by Ben Fountain
“Something would be nice,” Dime says. “Something would be great. But it’s”—he breaks off with a choking gasp—“it’s just, I don’t know, it’s just so sad, sir. We thought you kind of liked us.”
“But I do!” Norm cries, lurching upright in his chair. “I do like you! I think the world of you fine young men!”
Dime clasps his hands to his heart. “See?” he gushes to Billy. “He does like us! He likes us so much he’s going to fuck us in the face!”
In a second Albert is on his feet, chousing the Bravos out of their chairs with a bright furious smile and asking Norm for a place where he can talk to his “boys,” and though the Oglesby team takes it all more or less in stride, Dime has offended, clearly. He has crossed the bounds of couth. A very curt Mr. Jones leads them down the hall to a small, windowless room with a half bath attached, a kind of massage and decompression chamber, Billy gathers, furnished with a heavily pillowed daybed he would describe as “French,” a couple of leather and steel-tube chairs, a massage table, and a deep-pile Persian rug. The ubiquitous TV is mounted high in a corner, the first they’ve seen today that’s not switched on. Mr. Jones ducks into the bathroom and has a look, then walks a circle around the massage table. He seems to be doing some sort of security sweep.
“Hey, Mr. Jones, is this place bugged?” Dime asks. “It’s okay if it is, I’m just asking. Do you think it’s bugged?” he continues, turning to Billy and Albert as Mr. Jones leaves without saying a word. “I bet it is, hell, I bet it’s wired for video. I bet this is where Norm does his day-shift hookers—”
“David, chill.”
“—um umph, check this action out.” He’s feeling up the daybed, then testing its bounce with his rump. “I could definitely jam some high-dollar ass on this. I betcha anything he’s got it fixed for video—”
“Settle down, Dave, please—”
“—it’s always the billionaires who’re the biggest pervs—”
“—would you shut up, Dave, please, please just shut the fuck up? Please? Can you? Yes? Thank you!”
Dime sits on the edge of the daybed and primly crosses his legs, looks over at Billy, and laughs. Albert looks to Billy and rolls his eyes. Billy has taken the leather chair by the bathroom door, as far out of the line of fire as possible.
“You’re on his team?” Dime snarls.
Albert seems to rear, grizzly-like. “Hell yes, if that’s what it takes to get your picture made.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“And that’s supposed to mean anything? This is business, there’s an asshole every time you pick up the phone. Stop thinking like a twerp and get your head in the game.”
“Oh gee Albert, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry if we’re messing up your brand-new partnership.”
“Tell me this, David, do you think you’re a player? You wanna be a player, you better learn to keep a civil tongue in your head. What you said in there—look, you cannot let emotion escalate into drama, not if you want a deal. You can whine and bitch and argue and everything else, but you cannot blow it up just because you’re pissed off.”
“Like we haven’t heard some rank stuff out of your mouth.”
“That’s different, I know how far I can push. And some of these studio guys, they like the abuse, but you’re punching way above your weight here. Norm doesn’t have to take that kind of shit from you.”
“Norm can lick every pimple on my pretty pink ass.”
“Oh, lovely. Wonderful. I can see how well you’re listening. You know what, maybe Billy should represent the squad in there. How about if you stay here, David, stay here and grow some brains. Billy and I’ll go represent the squad in there.”
“I’m not going back in there,” Billy says, not that anyone’s listening. Dime holds up his hand.
“All right, all right, okay, truce. Okay.” He takes a breath. “Albert, just tell me this—is Norm just fucking with us? Does he really need to bust us down like this, or is he being a corporate dick just because he can?”
Albert leans against the massage table and sucks his lip, considering. “Both, probably. I think he could do a lot better by you guys, no question. Fifty-five hundred is pretty thin. But you’ll have equity.”
“He’ll wanna screw us on that too, that’s the vibe I get from this guy. If he’s doing us on the front end he’ll do us on the back, it’s a matter of principle with this guy.”
“He’s a pretty tough nut, I’ll grant you that. You get in a fight with Norm, you better be wearing a cup, but listen, bottom line? He wants this deal as much as we do. So we just keep him at the table for as long as it takes, when he gets tired enough he’ll come around.”
