by Weston Ochse
Righteous
THEY SAY HE never felt a thing. They say when the bomb blew and his lower body evaporated, he died at that moment. But in my dreams he lives for a few more seconds. I see him know that he’s about to die. I feel his fear. Then I feel his pain. And it is like my own legs being ripped from me. Ripped by the strong arms of a vengeful god, too hungry and eager to put us in our place to understand the simple truth that we’re merely humans and have been seeking an eternity for just a little fucking direction.
I sit behind the wheel of my Buick sedan. I’ve always owned Buicks. My first one was a hand-me-down from my dad, who’d also always owned them. I was going to hand one down to Brandon when he got back from this deployment. When he was little he called it a Bwik. He’d just started to read and that’s the way he sounded out the letters. ‘Daddy, let’s go to the store in the Bwik.’ ‘Can we take a ride in the Bwik?’ ‘Let’s go in the Bwik.’ It was always about the Bwik. I held back telling him the right way to say it. I loved it when he called it that – the Bwik. But some asshat kid in fourth grade made fun of him and Brandon never called it a Bwik again.
Except in my mind.
You’re talking to yourself again, Dude, the dog says, sitting in the passenger seat, his baleful eyes on me.
The no-account mutt is probably right. That he’s the only one who can hear me makes it okay. I found him on a back Kentucky road. I passed him, then backed up, and opened the passenger door. He looked at me as if he knew the entirety of my plan and shook his head. Asshat, he’d said in the voice of my long dead wife. You’re going to need me. Then he jumped into the seat and we’ve been a team ever since.
Yeah, I used to love this car. I used to wash it every weekend. Now the floor holds the evidence of my vigils: bright yellow, red and orange cups, bags, napkins, and the residue of too many late night trips to fast food restaurants. From the outside it’s hard to tell what color it is. The car hasn’t been washed since the funeral. A thousand miles of road and a sideswipe of a guardrail have changed its complexion. Really, nothing has been done to it except the driving. Always the driving. And like so many nights before, I stare daggers at the place the man sits. Tonight it’s in a booth by a window, he and his wife and young sons eating pizza and laughing like he isn’t a serial murderer by proxy and about to be executed for his crime.
It was a war, Dude. I keep telling you. It was war.
I can never get over how much the dog sounds like Susan. Part of me wonders if her ghost inhabits the mutt, but another part of me wonders if it isn’t God having a good laugh.
“It wasn’t the war anyone signed up for,” I say. “What kind of war does these things to our kids?”
The dog looks at me and shakes his head.
“I know. I’m an asshat.”
Once upon a time, I was Private Dude Johnson in 1968 during the Tet Offensive. That was a real war. Men fought and died for a cause. It was hell. I still wake up in cold sweats over the things I did, the things I’d seen done, the things almost done to me. The closest I came to the old reaper wasn’t skulking through the jungle in the dark, it was at a disco in Saigon. A man came in wearing a bomb, called us all Yankee motherfucker, and blew himself up. If it wasn’t for all the juicy girls between me and him, I might have been killed. As it was, I was blown back and covered in pieces of what used to be some of the finest Saigon hookers.
He knew the Price of Glory, the dog says.
“Ahh, John Ford and James Cagney. You see that one, Mutt?”
I’m a dog. I don’t see movies. I read it in your mind, Dude.
An old 1956 movie about World War I, What Price Glory, was about a soldier’s first duty, which was to his men.
I feel a lump blossom in my chest. “Brandon was a good sergeant,” they said. “It wasn’t his fault they were blown up, they said.”
How were they supposed to know? Mutt asks rhetorically.
“They couldn’t have known. Not in a million years.”
Why is that movie in the front of your mind? Why not some of the others? Why not John Wayne or Tom Hanks?
“Hanks? That guy’s a comedian.”
But he was in World War II, the Mutt says, narrowing his eyes.
“When he was in Saving Private Ryan. Yeah, that was a good one. And Band of Brothers too. That was a series about an American army unit in Europe during World War II. That was as good as it got when talking about friendships and the nature of leadership.”
They Were Expendable?
I nod. “Fucking John Wayne movie about PT Boats. That was one of his better ones, but there’s one thing about every John Wayne war movie that I hate.”
What’s that, Dude?
“Asshat never dies.”
Asshat, Mutt agrees.
“You can say that again.”
Asshat.
THEY SAY A psychopath is completely free of cultural restraints. They say that such a person is not held back by any desires of guilt or shame. How other people think and feel are of no consequence. They call this sort of person crazy. I call this sort of person a father.
I watch as the man who recruited my son into the army pays his bill, gets up and exits the restaurant with his family. His wife and two boys are about the age that my boy first called my car a Bwik, and they get into a silver Ford Explorer. He watches them go until they are out of sight, then gets in a beat up Trans Am. I follow from a distance, trying to keep at least one, two or three cars between us. I vary it, careful that he doesn’t notice me always in the same place.
