by Rob Rufus
I heard a familiar click instead—the hum of a movie projector.
I took a deep breath and looked at the screen.
The words COMING SOON FROM PARAMOUNT appeared, and then cut to Jane Fonda floating in zero gravity, stripping off what I assumed was a space suit.
There was a close up of her thighs.
A close up of her stomach.
A close up of her strawberry hair.
Hell of a distraction, Milo, I thought, as the name BARBARELLA emerged beneath her half-parted lips. Then came the sound I’d been waiting for: the pop of a needle being placed on a record.
Every muscle in my body tensed.
The song began.
The bass intro itself was loud enough to make me wince. But the pain didn’t start until Eric Burdon began to sing and the speakers cranked up at least a hundred times louder. The noise made my skeleton vibrate, then it got even louder than that, and high-pitched ringing started somewhere in my brain. Then it got
LOUDER!
LOUDER!
LOUDER!
LOUDER!
The ringing intensified into a shriek.
The song was louder than Armageddon.
I couldn’t think anymore. I couldn’t even open my eyes.
I felt a swarm of wasps buzz through my head.
Warm blood trickled onto my neck as the song reached the first chorus.
That was when I screamed.
I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t hear it, either, not over the music and the screeching and buzzing and ringing. I was dizzy as a top, even tethered in place. I thought I would barf, like a kid at a carnival. I forced myself to swallow it down.
Somehow, the music got louder.
LOUDER!
I felt like my ears were being cleaned with grenades.
I barfed all over myself. The shrieking and the ringing got louder still.
IMPOSSIBLY LOUD!
That’s when the pain overtook me, and the shock of it knocked me out cold.
―
Someone slapped me in the face.
I groaned. They slapped me again.
I opened my eyes. The three of them leaned over me. Concern was plastered on their faces. I lifted my arm—When did they untape me?—and rubbed my temples. I felt like I had a migraine, but worse. Much worse.
“Did it work?” I asked.
No one answered.
“Did it work?” I said again, focusing my eyes.
All three of them winced. I wasn’t sure why. I asked again.
They winced again.
Then I realized Milo’s lips were moving, but no words were coming out.
Oh, I thought calmly, I must’ve been shouting.
Now Hana was saying something—but the static in my brain and the ringing in my ears made it hard to compute what it was.
“It worked?” I asked.
Then Ramrod smiled. The smile said it all.
It worked. It worked!
I was raising my raspy voice the only way I could—by quieting all the others. Now I had a chance and a choice; the realization was liberating! Suddenly, all the strange noises in my head rang out like chimes of freedom—real freedom—not some ambiguous ideal we were told we had to die to fully earn and enjoy.
That was when I knew Hana was right.
Silence wasn’t golden.
It was red and white and blue.
thirteen
Phantom Sounds
The graveyard is empty. I make my way past familiar markers, but they have no names or dates of birth or death; they’re nothing but landmarks to let me know I’m on the right track. But it’s not my brother’s grave I’m drawn to, it’s the one directly beside it—the one with dirt piled off to one side, the grave that sits open and waiting.
I walk to the edge of the grave. I peer into the black hole. My shoes are covered in mud or blood. Strange sounds echo from the darkness. I squint into the void—I try to place the phantom sounds swirling beneath me. Suddenly, something shoves me from behind!
I trip forward and nearly fall over the edge. Then, before I can catch my balance, I’m shoved again. I go toppling into the black. Falling deeper! Falling faster! Falling—
I opened my eyes.
Momma nudged my shoulder again. I groaned and rolled over in bed, clasping my pillow like it was a safety device.
“Ronnie,” Momma said, “you need to get up now.”
The words came in clear enough to get their meaning.
It was time.
I lurched upright, rubbing my eyes in a cartoonish way so she knew I was really awake. She pulled open the blinds as she left and said something I couldn’t quite hear. But the fact that I heard her at all made me nervous. I’d known the damage to my hearing would be temporary, but last night I’d experienced nearly total deafness. As we cleaned up the scene of our crime and got the theater back in order, I was sure I’d be spending the next few weeks spinning the sounds of silence.