“Not if he runs out the clock on us. You heard him, he knows what we’re up against. We don’t have unlimited time here.”
“Well, I’ve always viewed your departure as a somewhat artificial deadline anyway. Signatures can be faxed. They can be e-mailed.”
“Not if we’re dead.”
Albert folds his arms and stares glumly at his shoes. A brief, startling vision comes to Billy of big old Albert standing in a rainy field somewhere, head down, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, weeping. It has never occurred to him that their producer might be capable of actual tears.
“How about this,” Dime offers, “how about if we hold a gun to his head?”
“Oh David, don’t even talk like that.”
“Hell yeah, vets on the edge, baby! Everybody’s got their breaking point.”
“He’s just kidding,” Billy tells Albert, looking to Dime to make sure.
“Everybody supports the troops,” Dime woofs, “support the troops, support the troops, hell yeah we’re so fucking PROUD of our troops, but when it comes to actual money? Like somebody might have to come out of pocket for the troops? Then all the sudden we’re on everybody’s tight-ass budget. Talk is cheap, I got that, but gimme a break. Talk is cheap but money screams, this is our country, guys. And I fear for it. I think we should all fear for it.”
Albert blinks, unsure how seriously he should take that last part. “Dave, all I can tell you is the only way we’re going to get a deal is to keep talking to this guy. He made his offer, if you don’t like it we’ll make a counter and see what comes back, that’s how it works. But you keep your emotions out of it and focus on the deal, okay? That’s the only way you’re going to get some money for your guys.”
“I need to call them,” Dime says, pulling out his cell.
“So call. I gotta take a leak.”
As soon as Albert’s in the bathroom Billy moves to the other chair, so that he doesn’t have to listen to the movie producer pee. Dime calls Day, and at certain points in the conversation Billy can hear Day’s side as plainly as Dime’s. What the fuck? comes through quite clearly, in addition to fuck that, fuck that shit, and fuck that motherfucking shit. Dime asks Day to poll the rest of the squad, and their answers boom through like the bellowing of cows in a slaughter chute. Billy pulls out his own cell and clicks on. He’s missed calls from Kathryn and the unknown number, and there’s a text from Kathryn as well—
Sending car 4 u tx stadium
CALL HIM 4 meet.
JUST GET IN THE CAR.
Dime clicks off. “They said no.”
“I heard.”
Dime pockets the cell. “Your thoughts, Billy. What do you think we should do.”
Billy shuts his eyes and tries to have coherent thoughts about everything that has happened today. Into the still of his concentration sails the crash of a flushing toilet.
“He’s wrong.”
“Who’s wrong?”
Billy opens his eyes. “Norm. Remember what he said in there, he was like, you guys oughta take the deal because it’s all you’ve got, and something’s better than nothing? But I don’t think so. I think sometimes nothing is better than something. I mean, I’d rather have nothing than let this guy use me like his bitch. Plus”—Billy glances around and lowers his voice, as though the room in fact is bu
gged—“I just sort of hate the son of a bitch.”
For some reason this is suddenly hilarious to them. Albert emerges from the bathroom to find the two Bravos laughing like baboons.
“Sorry, guy,” Dime tells him, “but fitty-five hundred don’t cut it. And Bravo speaks as one on this.”
Albert pulls a poker face. “Okay, so what cuts it?”
“Hundred thousand up front, then we’re out of Norm’s hair. And he can keep all that wonderful equity for himself.”
“Guys, I think you’re going to have to bend a little bit. What if we—hang on.” His cell is buzzing. “Speak of the devil. Lemme just . . . Yes, Norm.”
Billy remains in the chair, Dime on the daybed. They listen.
“You’re kidding me.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Can you even do that? On what grounds . . .” Albert laughs, but he’s not happy. “National what? Are you serious? I’ve never heard of . . . Jesus, Norm, at least give us a chance. The least you could do is wait to hear what we come back with.”
“Five minutes?” He turns to the Bravos. “You guys know of a General Ruthven?” But before the soldiers can answer, he’s back to the phone.