Of course I could lose him and it wouldn’t make a difference. He was going home. I’d followed him a dozen times. Then he’d call his sons and verbally tuck them into bed. Then after a good night’s sleep, he’d go to work the next morning and kill another man’s boy by proxy. And the thing of it all, it never seemed to bother him.
Once I made sure he was going to stay in for the night, I drive us to the local Wal-Mart parking lot. One of the few places outside of a campground they allow overnight sleeping, there was already six RVs parked, with lights on and dishes pointed toward the appropriate satellite. I walk Mutt, then we open the bag of food I got on the way. Inside is an immense burrito. I tear it in two. I eat half and Mutt eats the other. Soon, both of us are asleep. I wake occasionally to Mutt passing gas. Dogs were never meant to process beans.
FIVE SENTENCES changed my life forever.
Yes, I’ll marry you, is how Susan changed my life.
It’s a boy, is how a wide-hipped, chippy-eyed nurse changed my life.
Metastasized means that your wife’s breast cancer has spread to her lymph nodes, is how the medical community gave up trying to save Susan and changed my life.
On behalf of a grateful nation, I present this flag as a token of our appreciation for the faithful and selfless service of your loved one for this country, is how a straight-faced Uncle Sam socked me in the heart.
Then one night I was three sheets to the wind with a bottle of Cutty Sark and Pulp Fiction blasting on television. When Samuel L. Jackson screamed the words from Ezekial 25:17, I sat up and was beset by a moment of clarity as he talked about the path of a righteous man. Then he said the words that started me on this path of the righteous man.
“Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.”
And always, as Mutt is eager to point out my errors. Those are seven sentences, Dude.
“But they are seven good sentences,” I offer.
Mutt thinks for a moment, then nods. They are. Especially for an asshat.
I’M UP EARLY the next morning. Mut
t pees in some weeds. I pee in a can, then walk over and empty it in the weeds. A crochety old bag in a quarter-of-a-million dollar RV gives me the stinkeye. She looks like Susan’s mother. They’re about the same age and apparently have the same affection for me. I give her the one-fingered salute, which she returns with unmistakable glee. For a moment, I wish I had more than five bombs left. When her ass blew through her eye sockets, she might for once realize what an asshat she was being for trying to judge me because I own an old Bwik and not an RV.
We get back in the car and head to the local Micky D’s for Egg McMuffins. Sitting in the parking lot and eating, I have an episode. I’d thought they were receding, but the way it grabs me, strangling the breath from me as it shows explosion after explosion after explosion, the pain is my pain as I relive what had probably happened to my son and his squad. When I am finally released from its merciless grip, a half-eaten McMuffin lays in my lap, puke and bile soaking it. When the smell hits me, I puke all over again. But I am empty, so instead it is like a cat trying to hack a hairball, my back arching as I dry heave and hack until I see stars and the miserable galaxy they live within. The car rocks with my throes, chasing passers-by away as they watch what could only be the alien from John Carpenters The Thing escaping from my body. When the episode finally leaves me gasping and exhausted, I look over at Mutt. He regards me with his usual aplomb. I swear to God he shakes his head, then calls me asshat.
I shove my puke and food onto the floor and sit back in my seat. My head swims as I grip the wheel with clenched fists.
They called it Secondary Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. They say that some people are affected by a horrific incident even if they were never there. Personally, I think it’s a load of horse piss, but after the funeral, when it began to kick in, my doctor had to figure out what to call the thing that owned me.
Forgetfulness is a big part of it. The power at my house was shut off three times, not because I didn’t have the money to pay it, but because I simply didn’t remember to pay the bill. I had a warrant for eight months for not paying a speeding ticket. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to pay, I just couldn’t remember. My rent payment was late every month for a year before I let the thing go completely. It was almost like I convinced myself it would work itself out instead of being proactive and doing it when I was supposed to.
Then there are the nightmares. Technicolor terrible. I’d gotten to where I took antihistamines every night just to knock myself out.
There are also the panic attacks. If surprised, I threw fits. So fucking embarrassing. I couldn’t control it. It was as if someone else was in my body, in my head, and drunk driving all the way through a funhouse.
My doctor gives me meds to control it, but they turn me into a fucking zombie. I even caught myself drooling once. When that happened is when I decided I’d rather be crazy than a zombie. And eight days after that I found the path of the righteous man.
All of my symptoms are gone now.
Well, mostly.
All except the occasional attack.
And, of course, the dog talks to me now, too. That’s probably not right either.
AFTER CLEANING in a truck stop washroom, I pull the car into a church parking lot. Churches are the best cover. No one ever thinks that bad things are capable of happening there. So even though there are several people preparing for service, they ignore me as I check the remaining bombs. Five of the original ten are left – one to represent my son and each member of his squad. Each destined for the recruiter who enticed a fine young American boy onto a path that would ultimately end up with him scattered around the side of the road in the Iraqi city of Haditha.