But now here I was, less than five hours later, and certain words were already coming in clear. Well, clear wasn’t the right term. Nothing was clear. All sound was filtered through the ringing in my ears—a high-pitched, unending shriek. Below the ringing was static, like the sound of an untuned radio. Below that was a steady baritone hum. Yet still, I could hear through all that noise . . . just a little bit.
But how much was too much?
“Well,” I mumbled, swinging my feet onto the floor, “there’s one extremely shitty way to find out.”
―
Dad took Highway A1A all the way to Jacksonville.
I pretended to doze on the drive. I didn’t want Dad to notice that I was having trouble hearing, not that it was likely; he was too eager to get back onto military grounds to realize anything was up. He’d said whatever happens, happens on my birthday, but now it was clear he expected the oldest living Bingham boy to be fit as a fiddle to fight.
“Look, boy,” he said, nudging my eyes open.
We pulled into the parking lot of the MEPS—a large, gray building set away from all others with a flag from each military branch prominently displayed. Those flags circled the stars and stripes, which loomed over them like a proud father.
“Right on time,” Dad said, as he snagged a parking space. “You ready?”
I nodded at whatever he said.
“Remember, Ronnie, keep your back straight and you’ll do just fine.”
I nodded at whatever he said.
“I’ll be waiting out front. Good luck, boy. I’m proud of you.”
That last part was clear enough.
I smiled and got out of the car. I crossed the parking lot toward a cluster of black boys smoking cigarettes by an entrance door. Dozens more stepped off a bus at the other side of the parking lot.
I barely heard the pickup coming up from behind me. The driver laid on the horn just as it roared past, making me nearly trip over my own feet. The truck parked right in front of the entrance. Six guys jumped out of the bed. They looked like me, except excited. Their heads were pre-buzzed, and they marched up the stairs singing some jovial anthem I was plenty happy not to make out. A few of the cigarette boys laughed, but the rest looked as put-off as me when I finally reached the bottom of the staircase.
I sighed. I tried to collect myself, but it was no use. So I trudged up, up, up, up, up the painfully short staircase into the building with the others. Twelve years of public school made sure we all lined up at the entrance desk. The scuff marks on the lemon-scented floor screamed Property of the Federal Government.
I kept my eyes low. I only moved when I had to. Once the kid in front of me reached the desk, I watched everything he did. A moment later, I was waved forward. I mimicked as best I could.
“ID,” a young guy in uniform said.
I handed him my license. He didn’t look up from the paperwork. He ran his finger down a list of names until he found one matching mine. He looked at me. He looked back to my license. He wrote something on his sheet and had me sign a dotted line.
“Follow signs to the briefing room,” he said.
He waved the kid behind me forward, and so I moved into the main hall. From there, I followed the other guys into a room that looked like a gymnasium, where actual soldiers were waiting. They ordered us into brand new lines, each one facing a small platform in the front of the room.
The stifling amount of testosterone reminded me of the first day of football practice; except here, the scent of fear proved danker than pubescent masculinity. Once I was in line, I took stock of the surroundings. Out of the hundred or so young men, less than a dozen of us were white. A kid in my row, sweating more than the others, wore a priest collar around his neck. Another doubly-nervous boy entered, adjusting an eyepatch on his left eye. Before I could dwell on anything, the line-herder nearest me yelled, “Ten-hut!”
Everyone in the room stiffened. The door near the podium swung open, and a short, thick man marched into the room before us. His cropped hair was noticeably graying, and colorful bars ran across his breast. This wasn’t some high school recruiter. He was the kind of tough guy they made movies about.
As he stomped onto the platform, his stony expression made every young heart leap into its respective throat. Then he took a deep breath and yelled, “GENTLEMEN, MY NAME IS MASTER SERGEANT JEFFERSON H. MORANO, AND I WILL BE YOUR LIASON DURING TODAY’S EVALUATION!”
He shouted loud enough to cut through the ringing, the static, and the hum. In that way, I found Master Sergeant Morano’s voice calming—at least I knew I’d be able to follow orders without drawing attention to myself too soon.
