  “Shit. With my own squad, it’s like I’m a babysitter now. My fun is in the rearview, man. It’s all counseling and training bullshit these days.” He laughs.

  “I’d still rather be leadin’ soldiers.”

  “Oh, come on. Civilian life can’t be that bad.”

  “Not terrible,” I respond. “It’s just different. I miss what we all had over there.”

  He nods as if he understands, but he doesn’t. He won’t until his time comes to move on.

  “I can’t imagine, man,” he says, shaking his head. “I think a lot about you. You and Barker.”

  “How is he, by the way? I haven’t heard anything from him in a long time.”

  Jensen frowns, his focus shifting to the tabletop. He shakes his head. “Not looking good, brother. He deleted his Facebook a couple months ago. He hadn’t been using it anyway. I’ve sent a few texts. Nothing. Last I heard, he was still down in San Antonio going through treatment. Just had a kid. I don’t know. I think there’s some issues with his baby momma going on.”

  “His leg still that bad?”

  “I don’t think it’s the leg anymore. Wasn’t last I saw at least. I think they finally grew the femur back. The burns were why he was still in rehab. Again, we’re talking a year since I’ve heard or seen a thing.”

  I shake my head, my lips tight. “I hate that I lost contact with him. Or that he did with me. Or that I didn’t try harder when he was still talkin’ to me. I don’t know.”

  Jensen shrugs. “What can you do? You can’t help those who don’t want the help.”

  He downs his drink and signals for the waiter.

  “How many you got down already?”

  He chuckles. “I’m visiting family. How many do you think?”

  We both order drinks, and the waiter retrieves Jensen’s empty glasses, three already. As he departs, Jensen nods toward my head. “What’s with the scar? That wasn’t there before, was it?” he asks, and I mindlessly feel for it, forgetting it was even there.

  “Don’t even ask. Long story,” I respond, waving him off and dropping my hand back to my side.

  “The usual hooligan behavior you always find yourself in, I imagine?”

  I shrug. “I don’t find it. It finds me.”

  “You remember that podunk bar in Georgia?”

  I nod, chuckling. “How could I forget?”

  “Do you think that dude has any feeling left in his face?” Jensen asks with a laugh.

  I shake my head. “Not if my foot had anything to do with it.”

  “I still can’t believe you did that.”

  Shrugging, I say, “Sometimes I feel bad about it, but then I remember he was hittin’ a woman. Takes any pity away pretty quickly.”

  “I think about that shit all the time,” he says, grinning, as the waiter returns with our double Jameson on the rocks, a drink we’ve always enjoyed together, one of which he’s already gotten quite acquainted with tonight. The waiter then takes our food order before departing again.

  Jensen lifts his glass, waiting for me. When I meet mine to his, he says, “To kicking the shit out of some random wife beater in the middle of Deliverance country.”

  I nod. “To makin’ sure that same mouth he used to talk shit met the goddamn ground.”

  Jensen laughs. “And his fucking teeth left in your wake.” He shakes his head and throws the glass back. I do the same, letting the memory of that night run through me.

  I had just gotten my stripes, and I was out celebrating with my guys. We had decided on a trip to Fort Benning, Georgia from Bragg to meet up with some Infantry buddies of ours, and stopped in the middle of nowhere for beers along the way. After leaving the fine establishment, all it took was seeing some redneck punk with his hands around his lady’s throat to set me off.

  I was raised in a household of abuse; I haven’t put up with any of it as an adult.

  He didn’t have much time to respond before I was on top of him, slugging him in the face with everything I had. It baffled me that she was trying to pull me off of him, trying to protect the man who, moments ago, was choking the life out of her. I paid her no mind though. I hit him a good twenty times until my friends pulled me off, the dude’s face left a bloodied tattered mess. It was when he looked up, spitting blood toward his girl, and he said, ‘You’ll get yours later, bitch,’ that I really lost it. I broke free from my friends’ grip and soccer kicked him in the face, so hard I could feel his nose crumple against my shoelaces.

  As my friends pulled me toward the waiting car, the dude’s girlfriend hitting me with every fist and curse word she could muster, I realized brainwashing isn’t reserved for the movies. It happens every
day to the strongest of people. Love is funny that way. It can be the greatest thing in the world… or the worst. The heart makes it’s on choices sometimes, and they’re not always good ones.

  “For real though, was that from a fight?” Jensen asks, breaking me from my daze.