“Norm, I really don’t think you have to do this. If you’d just . . .”
“Of course I know it’s not just about the money. Tell me about it, tell my guys. They put their lives on the line every . . .”
“All right. I guess so. I guess we’ll see.”
Albert clicks off and slips the cell into his blazer side pocket. He turns to the Bravos, and the way he looks down at them, it’s as if they’re in their coffins and he’s having a last look before the lid comes down.
“Whut,” Dime says.
Albert squints; he seems surprised to hear Dime speak. “It’s pretty incredible,” he says. “They’ve gotten your chain of command involved. Apparently Norm’s good buddies with the deputy-deputy secretary of defense or some such crap, he had that guy call your superiors at Fort Hood. He says he talked to a General Ruthven? And the general’s supposed to call here in a couple of minutes, to talk to you.” Albert shakes his head; his voice wavers. “I think they’re going to make you do the deal.” He looks at them. “Can they even do that?”
The Bravos know full well the Army does whatever it wants, and any rights they claim will be shunted into the catch-all category known as “collateral,” i.e., things to be administered after it’s too late. Mr. Jones comes to lead them back to the bunker, where the Bravos are greeted civilly, almost warmly. They’re offered refreshments. They’re shown to the same two seats. “The wheels came off,” Todd says, indicating the scoreboard, which shows 17–7 in favor of the Bears. “Interception and fumble, ten points in two minutes.”
F-bomb executive snorts. “We’re gonna send out a search party after the game, help Vinny find his ass.”
This raises a bitter laugh.
“Why the hell does George keep sticking Brandt in the slot? Like he thinks he’s gonna block?”
“I haven’t seen him throw a block since spring training.”
“Of ’01.”
More yuks. Norm sets his headset to the side and swings around to the Bravos. “Not our day,” he says with a weary smile.
“No sir,” Dime says stiffly.
“I hate to lose, hate it about as much as anything. My wife says I’m addicted to winning, and I guess it’s true, thirty-eight years she’s been trying to calm me down. But I can’t, I need that rush. I’d rather cut off my little finger than lose.”
“We figured back in June it was going to be a tough season,” Jim says. “With Emmit gone, Moose, Jay, they left some mighty big shoes to fill. When you lose your core like that . . .” He trails off when he realizes no one is listening.
“I expect you fellas are kind of cross with me right now,” Norm says, and by way of response Dime and Billy say nothing. Norm regards them a long moment; nods. He seems impressed by their wall of silence.
“I don’t blame you,” he goes on. “I know I’m being kind of heavy-handed here, but my instinct tells me to get it done. This is a movie that needs to be made, now, for all the reasons we talked about. And if it works out the way I think it’s going to, you fellas are set to do very well. Someday before too long I think you’ll be thanking me—”
Somewhere in the room a phone rings. Mr. Jones answers, speaks briefly, and brings the phone over to Norm. It is the general. Dime stares straight ahead, into the far distance, it seems. Billy can hear him pulling in deep, measured breaths that he holds for several moments, then releases in finely calibrated jets through his nose. Meanwhile Norm is doing big-guy banter with the general, thanking him for his time, wishing him happy Thanksgiving, inviting him to some future unspecified game. You bet, ha ha, we’ll do our best to arrange a win for you. Dime rises, as if the general has actually entered the room. Norm looks up, registering the weirdness of the move, and indeed Billy fears that his sergeant is contemplating something extreme, but Dime just stands there exuding waves of soldierly discipline until Norm extends the phone his way.
“Sergeant Dime.” Norm’s smile is jacked a couple of clicks beyond mere courtesy. It is triumphant, one might say. Imperial. Magnanimous. “General Ruthven will speak to you now.”
Dime takes the phone and makes his way to the shadowy back of the room. Josh sidles away to give Dime some space. After a moment Billy leaves his seat and also moves to the back of the room, simply to be near his sergeant and for no other reason. He takes up position near Josh, who shoots him looks of feverish sympathy. The entire room can’t help but listen.
“Yes sir,” Dime says crisply.
“Yes sir.”
“No sir.”
“I understand, sir.”
