“Let’s get out of here,” Noah said to his father. “Let’s go see a movie.”
Doug pulled out a wad of dollars, peeled off a twenty, and handed it to Noah. “Go get yourself a little bit of whatever you want,” he said. Noah considered the twenty then took off toward a TCBY store, where for his money he could get gallons of high-fructose yogurt.
“Okay,” Doug said. “Let’s talk to each other like men.”
How did men talk? Bare-chested? While arm wrestling? Nodding a lot?
“I know this is hard on the family,” Doug said. “But it’ll pass.”
“Of course it’ll pass,” Joshua said. “The way a tornado passes, leveling entire communities.”
“I don’t need a lecture,” Doug said.
“What do you need, then?” Joshua said.
“I’m off to Iraq,” Doug said.
“You joined the army?” Joshua said. Doug had it in him; it had never before occurred to Joshua, but he did have soldierness in him. Perhaps it was the way he stood before Joshua: straight as an arrow, hands on his hips, feet apart, chin pointing out. He could see him barking at his underlings, in desert camos, the sunglasses under the helmet, the hand gun on his thigh, spitting out the sand. He’d love the smell of napalm in the morning.
“Fuck, no! I’m not that crazy,” Doug said. “Don Rumsfeld and his people are setting up a team to get the economy running. I used to do stuff for him when he was in Chicago. We’ll be handing out money, pretty much. We’ll provide the camelfuckers with a starter kit for market capitalism. It’s a dream job. They need people like you wouldn’t believe it.”
There was Doug, winking at him again, as it were, across the divide, including him even if he didn’t have to.
“I suppose you’ll need buckets of cash for the divorce,” Joshua said.
“Yup. There might be reparations aplenty,” Doug said. “You should come along with me, make some dough. Then you can write your scripts for fun.”
“Does Noah know you’re going?”
“I’m about to tell him,” Doug said, looking toward TCBY.
The end of the heavy convoy was filing into the elevator that would take them up to some kind of disinfected heaven. Noah was on his way back, digging yogurt out of a tub, licking his lips before and after he deposited a lump in his mouth.
“I’ll be coming and going, but looks like I’ll be gone a lot. I was going to ask you to watch out for Noah. Jan can be a little, you know, overwhelming. He needs a man in his life.”
“Sure,” said Joshua, the man.
“It’s not like I’m gonna shoot at the towelheads and sleep in a tent. It shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Don’t get too killed.”
“Nah!” Doug said. “It should be a cakewalk.”
EXT. CORNFIELD — DAY
A vast field. Ruth parts the jungle-like greenness of corn, while Major Klopstock has Jack firmly strapped to his back. They move fast. Ruth occasionally checks if Young Woman follows in their wake. Young Woman drops to her knees, then rises to go on walking. She glares at Ruth to indicate that she is determined to make it.
A choir of zombie GROANS AND HOWLS somewhere in the distance. An overhead shot shows that Major K, the women, and the boy are in the center of the cornfield, while stick-thin zombies are all around, wandering aimlessly. Neither Major K and his group nor the zombies are aware of a well-armed unit surrounding all of them. Two concentric circles, at the center of which is Major K.
What do you do after you see your very own father fallen and helpless, after you find yourself caught up between your sister and her Iraq-bound spouse, after you’ve been promoted against your secret wishes to the rank of a responsible uncle? What do you do? What do you do instead of going home (home?), where a refugee and her daughter are squatting, taking their time to figure out what to do next? What do you do if there are decisions to be made, penitence and rebuilding to be done after you were carpet-bombed by life? What do you do? You do what you must: you have a drink at a fount of manhood, because that’s what you know, because that’s where the central fear booth is located.
The Westmoreland was more crowded than usual, which is to say that there were two tables taken, and there was Bega at the bar, reading the newspaper again. Paco was still behind it, apparently unmoved from his posture of TV-watching, except the TV was off. The goyter looked a bit bigger, the new head evidently ready to hatch.
Spitefully, in Bega’s full and derisive sight, Joshua sat at the far end of the bar. Bega didn’t bother talking to him, not even when Paco walked over to take a double-bourbon order from Joshua.
“Hey, Paco,” Bega said, “did you know that Homeland Security tells you what to do in case of terrorism if you call them?”
Paco shook his head for Joshua to see, and it was hard to know whether that meant No, I didn’t know or I can’t believe that guy’s trying to talk to me.
“Listen.” Bega read, “‘The time to prepare is now. The fight against terror begins at home … Store heavyweight garbage bags and duct tape to seal windows, doors, and air vents from outside contamination. While there is no way to predict what will happen or what your personal circumstances will be, there are things you can do now.’”
Kontamneyshn is the way Bega pronounced it. Paco returned to deliver Joshua’s drink, shaking his head again, a motion no doubt limited by the growth — if it wasn’t for his goyter, he’d probably be swinging his head around like a mace. This time he seemed to be expressing some kind of disbelief. Bega was looking at both of them to detect their respective reactions, but Joshua avoided eye contact.
“‘We can be afraid or we can be ready,’” Bega finished, chuckling mirthfully.
He stood up and limped along the bar to sit on the stool next to Joshua.
“Be afraid or be ready, Josh!”
“Consider yourself nonexistent,” Joshua said.
Bega shrugged, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply, leaning on the bar.
“Why is the TV off?” Joshua asked Paco.
“Cubs already lost,” Bega said. How did Paco decide when to speak out?
“I can see you’re limping,” Joshua said. “I hope it’s horribly painful.”
“War injury,” Bega said, letting the smoke out of his mouth and nose. It floated past Paco, toward the dark TV, like a half thought. “Leg gets dead after I sit for long time. I have to keep moving. Like shark.”
Joshua downed his bourbon and coughed as the alcohol burned its way through his gullet to his stomach. He considered getting up to finish his drink at one of the empty tables, but that would’ve been a statement involving too much drama, attracting too much attention. He wished he had a knife; he’d pin Bega’s hand to the bar. And then they would talk through the torture, Joshua slicing off Bega’s fingers until he understood what needed to be understood.
“What are you going to do?” Bega asked as Joshua was experiencing a flash of déjà vu.
“About what? What exactly do you want from me, Bega?”
“I don’t want nothing from you. I just like to watch how you don’t know shit.”
“Shit about what?”
“About people. About world. About everything.”
“And how do you know all that shit?”
“I watch. I pay attention. I know.”
“Should I be scared of you? Is that what you’re saying? ’Coz I’m not.”
“You should be scared of yourself.”
“I’m not scared of anything. I don’t give a fuck,” Joshua said, and called for another bourbon. Kontam fucking neyshn. Bega raised his hand with two fingers to indicate he’d have one too.