The bombs look identical. I touch them gently with my fingertips. But they aren’t identical. I’d thought to make them all the same, but it was Mutt who intervened. So in a fever dream of construction, I created the bombs so that some of them deliver deadly ball-bearings, and some deliver a much smaller charge along with a hail of multi-colored confetti. I don’t know which ones are which. I don’t know how many of each one I constructed. That Saturday night in my garage was part blur, part blank. All I know is that I’d so far conspired for five to detonate, and each one did. What they delivered I don’t know... I don’t want to know... except for this one. Staff Sergeant Reyes was the one who recruited my son. It was his fault my son was dead and he had to pay the most.
I close the trunk, satisfied that the bombs are ready, then I drive to a car wash. I spend seventeen quarters cleaning the outside of the car and the puke from the seat and the floor. All the while, Mutt sits near the trashcan watching my every move. I occasionally stop and watch the dog watching me. Finally when I am about done, I feel the need to confront it. I walk over, kneel down and stare into the dog’s eyes. I’d never petted it. It had never occurred to me to do so. Even though it appears to be a dog, it is more than that. I can’t be certain, but I feel there is a higher power working through it.
“Susan?” I say, seeking the soul of my dead wife in the deep brown eyes of the animal. “Susan?”
The dog pants, its tongue lolling out the side of its mouth.
“Susan? Is that you? Come on, Susan, answer me.”
“Is that your dog, sir?” comes a voice from behind me.
A policeman stands with a hand resting casually in his holstered and snapped pistol. The other hand points at Mutt.
“Uhh, yes, officer.”
“It’s not registered.” Then seeing my perplexed expression he adds “No tags.” He glances back at the car. “Yours?”
I stand slowly, glancing from his pistol to the trunk where the bombs rest snug in a suitcase beside the unearthed remains of my son. I wonder which would freak him out more – the corpse or the bombs. A giggle escapes.
“Something funny?” he asks, standing a little straighter.
“Nuh... No sir. What’s the problem?”
“Your dog has to be registered. We can’t have animals running around who haven’t been cleared by a vet.”
“Mutt is clean. She’s healthy.”
“I’m sure she is. License and registration, please,” he says, pulling out a ticket book.
My eyes narrow. “But I’m not driving. Why do you need to see those?”
“License and registration, sir.” He gives me a cold look over the top of this ticket book. “Is there a problem?”
I lick my lips. Part of me thinks I can take him. I glance at Mutt, who is almost imperceptibly shaking its head. I take the advice and pull my wallet free from my back pocket. I fumble free my license and paper registration and hand it to him.
He writes for a moment, then paused. “This address correct?”
Meaning my California address, “Yes,” I lie, not bothering to tell him that my real address is the front seat of the Bwik.
He finishes writing, then hands me the ticket along with my license and registration. “I realize you can just leave town, but if I see that dog again without registration, I’ll have to fine you. This is just a warning.”
“Thanks, officer.” For being a busybody asshole and wasting time with me when you could be out after bad guys.
He frowns and seems as if he might arrest me for some strange reason, then he shakes his head and returns to his bicycle – the reason I hadn’t heard him approach. As he pedals away, Mutt comes over and sits beside me.
He heard what you didn’t say, the dog says.
“No he didn’t. That was my inside voice.”
Asshat. No it wasn’t. It was your outside voice.
I watch as the policeman looks back and watches me, then he is gone down the street, and around a corner.
I PASS THE night in the same Wal-Mart parking lot, nervous that the policeman will find me. I’m not worried about getting caught, but I am worried about finishing. I have five more bombs and they have to be delivered just so. But my earlier conversatio
n with Mutt had sparked something else... something that wasn’t making me happy. My targets had recruited my son physically. They’d given him tests, made him sign the appropriate paperwork and delivered him to basic training. But they hadn’t recruited his mind. In the long dark hours of waiting, I was beginning to realize that he’d been recruited a long time before he’d ever met his first recruiter. Part of it was my fault. I’d liked telling him stories, some my own, some made up, of my bravery and courage in Vietnam. What father wouldn’t have? To be idolized by a child is second to nothing.
But then there were the movies. Memorial Day Weekend we’d watch the movie marathons on cable about the exploits of soldiers, sailors and marines in every war America had ever been in. From Ironclads to Tanks to Jets, from Tom Cruise to Nicholas Cage to Lee Marvin, we watched them all and inculcated the idea of patriotism and valor. Most of it washed off me. I’d been there. I’d done that. I’d got the combat T-shirt of wet nightmares and dry heaves. But what of my son? How much of an indoctrination had it been? It was a recruitment of the mind and soul, and I had been an accomplice after all. Every Hollywood director, producer, actor, key grip and best boy was at fault. Each and every one who had been a part of making a movie about selfless service and heroism might as well have each been a part of building the roadside bomb that had obliterated my progeny.
I was beginning to suspect that I’d need a lot more bombs.
FIVE THE NEXT morning I am ready. The bomb is wrapped inside a pizza box I placed beside the running track where Staff Sergeant Reyes runs every morning. It is his one constant and the perfect place for me to strike down upon him with great vengeance and furious anger.
