by B. K. Dell
“I had told my father that my muscles were too small to pull myself to the top. He told me that it wasn’t about muscles. He told me that if I quit, I’d stay on the ground; if I didn’t quit, I’d reach the top. ‘It’s about physics,’ I said. ‘It’s about will,’ he said. I listened to everything that my father ever told me. When my father said there was a God, then there was a God. When he said that homosexuals go to Hell, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that homosexuals would go to Hell. When he said that if I never gave up that I would reach the top, I believed him. If climbing rope was a matter of will, then homosexuality could be also. My father was never wrong.
“Every time I lifted off the ground, I fell back down to earth, but I knew that was what will was all about. If I did not quit, I would make it to the top. Every time I fell, I just got back up. I imagined that I was trying to pull the roof of the barn down on top of me. Hour after hour, I kept struggling to reach a flag that I couldn’t even see. My parents were already sleeping soundly and I was alone in my own nightmare. For all that time, I had not reached any higher than ten or twelve feet, and each attempt was getting lower and lower. The blood on the rope was making it harder to keep any traction. It slipped painfully through my feeble grip. By this point, an entire five foot section of the rope shined red with my blood.
The theoretician in me determined that it was a quest that I never had to lose. Just never give up. I never need to reach the top, I only need to not quit. It sounded good. The only problem was that human bodies require food, water, and sleep. I imagined myself fasting for days, going so long without food that my body would begin to eat itself – devour the very muscles I needed to climb the rope. I imagined the effects of refusing to stop, even to use the restroom. I imagined trying desperately to keep my eyes open because surrendering to sleep is just like quitting. Even with my body collapsed on the ground in its own filth, neglected and emaciated, I will not have quit. As long as my eyes were open, my heart was still beating, and I had at least one hand upon the rope weakly trying to pull myself upward, I will not have quit. I decided right then and there that I could either reach the top, quit, or die trying. I couldn’t do the first one and I wouldn’t do the second. There was no other choice but for me to die. With one last gasp, I made it half way up, but my grip slipped and I fell. My head slammed against the hard ground. I knocked myself unconscious and I knocked the lantern over into the dry hay. When I came to, I was still alone, but the barn was on fire.
“I panicked. I ran, not toward the house to wake my family out of bed, but away – into the dark night. That was a moment that I will remember for the rest of my life. I told myself in that moment that my father was right, it was about will. I did not have enough willpower to die. If I had stayed in that barn, I would no longer be gay.”
Caleb took another drink.
“I was about fifty yards from the house when I heard the barn collapse. I turned to take one last look over my shoulder. The barn had cracked in half as it fell. A phantasmic image made my feet jerk to a stop so fast that the loose pebbles on the ground almost caused me to fall. In the second that I had turned back to the barn, I thought I saw the red flag. I had to run back to see if that really was what I saw.
“As I moved closer to the burning mess, I could see it clearly. No more than six feet off the ground and behind a wall of flames was the red flag. I knew that in another second the entire barn would come down. The flag would be buried and burnt. In another second, my parents would be awake and the fire department would come. I didn’t wait another second. I stepped back a few feet to get a running start. As fast and high as I could, I jumped over the flames and onto the old boards that had once been the roof of the barn. I fell forward, and upon my impact the whole section I landed on sank lower and the entire wreckage seemed to moan. When it moaned, flames shot out of the front of it like it was breathing fire. The boards were searing hot to the touch and they burnt my elbows and knees. I stretched my arm through a narrow crack to grab the flag, but I couldn’t reach it. I had to press more of my body against the hot roof to gain enough reach. It burned, but I got it! The initial wall of flames I had jumped over had grown too high. My only option was to drive straight to my right. No sooner than I had hit the ground, was I off running, flag in hand.
“I never saw my father again. The next day I found myself homeless in Dallas.”
Michael Ponce put his hand on Caleb’s shoulder.
Caleb rubbed the side of his temple. His finger prints left dark charcoal marks on his face. It had been a long time since he had drunk any alcohol. He said, “You’re not going to print that, are you? I don’t want you to print that.”
Michael Ponce smiled warmly, “Just the part about the skimpy gym shorts,” he laughed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Hey Brooks, I’ve got an idea.” Brit’s voice was low and excited. His rate of speech was just fast enough to imply to Jackson that it was something urgent. “While Hertz is out on a head call, why don’t we grab some of his naked women drawings and pin them up on the north wall of the shower cabin?”
“No.”
“C’mon man. I don’t want to do it to be mean. I think he would like the idea.”
“If you think he would like it, why don’t you wait till he gets back?”
“Because I am afraid he won’t. Listen, the guy should be proud of his work. Plus, just think how badly he must want to fit in. This is the way to do it! Well, it’s something we finally have in common, isn’t it? Only we think it is good ol’ fashion smut and he thinks it’s the bloody Mona Lisa.”
Jackson did see the logic, but hesitated.
“C’mon, man. He’s not going to be pissed, I promise.”
“Then why do you need my help?”
“In case he’s pissed!”
Jackson laughed.
“I know you two are old friends. He’s more likely to forgive you.”