  “Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

  “What’s that even mean?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “It means you know exactly how I fuckin’ got this.” I chuckle. “Why do you gotta be so nosey?”

  “You ever gonna retire those fists?” he asks.

  I shrug. “When the good Lord stops puttin’ deservin’ faces within reach.”

  “I don’t think that’ll ever happen,” he grunts, taking a sip of his whiskey.

  “If the present is any tell, the future looks full of blood-soaked knuckles.”

  He chuckles. “How have you been otherwise, Rocky?”

  “I’m a civilian. What more is there to say?”

  “You could’ve stayed in, right?”

  I lean forward. “As a fuckin’ radio operator? Maybe a fuckin’ 88 Mike, drivin’ trucks over there? I mean, fuck, Jensen, I’m an infantryman. There’s no changin’ that. I don’t wanna do anything else.”

  “It would’ve given you direction, at least.”

  “How much have you had to drink?” I ask. “Really. Because no way would you talk to me like this three years ago.”

  “Three years ago, you were my squad leader.”

  “And what am I now?”

  “My former squad leader. And current friend. At least, I like to think so.”

  “You are, but at least show me a little of the respect that you used to. A little of the respect that I’ve earned.”

  “I’m just trying to help, boss. That’s it. No disrespect meant. Not ever.”

  “Okay, sorry. I’m bein’ unfair. I think I just need to get on your level,” I say, jostling the ice in my glass.

  “Good luck.” He laughs. “I’ve been going since two.” After a moment of hesitation, he adds, “Hey. Thanks a lot for congratulating me on getting pinned last month, by the way.” He passes me a facetious wink.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Jensen, how the hell was I even to know?”

  “Well, if you had social media like the rest of us …”

  “Oh, c’mon. Enough of the frat guys give me shit about not havin’ one of those things. I don’t care to know when you fuckers are goin’ to the gym, or foldin’ laundry, or whatever the hell else people feel the need to announce to the world. Besides, I think havin’ one of those things would get me in trouble. I’d certainly offend someone on a daily basis. My thoughts and opinions are best left to myself.”

  He chuckles. “Happens just about every day.”

  “Yeah, see?”

  He scrutinizes me with his eyes. “So, you’re in a fraternity now, huh?”

  “Yeah, what of it?”

  He shrugs, a smug look on his face I don’t much like. “Aren’t you a bit old for that?”

  “I ain’t even the oldest one in the frat,” I argue, though I have to stifle a laugh as I think of the two, maybe three, others who are older than me out of a hundred and seven.

  “Still. What the hell, man.”

  “I don’t like this new you,” I half-joke as the waiter brings us fresh drinks, setting silverware down for us as well.

  He wriggles his eyebrows. “You love me.”

  I shake my head. “You always were my worst soldier,” I say, chuckling, and he looks offended.

  “Too far, fucker! Too damn far! You know Wilson gets that honor.”

  I laugh, thinking about Private Wilson, who spent about six ridiculous months with us before he was chaptered out. At one point, his weapon was tied to his wrist with 550 cord so he was forced to take it everywhere with him. That was about the third time he’d lost his weapon. His night vision goggles followed soon after.

  “Hey, Wilson had promise.” I grin. “I think he would’ve made a fine squad leader.”

  “I think you’re losing your fucking mind, man. That fucker could barely tie his own shoes.”

  I scan his features. “Well, fuck, at least he could grow a decent beard.” I motion toward the patchy strawberry blond beard wrapping his chin. “What’s this shit on your face?”

  He runs his hands through the face pubes. “Hey, we can’t all grow that shit like you do. The dudes from fucking ZZ Top envy your shit, motherfucker.”

  I stroke my beard, which hass thickened substantially over the past few weeks, nodding. “True. But dude, your face looks like a taint right now. Like an old man’s taint. You need to remedy that.”

  “Hey Bishop, I don’t tell you how to suck your boyfriend’s cock, don’t tell me how to handle my beard.”

  “Face taint. Not beard. Face taint.”

  “Fuck you,” he responds, laughing, and takes a sip of his drink. “You seeing anybody now? I know last time we talked, you were with that one girl.”

  “Chelsea.”

  “Yeah, her. How’s that going?”

  “She broke up with me in December. I think she just didn’t wanna buy me a Christmas present.”

  We chuckle.

  “Smart girl,” he says. “Can’t say I haven’t pulled that move a time or two.” Shrugging, he adds, “So, you’re just raking up the pussy down there in Crescent, huh?”