For a full minute Dime says nothing, during which time the Bears score again. Skip and Todd toss their pens, but in deference to the general no one says a word.
“Yes sir,” Dime says presently. “I didn’t know that, sir.”
“Yes sir.”
“I think I do sir, yes sir.”
“Thank you sir. I will, sir. Out.”
Dime pivots and lofts the phone in a high, soft arc toward Mr. Jones. “Come on Billy,” he says, and without another word he’s exited the room and goes booming down the corridor at a brisk pace. Billy has to jog to catch up.
“Sergeant, where we going?”
“Back to our seats.”
“What happened? I mean, shouldn’t we . . .”
“It’s okay, Billy. It’s cool.”
“It is?”
Dime nods.
“He said we didn’t . . . ?”
“Not in so many words.” For several paces Dime is silent. “Billy, did you know General Ruthven is from Youngstown, Ohio?”
“Uh, no, actually.”
“I didn’t either, till just now.” For a moment Dime seems lost in thought. “It’s just over the state line from Pennsylvania.”
Billy begins to think maybe his sergeant has lost it. “Near Pittsburgh,” Dime continues. “He’s a big Steelers fan. The Steelers, Billy, yo? Which just by definition means he hates the Cowboys’ guts.”
“Hey guys!” someone calls, and they turn. It’s Josh, trotting after them. “Where’re you going?”
“Back to our seats,” Billy answers.
Josh slows for a moment, glances over his shoulder, then gathers speed. “Wait up, I’ll come with you.” He has a sheaf of manila packets under one arm, and with the other he’s reaching into his coat pocket. Something white flashes in his palm.
“Billy,” he calls, holding out a small plastic bottle. “I got your Advil.”
THE PROUD GOOD-BYE
WHY MAKE A MOVIE anyway? It seems pointless to go to all that trouble when the original is floating out there for all to see, easily available online by searching “Al-Ansakar Canal,” “Bravo snuff movie,” “America’s throbbing cock of justice,” or any one of a couple of dozen similar phrases that summon forth th
e Fox News footage, three minutes and forty-three seconds of high-intensity warfare as seen through a stumbling you-are-there point of view, the battle sounds backgrounded by a slur of heavy breathing and the bleeped expletives of the daring camera crew. It’s so real it looks fake—too showy, too hyped up and cinematic, a B-movie’s defiant or defensive flirtation with the referential limits of kitsch. Would a more polished product serve better, one wonders—throw in some story arc, a good dose of character development, artful lighting, and multiple camera angles, plus a soundtrack to tee up the emotive cues. Nothing looks so real as a fake, apparently, though ever since seeing the footage for himself Billy has puzzled over the fact that it doesn’t look like any battle he was ever in. Therefore you have the real that looks fake twice over, the real that looks so real it looks fake and the real that looks nothing like the real and thus fake, so maybe you do need all of Hollywood’s craft and guile to bring it back to the real.
Then again, everybody always says how much like a movie the Fox footage is. Like Rambo, they say. First Blood. Like Independence Day. Or, as one of their new neighbors in row 6 says, a perky, chatty, twentysomething blonde who’s shown up with her husband and another young couple, “It was just like nina leven all over again. I sat down and cut on the news and got the weirdest feeling I was watching a movie on cable.”
“You guys rock,” says her husband, a handsome, strapping fellow in a Patagonia parka and heirloom-quality cowboy boots. “It felt damn good to see us finally getting some payback.”
The other young husband and wife echo the sentiment. They aren’t much older than Billy, these two young couples who’ve migrated down from the upper deck for a sampling of the money seats at garbage time. They remind Billy of certain kids he went to high school with, the sons and daughters of the small-town country-club elite who were firmly embedded in the college track, and now here they are in their midtwenties, duly credentialed and married, starting out their grown-up lives on schedule. The young couples are eager to meet the Texas Bravo, but for a moment they don’t know what to make of him in the flesh. “You’re just a kid!” one of the wives cries, breaking the ice, then they’re introducing themselves and thanking him for his service, the two young wives breathy and fond, the husbands racking his arm with welcome-to-the-frat handshakes.