Jackson agreed and they headed to find Caleb’s art pad.
“There it is. There it is. Hurry up,” Brit prodded Jackson as he found it and flipped it open. Jackson quickly, but gently pulled each work of art off the spiral binding and handed them to Brit. Brit looked over both shoulders for Caleb and greedily collected each piece that Jackson gave him. “Yes…yes…” he was cheering Jackson on, “Skip the building… forget the bloody horse…That one. That’s the one. That’s my favorite!” Brit exclaimed as Jackson paused to admire it. The entire thing was covered in sand. Jackson knew that charcoal was a medium that could be rubbed off by his fingers, so he attempted to blow the sand away. “I like her covered in sand,” protested Brit. “We are all covered in sand, now aren’t we?” Jackson carefully pulled the page from the spiral’s metal rings. As soon as Brit snatched it, the page beneath it caught Jackson’s eye. He froze. His face went white and he lowered himself down onto Caleb’s cot in stunned silence. Brit was irritated that he stopped; he checked over both shoulders again for Caleb. He could not see the portrait that had so bewildered Jackson until Jackson set the entire pad down, face up on the cot.
“Wow,” said Brit reverently just from the shear visual impact of the piece, but he still didn’t understand what had stopped Jackson in his tracks.
The charcoal was depicting a muscle-bound Marine, wearing only pants and no shirt, drawn in full Michelangelo perfection. In his left arm he carried an M-16 casually. He did not carry it like a Marine who had been trained incessantly how to carry a rifle, how to raise a rifle, how to aim a rifle; but rather, he let it fall insignificantly down by his side like it was a part of his body.
Rider saw the drawing from across the room and came over to investigate. “Who is that?” he asked after taking a moment to admire it. It was clear from the tone in his voice that the skill of the drawing had impressed him.
“That’s Private First Class Trey Tucker,” Jackson said respectfully.
“He’s the friend of ours who just lost half his body,” said Caleb. No one realized that he had come b
ack in. Brit and Rider’s face turned to him, but Jackson’s eyes stayed glued to the image.
Trey’s left arm, leg and face were in the exact spot where God had originally placed them, unscathed. There were no scars on his face, nor was there any hint of fear, regret, bitterness or self-pity. In the details of Trey’s arm, the individual muscles, tendons, and joints, Caleb had captured the very essence of humanity. The flesh seemed alive on the page. It was as if Caleb had done through art what Jackson’s deepest wishes and prayers had failed to do in life – made Trey Tucker whole again, made him perfect once more. At the top of his left arm was his tattoo of the American flag.
“I finished it last night,” Caleb said.
“It’s amazing,” said Jackson.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jackson was having another dream. This time he was not at war. He was not wearing his BDU’s and his rifle was nowhere in sight. He was in a tuxedo, surrounded by flowers, candles and music. It was his wedding day. He was standing at the front of the altar and his heart began to pound as the organ music soared. Every face was on him and some of them were already crying. Slowly, a wave of confusion swept over the crowd. Heads began to turn back and forth, scanning the area. Women whispered into each other’s ears and men woefully cleared their throats. Jackson could not figure out what was happening and none of the guests were willing to look him in the eyes. He felt like there was a cold lump of clay in the pit of his stomach.
He couldn’t continue to do nothing, so he went to find Stephanie. There was a crowd forming outside the bride’s room and he could see Stephanie’s father trying to open the door. Jackson squeezed through the crowd and moved past her father. Stepping back slightly, he plowed his shoulder into the door and forced it open.
His heart skipped a beat because he did not know what he would see in there.
Stephanie was crying. She was hunched over in front of an antique vanity and she was sobbing loudly. They were suddenly all alone.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I spilled red wine on my dress,” she said. She did not look up.
The news disturbed Jackson in a profound way, some strange dream emotion that would have no counterpart in real life. Jackson felt no relief that she was alright, but instead, felt deeply unsettled. He wasn’t worried about the day, or the dress. Nothing could ruin the day and Stephanie would look beautiful in sackcloth. He was remembering Caleb’s imagery of correct and incorrect. What could have been more correct than clean white satin? Virgin white lace? The very symbol of innocence? This type of true, faithful white could never be recaptured now that it was gone. A wine stain – dark purple, almost black – was an ominous warning of the senselessness of fate, a blind and godless fate that judges not on merit, but on happenstance. One dress is stained while another remains unblemished; one Marine dies while another survives. The verdicts of life or death, clean or stained, are brandished mercilessly at the whim of meaningless chance.
She could not look at him, but remained hunched over crying.
“It doesn’t bother me,” he lied.
“It’s ruined.”
“So what?”
“I can’t go out there.”
“Let me see it. It’s probably not even that bad.”
“No.”
“C’mon, let me see it.”
“No.”
“It’s okay, Stephanie. I promise. Just turn around.”
“I can’t.”
“Stephanie, it’s me. What are you worried about? I would love you even in sackcloth.”
“I can’t.”
“Stephanie, please turn around.”
“Okay,” he heard her say before getting in a few more sniffles. Jackson could tell that they were the type of sniffles that indicated the crying was becoming under control.