  I narrow my eyes and tilt my head. “C’mon. You know me better than that. That’s never been my style.”

  “Well, you had to have gotten your dick wet at least. Even you must have needs.”

  I shake my head. “You’re an idiot.”

  “No, I’m a man.”

  “A married one, at that. Even my spotty sex life must eclipse yours. Does she even know what your cock looks like anymore?”

  “You bet your ass she does.”

  “Could she pick it out of a cock lineup?”

  “A cock lineup?” He thinks on this for a moment. “Yeah, I think I’m alright. I’ve got a unique bend to mine.”

  “So, you can piss around corners?”

  “Just about.”

  “No way she picks your dick out of a cock lineup. I bet you guys are at the strictly celebratory sex stage now, huh? Countin’ down to the once a year birthday blowjob?”

  He shakes his head, but his face tells me at least part of what I said is true. It cracks my shit up.

  “That’s what I thought,” I add.

  “Tracy still sucks my dick every Saturday, thank you very much,” he says proudly, crossing his arms.

  “The fact that it’s even scheduled …” I laugh, giving my head a quick shake. “How y’all doin’, by the way? She get over all that shit that happened after you got back?”

  He shrugs, his focus shifting toward the crowded bar. “Could be better. Could be worse.”

  “Three years later.” I shake my head. “That’s why you keep your married dick outta strange vagina, my friend.”

  He scoffs. “It’s not my fault she went through my phone.”

  “No, but I imagine you didn’t trip and fall into that waitress’s pussy either.” I grin as he rolls his eyes.

  “I was drunk,” he argues, though I’m not sure if he’s trying to convince me or himself more.

  “Well, that should hold up in court. ‘Listen, Judge, I know I killed that guy, skinned him, and wore him as a Halloween costume, but I was drunk. So … maybe a pass this time?’”

  He chuckles. “She didn’t divorce me and take me for everything I’m worth, at least.”

  “Nope. Just mandated blowjobs and solo family trips from here on out.” I wink at him and click my teeth.

  He lets out a labor breath and says, “I’m beginning to think she only wanted to catch me in something so she didn’t have to come with me to visit my family anymore.”

  “I remember the stories you once told,” I say, laughing, as the waiter approaches with our food. “I’m not so sure I blame her.”

  “Thank you.” I nod t
oward the waiter, raising my glass. “Can we get two more, please?”

  Once empty plates have been pushed aside and a few more drinks have made their way down our gullets, I can feel the drunken buzz in my limbs, a tingle between my ears. Jensen is a swaying mess, still coherent, but beaming in his drunken state.

  “I’m so glad you came to see me, man,” he announces, drawing my attention from the quickly filling restaurant and bar area.

  “Of course. Anytime you’re around this way, definitely hit me up.”

  “Same with you and Fort Campbell. There isn’t a whole hell of a lot to do there, but Tracy and I could think of a few things to get into. No fighting though.” He points a finger at me. “I know how you get around cherry privates, and there are a shitload of them there. There’s not a bar in town that’s not crawling with them.”

  “Shit. It ain’t much different than college.”

  “Says the guy who decided to join a frat.”

  I chuckle, nodding. “You got me there. I don’t know what the fuck I was supposed to do though.”

  “What about their student veteran organization?”

  I shrug. “I emailed them. I didn’t get a good vibe from the guy I talked to, some Coast Guard prick. I looked at their website, and …” I hesitate, shrugging again. “Just looked like a bunch of fuckin’ wannabes.”

  He laughs, taking a drink of his Jameson. “You crack my shit up, man,” he says, his shaky eyes meeting mine.

  “And why is that, Jensen?”

  “Never giving much of anything a chance.” He puts a hand up, probably noticing the heavy scrunch in my brows. “And I mean that endearingly.”

  “How so? Do tell.”

  “Who am I to judge anybody? It’s endearing because everyone has their own unique quirks and qualities. One of yours is being suspicious of everyone and everything.”

  “It seems to work for me. I have some good friends. Pretty good life. I take chances when those chances present decent outcomes.”

  “Good friends? Yeah, but how many are close?”

  “Not many live near me.”

  “No, not proximity close. I mean, close to your heart.”

  “What kind of Lifetime shit are you talkin’?” I ask with a chuckle, taking a big gulp of my Jameson. It goes down far smoother than just an hour ago.