“NOW, I AM AWARE THAT THE BRAVEST AMONG YOU ARE HERE OF YOUR OWN VOLITION, AND THAT SOME OF YOU ARE HERE BECAUSE OUR NATION HAS CALLED YOU TO SERVE. BUT I WANT EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU TO KNOW THAT I DON’T GIVE A RAT’S PUCKERED ANUS WHY YOU ARE HERE TODAY! BECAUSE LIKE IT OR NOT, YOU ARE HERE, AND YOU WILL COMPLETE EACH AND EVERY EXAMINATION TO THE BEST OF YOUR ABILITY! I BETTER HEAR A ‘SIR, YES SIR’!”
“Sir, yes sir!” the entire room chanted nervously.
“IF ANY OF YOU GENTLEMEN HAVE DELUSIONS OF SHIRKING YOUR DUTY TO THIS COUNTRY, LET ME BE THE FIRST TO DISSUADE YOU FROM SUCH COWARDLY GODDAMN ACTS! BECAUSE IF I FIND COWARDS IN MY MIDST, I SEND THEM TO THAT DARK CORNER OF HELL RESERVED FOR COMMIES, QUEERS, CHRIST-KILLERS, DOPE FIENDS, AND EUGENE MCCARTHY! ANYONE HERE FIT THAT DESCRIPTION? I BETTER HEAR A ‘SIR, NO SIR’!”
“Sir, no sir!” we all screamed.
Master Sergeant Morano grinned—his smile was as hard as a cast iron skillet. “ALL THOSE WITH LAST NAMES A THROUGH F, FOLLOW SERGEANT RANKIN TO PHYSICAL! G THROUGH M, FOLLOW SERGEANT CURTIS HERE TO MEDICAL! N THROUGH Z, FOLLOW SERGEANT MCTEIRAN TO THE APTITUDE EXAMINATION! WE WILL BE COMPARING YOU AGAINST YOUR HIGH SCHOOL TRANSCRIPTS, SO IF YOU FAIL THE APTITUDE TEST I BETTER FIND THE PAPER TRAIL OF A GODDAMN MONGOLOID!”
At that, my line started moving forward.
We were led into a locker room twice as big as the one at Cordelia High. Everyone began undressing, leaving only their briefs and undershirts on. I assumed we’d been ordered to strip, so I did the same thing. I piled my clothes in the nearest locker just before we were hustled back into the hall, then to a smaller gymnasium where military personnel stood waiting. They wore lab coats and held clipboards, so I had to assume they were doctors.
“Straight line! Straight line!” the Sergeant in charge of us yelled.
One of the doctors stepped forward. He was older than the rest—bald, with a stethoscope around his neck. He ashed his cigarette onto the floor, making it clear that he was in charge of whatever was about to happen.
“Young men,” he said, “you will now perform a series of physical exercises. Sergeant Rankin will demonstrate each maneuver as we go along. If y’all get confused, just refer to him.”
I strained to hear him. My heart was a hummingbird of fear.
The doc looked us over.
“Arms straight forward,” he ordered.
We held out our arms like mummies.
“Move your wrists up and down, side to side.”
I mimicked the Sergeant and flapped my wrists.
“Now roll your wrists in a circle.”
We did.
“Now touch the tip of each finger to the tip of your thumb, like so.”
The drills went on that way for what felt like hours—walk on your heels, walk like a duck, touch your toes—the doctors took notes as we fulfilled each simple, strange command.
Once the exercise drills ended, the Sergeant ushered us into a larger room sectioned into dozens of workstations, each one walled-off by white sheets on rollers. The room was bright enough and sterile enough for me to be sure—it was time for the medical exam.
They arranged us into new lines, and then left us there to wait on the group of boys before us. The line moved bureaucratically slow. My mouth and stomach felt sour. My anxiety level was rising. My focus was clouding with steam.
I spent the next thirty minutes trying to shut that panic down.
Then, the kid behind me in line said something I couldn’t make out. I looked over my shoulder and up at a boy at least a foot taller than me. I recognized him instantly—he was the heavyweight from Fernandina, the one who nearly beat Lewis at the county wrestling finals.
