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Bus School Hard Fucking Girls
From time to time I talk at colleges and high schools. The subject is war and its aftermath. Experience has shown that most students find the politics or dry facts boring; they do not relate to long films, well meant but impoverished poetry, the uncompelling war yarn. After many years I have learned this: True war talk is a hard sell but someone has to tell it and hope young ears will listen. Done right there is no substitute for speaking straight from the heart.
"Yesterday, in a supermarket check out line I stood behind an old man. When it was his turn to pay he couldn't find his wallet. Then tried to give exact change. Most people would have shrugged it off. But in my mind I said, 'Mister. What is your fucking problem? I don't have all fucking day.' When he gives me a dirty look I grab his throat and squeeze hard just above the trachea, right below the jaw. He's twisting in pain and can't breathe. I love the way his face turns red, his eyes lids flicker, his pupils roll back as his face goes blue. It's called cyanosis, lack of oxygen. I squeeze tighter until his body stops twitching and he goes limp. I punch his face three times. A stream of red leaks from his nose and mouth. When I release my grip he hits the floor with a solid thud. I want to see that sight. I want to hear that unforgettable thumping sound. I want to see and hear it because I like it very much."
"The first time I saw a dead American, there were three of them. Their heads were up on stakes. The enemy did that to scare us but we just got angry. On a patrol I found the men that did it. I bayoneted one, shot the other two and cut off their heads. It didn't bother me back then but I don't sleep more than fifteen to twenty minutes at a time; I wake up with nightmares and chills and sweats. I walk the perimeter at night. I saw children after I killed their parents. You hear them cry. I'm 100% disabled for PTSD; 30% for diabetes; 10% for erectile dysfunction and 10% for organic brain damage. They give me pain medication that doesn't work. What helps is marijuana but the Veterans Administration won't let me have it. They want to give me codeine, but that counteracts the Viagra and I'd rather have a hard-on and pain than just be a fucking zombie. After the war, on Mother's Day, my father, a police officer, arrested me. In eighteen days I robbed six banks in Chicago. I served sixteen months in prison. In 1995 I served three years, three months for possession of marijuana and am presently on parole. I won't smoke now, but come Christmas 2005, I am going to roll a fucking joint the size of a bus and I'll kill it in one drag."
"I'll pick up her clothes and essentials in a day or two. You go to bed." "We'll both wait." Divorced six years, Beth and I have run out of things to say to each other. I pulled a chair up alongside the door. She sat over in a dark corner of the living room, smoking. Three-thirty a.m. Grace flounces into the apartment, sees me sitting in the hallway, and lets out a laugh. "Dad, what are you doing here?" "Leave your coat on." She takes it off and begins looking about the room for her mother. A fifteen-year-old in a woman's skin dressed like her mother when I first met her in a dance hall back in Ashtabula. Grace, who'd been drinking, is attempting to humor me while insinuating her mother's betrayal. "What did you call Dad for, Ma?" Beth slouched farther down into the sofa. I hand Grace her coat. "Take yours off," she responds. "Nice of you to visit. Little early in the morning though, don't you agree, Ma?" she sneered. "Put your goddamn coat on, Grace." It's now lying on the floor between us. "I'm not putting my coat on for you or anybody else." A summer earlier she'd played league softball, and before her attitude had begun to shift, shot-putted at high school. I grabbed her arm. "Oh no!" she said. "Uh-huh . . ." We were on the floor, she struggling to break free of my grip. "You're coming with me, girl. This no-accountability life of yours is all over. Changing of the fucking guard!" I'd never seriously wrestled with a woman before-let alone my daughter. Grace and I rose and fell several times before she finally succumbed. I'd pinned her arms above her head and straddled her chest. She turned sullenly to Beth . . . who glided nervously back and forth before the picture window. "Don't touch one goddamn thing of mine! I'll be back tomorrow." My International Harvester Scout sat under the streetlight. Grace lit up a cigarette as we drove off. So far so good, I thought. Over the six years of separation we'd seen each other at least twice a week. The three girls initially. Then when they grew older, it made more sense to see them individually. So we'd rotate weeks. (Neither Beth nor I had remarried.) My visits with the girls were always phrenetic-a forced "happy hour" that they learned to endure and I couldn't have done without. Until a year ago when they abruptly stopped. Each girl asked separately, "Dad, can't we just visit you on a more casual basis?" They were growing up. I crossed the Spyten Dyvil bridge and drove onto Westside Drive. Grace hadn't spoken a word until the Dyckman Street exit in the Bronx. "Turn off here!" she ordered. "But that's not the way downtown." "Do it!" she cried. And grabbed the steering wheel, forcing us off the road. "Grace!" "Trust me." I exited and pulled the car over to the curb. "What's this all about?" "I'll tell you later." She wasn't attempting to jump out of the car, so I dropped it and took Broadway south. Periodically she'd look to either side of the car as vehicles passed, or out the back window to see if we were being followed. In the Fifties she visibly relaxed. "What's going on, Grace?" "Nothing now." "Then?" "You were about to be ambushed." She lit another cigarette. "I don't get it." "We saw your car." "Who?" "Me and my friends. 'He's here to take me away,' I told them. 'Get ready.'" "Is this some kind of story, Grace?" "They were going to force you off the road down along 125th Street, one of those turn-offs near the river. Then pull me loose. It was all planned." "And me?" She didn't respond. Neither of us spoke to each other until we got to my apartment. At the door, I asked: "These boys you're talking about ambushing me?" "Yeah?" "Tell me." "Ralph's an ex-con out of Wallkill. He ain't been a boy for some time." She ascended the stairs first. Built just like her mother. I couldn't tell them apart from the rear. The high heels with rhinestone shooting-star clasps, the shimmering pantyhose in the hallway amber light, roan hair that fell to her shoulders-and a scent that any man penned in a cage could never forget.