She turned around to face Jackson. She screamed. She was so frightened that she recoiled her entire body away from Jackson.
“What? What is it?” Jackson asked as he turned to see himself in the vanity mirror. Half of his face had been blown off. Half of his head was a bloody open wound and the other half was freshly burnt skin, still dark like charcoal. Two frightened white eyes gazed past a horrific mask of red and black.
He woke up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Rider, what is that on your elbow?” Caleb walked over to examine Rider’s arm. “Oh my God, Rider, take off your shirt.”
“Watch your step, Hertz,” Rider barked at him and his face quickly conformed to a straight, serious expression – a look that announced that whatever Caleb was doing, Rider did not find it funny.
“I’m not messing around, Rider. Take off your shirt.”
With this, Rider grabbed Caleb by the scruff of his collar. “What is it about me that makes you think I can be messed with?” Rider shouted at Caleb so loudly that everyone in the entire sleeping quarters turned to see.
Brit ran over to break it up, but suddenly said, “Blimey! Rider, take off your bloody shirt.”
Jackson was now on the scene too and nodded, “Take off your shirt.”
Rider studied their faces. There was not a drop of irony, humor or malice in a single one of them. He quickly pulled his shirt off.
There was a chorus of profanity. Each swear word sounded like alarm bells to Rider. Fear filled his eyes. His chin quivered. There seemed to be an invisible restraint holding his head in place, petrified by fear. It prevented him from looking down and only allowed courage enough to look at the faces of the men looking at him. “What?” he whispered, but no one heard. Finally, he broke the mental barrier and looked down at his own chest.
“Everyone take your shirts off!” Brit yelled. All at once the entire platoon, as well as Michael Ponce, stripped off their tops. No one looked at themselves. No one had to. They saw the dark red splotches on their Marine brothers. That was all the proof they needed to know that they had them too.
A deep silence fell over the entire room. Michael Ponce’s voice was shaky and hollow. It sounded like it came through a tin toy trumpet when he pleaded, “Guys, what is this?”
They all looked at Michael Ponce. His chest was clear. Someone yelled optimistically, “Mellow Yellow’s not as far along!”
“Turn around,” Brit ordered him. As soon as Michael Ponce turned around, the men groaned. “It’s all over your back, my friend.”
“Check to see if they hurt,” Jackson said frantically.
Upon that suggestion, all the men began to press their fingers or thumbs against the red spots on their own bodies. And, while Michael Ponce was still turned around, Brit pressed hard on different spots of his back. Brit asked, “Does this hurt?”
“No.”
“Does this?” Brit pressed with so much force that Michael Ponce had to shuffle his feet.
“Um, kind of.”
Brit stepped back and put both of his hands in his pockets. Michael Ponce turned around to face him and the rest of the spotted platoon. Brit said slowly, but with a haunting urgency in his voice, “It’s the SMEG.”
“The what?” Michael Ponce’s voice cracked with fear and his eyes were almost out of their sockets.
“The SMEG,” a couple of the men repeated, sounding sullen and grief-stricken.
“We are all too advanced, but there is still hope for Mr. Ponce.” Brit respectfully used his real name. “We have to get him the cure.”
“What’s the cure?” asked Michael Ponce.
Brit did not look him in the eye.
“Brooks, you come with me. Teflon…” he looked at Teflon and gave a head tilt toward Michael Ponce. Jackson and Brit left the hooch.
“Teflon?” Michael Ponce asked hopelessly.
Teflon looked at him and said, “It’s…” he paused and he grabbed his abdomen in pain. “There it is,” he hissed. He squeezed his eyes shut in pain for a long time. When he finally could stand it, he spoke, his voice full of suffering, “There must have been some Selenium Magno-Exfoliating Gas in that rocket fire t
hat exploded around us. I guess since you were hiding so effectively, you were exposed the least.”
“Argh!” cried Caleb as he grabbed his own stomach in pain. Immediately after that, even Rider was bent in half by the agony. Rider actually fell to the ground when he could no longer continue to stand. Teflon was still hunched over, gritting his teeth. Michael Ponce looked down at his own abdomen with a forlorn expression on his face.
“What’s this about a cure?” he asked.
“There is rumored to be a cure, if you can spot it fast enough,” said Teflon.
“Rumored? Should we wake up the corpsman?” asked Michael Ponce.
“He doesn’t have it,” snapped Teflon.
“The Taliban began testing SMEG over fifty years ago on grounds about a hundred clicks from here,” said Caleb. “The desert winds were often so strong that all of the villages that were once right where we are today completely died out.”
“The human generation is about twenty-five years. The insect generation is only four years,” added Teflon.
“What does that mean?” Michael Ponce asked with a bit of hysteria.
“We got one!” Brit yelled as he ran back into the tent carrying a pair of steel tongs, at the end of which he held a five inch black scorpion.
Michael Ponce’s eyes bugged huge and Caleb spoke faster, “The insects were able to adapt; the humans weren’t. Exposed to only small amounts carried on the wind, the insects in these parts began to produce inside their bodies a natural antidote.”