“Sorry man, what’d ya say?”
“I said aren’t you Lewis Gibbon’s buddy?”
“Yeah,” I nodded, “and you’re the badass who nearly pinned him at county.”
“Nearly don’t mean much,” he said, smiling a smile that was nearly identical to Ramrod’s championship grin. “Percy Johnson.”
“Ronnie Bingham,” I said, shaking hands with him.
There was a commotion up ahead. Percy turned toward it, and I followed his gaze. Two of the buzzcut rednecks were hooting and hollering, flexing for the doctors. Their annoying hee-haw laughter was loud enough for me to hear.
“What the hell are you doin’ here, anyway?” Percy asked. “I can tell ya ain’t like those bloodthirsty clodhoppers up there. You aren’t enlisting, are you?”
“No way,” I mumbled. “What about you?”
“Hell no,” he scoffed. “I’m with Muhammad Ali. I’ve got no quarrel with those people. No Vietnamese ever called me a nigger. Can Uncle Sam say the same?”
“Did one of these instructors call you that?”
“Take a look around you, man. There’s a million ways to call someone a nigger. Youʼre just sufferin’ from a lack of imagination—”
“Next!” a doctor called, and both of us did an about-face.
I was motioned behind the first curtain. I took a deep breath and followed.
The station was arranged like a general practitioner’s office—a gurney, a scale, the whole bit. The doctor checked my weight, height, and blood pressure. He told me to stick out my tongue and say ahhhh. Then he flipped on his otoscope.
He stuck it into my left ear.
OK, I thought, tell me my ears are shot.
He removed the otoscope without comment. He put it in my right ear.
That doesn’t mean anything, he just wants to be sure.
The doctor removed the otoscope from my right ear.
“Pull down your shorts,” he said.
“Sorry?” I asked, confused.
“Pull down your shorts, son.”
I had a bad feeling about it, even before he grabbed my balls and shoved his hand up my ass. Then he sent me into the next station like a common streetwalker.
I stumbled over in a daze. A female nurse sat me down and drew my blood. Did it not work, I wondered, as she filled vial after vial. Is the otoscope gonna b
e the only ear exam?
She slapped a Band-Aid on my arm and sent me into the eye exam.
Cover an eye, read the chart. Cover an eye, reread the chart.
I recited the letters and numbers absently as I focused on quelling my growing urge to flee the building. Then a small man with curly hair beckoned me to Station Four. I followed him around the white sheet. There were two chairs, and a machine with wires and long metal arms to dictate chart readings.
At first, I thought it was a lie detector. Then I saw them—headphones!
A set of headphones attached to the machine.
“Please take a seat,” the examiner said.
He had to repeat himself before I sat down. He sat in a chair on the opposite side of the machine. I focused on his mouth, determined to read his lips as well as I could.
“Have you ever had your hearing tested?” he asked.
“No, sir,” I said tentatively.
“Your voice,” he asked, “are you sick?”
I told him about my scarred vocal cord. He read through my medical history until he was satisfied, then he handed me the headphones.
“This is called an audiogram. The test is simple. Put on these on, and listen for a series of beeps and tones.”
I took the headphones. Then he handed me a trigger button attached to a wire—my own personal doomsday device.
“When you hear a sound, press the button.”
“OK.”
“Put the headphones on now, please.”
I situated the headphones over my ears. They were the expensive kind, with noise cancelation cushioning. The sensation of isolation made me dizzy because the headphones magnified the sounds in my head. It was like having two large seashells attached to my ears.
The examiner pressed some buttons on the machine. The thin arms began running up and down the paper, charting my score in real time.
The examiner nodded at me—let’s begin.
I nodded back. I listened. A few seconds later, a faint succession of beeps panned across my right headphone. I pressed the button. I heard beeps again, louder. I pressed the button.
Then nothing.
I thought I heard more beeps—lower in tone—in my left ear. I pressed the button. The machine arms scribbled across the paper as I pressed the button again. Then I heard more beeps, and I pressed it again. Then nothing.