"Where?" She lit a cigarette. "Well, that's all going to change, Grace." "Yeah, sure," she snorted. "I get it. OK. I don't mind school. I'll go back home and promise I'll attend regularly." "There is no going back, Grace." "What do you mean?" Alex glanced hard at me. "I'm not living with you." "Uh-huh." Grace looked at Alex. "The three of us?" Alex nodded her head. "You mean I am going to school around here?" "No," I answered. "We're leaving for Maine." "Maine!" "Tomorrow." "To do fucking what?" "Live," Alex said softly. "In Maine?" Grace jumped up from the table and grabbed her coat. "You think you're taking me away from my friends to live in Maine?" "What are they going to do, Grace? Ambush folks in Maine-up there they'll blow your head off." Grace started to laugh maniacally and pace. "This is all a joke." She glared at Alex, who entered our bedroom to return with the suitcases. "It's beautiful up there this time of year, Grace. It'll do you good, do us all good to get the city out of our systems. It's poisoned us. We'll stop at your house on the way north to pick up warm clothes." Grace had it in her mind this would all pass. Over the period of separation when any crisis among the siblings would erupt, Beth and I'd get together to formulate some grandiose, well-intentioned plan to smooth things out. We'd set the girls down, explaining how we'd spent hours of soul-searching. How good it was going to be from there on out. The children would dutifully listen-and we all felt better. Like having been released from a prolix church service. Outside the vestibule, the sun illumining the pastor who wishes every parishioner a bountiful week, while inside the organ lobs hosannas against the empty chapel's walls. Cleansed. But in a very short period these plans invariably withered. The animus between Beth and me remained unchanged. Grace and her sisters still had to navigate our selfish needs, which by this time they were all adept at. In her mind, surely it was, "Fuck Maine. So we go up there for a few days. He'll have a change of heart. Mother will call, insisting I return home. Get to a phone and call Ralph. It's cool." When we stopped to pick up Grace's clothes, her luggage sat packed on the porch. Beth didn't even appear in the window. Alex and I had rented a house in rural Maine several months earlier. Once a summer residence for a Boston Brahmin, after years of being unoccupied it had fallen into a state of disrepair. In exchange for my carpentry services, his out-of-state relatives cut our rent substantially. Located a mile in on a camp road along the mountainous back side of a lake with one shuttered summer cottage along the way-it couldn't have felt more remote this early November. We arrived at two in the morning. The moon silvered the lake's icy surface whose far side abutted a one-general-store town. Grace had slept most of the way, resigned to wait Alex and me out by responding indifferently to anything we uttered. "It's serene here in the summer, Grace." We walked past the boathouse toward the main residence, or "Mountain Lodge" as the local people knew it. "There's a vintage Chris-Craft motorboat lying in a slip inside there, all mahogany and appointed with chromium spotlights. A real beauty you can run the lake at night with." She climbed the steps ahead of me. At the entryway I inserted the key. "You're going to love this place. It has a winter and summer quarters. Twelve rooms. Your choice. The bedrooms facing the water are the loveliest." The house had been shut tight for three months-the air inside stale and bone chilling. Fusty air always penetrates the body deeper than cold, outside air, no matter what the temperature. I immediately set to throwing sticks into the kitchen's wood stove, then lit the console Atlantic wood burner in the winter living quarters. Upstairs the Lodge was heated by warm air rising through filigreed cast-iron registers inset in the downstairs' ceiling. I activated the pump which began drawing water up from the lake. Soon Alex brewed coffee. We listened to Grace's spike heels drumming the hardwood floors, wandering in and out of the upstairs' chambers. They stopped over the kitchen, the darkest room in the Lodge. It looked out upon a ledge less than six feet from the back of the house that rose vertically for another 150 feet. The "cottage" had been built on a shelf blasted out of the granite rise in the thirties by the merchant who'd amassed his wealth acquiring wool from Northeast sheep farmers, then selling it to the government for World War I uniforms. Grace's bedroom furniture had all been painted cottage-white: a spool bed, a dresser with an oversized rococo mirror and an arrow-back kitchen chair that sat in the corner. The walls had been freshly painted robin's-egg blue. Tuesday morning, once we'd taken the chill off the downstairs, I hollered up for Grace to join us at breakfast. She refused. When I knocked on her door, and she didn't respond, I opened it to find her lying under several blankets in the bed, motionless. "I'm not hungry," she said. It became her refrain for lunch and dinner. Wednesday, a repeat of Tuesday. By Thursday morning, Alex had begun to express concern. "She's going to starve herself, Lee. It's how she's going to beat you." "I don't give up easily," I said. "You don't understand the will of young women." "I'm every bit as strong and determined as she is." "Suppose she continues to refuse food?" "When she gets hungry enough-she'll give in." "After a couple of days . . . the pangs of hunger lessen." "She's got to come downstairs to drink." "Already beat you on that." "What do you mean?" "She's cupping snow off the window sills."