After Sarge and I are about halfway through the jar, I can feel my head ablaze, my body numb, and my heart pounding. We sit in rockers on the front porch which overlooks frat row. Drunk frat boys and sorority girls pass by in clusters every now and then on the sidewalk below.
“I mean, just think about it,” Sarge says, gripping the jar in one hand and a cigar in the other.
“I have been,” I say, chuckling. “The past three hours you’ve been talking about it. I still don’t see how it’s possible.”
He leans in. “How could it not be? We know the government has abilities and technologies outside of our knowledge. We can agree on that part of it, right?”
I nod.
“So who’s to say they don’t have the ability to see into the future? To know what’s coming. Through intelligence, or ome machine or something… or some motherfucker with ESP.”
I look at him skeptically. “Now you’re stretching.”
“The government has an agenda. That’s all I’m saying. I think they know about crimes before they happen sometimes, through intelligence probably, and they let that shit happen anyway to drive that agenda.”
I shrug. “It’s sound in theory, I guess. I just feel like somebody would’ve talked about it by now. It would’ve gotten out.”
“See, I’m the type who believes there is nothing outside of our government’s moral boundary, including murder. And that kind of shit would be so ‘need to know’ the amount of people who’d be able to talk would be minimal.”
“We definitely need to change the subject.” I laugh. I point to the sky. “They’re probably listening.”
He grins, obviously picking up my facetious tone. “And what would you like to talk about, young one?”
Passing the jar off to Sarge and lighting up a cigarette, I ask, “Did you get everything you expected out of this fraternity experience?”
He thinks on this for a moment. “It wasn’t what I anticipated getting into it, but I’ve gotten everything out of it that I could.”
“Are you sick of it at this point? I know you don’t hang around the house much. And at ceremonies, you look about as impressed as I am by all this stupid shit.”
“It gave me a good distraction for a while until the newness of it all wore off. When it’s all said and done, my expectations were too high. I missed the Army. I was having a hell of a time transitioning, and so I was trying to find a substitute brotherhood. Problem is, a fraternity isn’t the Army, and it never could be.” He lets out a deep sigh, biting down onto his cigar as his eyes trace the night sky.
“Do I really show my cards that bad?” he eventually asks, a smirk building on his face.
Shaking my head, I respond, “Nah. I mean, you hold an officer position. You show up when they need you to. Seems like a lot of brothers around here really look up to you, including myself. Nothin’ more you can really ask of someone. It just, you don’t seem like you’re as frat-tastic as the rest of these guys.”
He laughs, nodding his head as he removes his cigar from his lips and replaces it with the mason jar. He takes a swig, swallows hard, and then he says, “Yeah, I’m certainly not. Some of this shit has gotten quite old. I’ve gotten quite old.”
“When did it all start gettin’ old for you?”
“When I realized all these guys like to do is get fucked up, do drugs, fuck chicks, and sleep all day.” He shrugs. “That, and like I said, I realized I was old as dirt playing a young man’s game. It felt time to move on about a year after I pledged and true colors started to show. That’s when people started finding out about me too. Took away some of my aura, I think. Some of that badass Army mystique I carried around for a year.”
“What did people start findin’ out?” I ask.
He chuckles, shrugging, as he replies frankly, “That I’m gay.”
I rear my head back as he returns the cigar to his lips and hands the ’shine back over to me.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say, blindly grabbing the jar and taking a swig. My doubtful eyes never leave his, however, a tight scrunch in my brow.
“No bullshit,” he says, as I study his expression.
Genuine.
“There’s no fuckin’ way you’re gay. Not a chance,” I argue, shaking my head.
“Believe it, Bishop. It’s the truth. I’ve been out for a handful of years now.”
“C’mon, man. I can’t tell if you’re fuckin’ with me here or not.”
“I’m not.” Sarge grins, dabbing the cigar out and reaching into his pocket. He pulls out his phone as he takes the jar from me.
Scrolling through his phone, he eventually says, “Aha,” and faces the phone toward me. He takes a drink of the ’shine with his other hand, a wide smile against the brim of the glass.
On the screen is a photo of Sarge, a few years younger, wearing an Army t-shirt, and walking in what can only be a Gay Pride parade, a small rainbow flag in his hand. He locks the screen and stuffs the phone back into his pocket, chuckling as my jaw belongs to the floor now.
“Does everyone here know?” I eventually ask, disbelief still written on my features.
“The people that need to, yeah. And they know I have a boyfriend in Pittsburgh—Jonah—who I love. That’s the main reason I’m not around so much anymore. They respect and understand that for the most part. There are some good guys in DIK, seriously; there’s just a lot of shit in the ranks, too. Just like anywhere else, I guess.”
“How’d you deal with bein’ gay in the Army?”
“I didn’t,” he says, chuckling, but there’s some pain masked behind it. “I didn’t talk about it, didn’t feel it, didn’t acknowledge it. Not until I got out. I was a shell of a man for most of my life. When I joined the Army, it was my everything, my identity. It’s all I knew and cared about. It took meeting Jonah about five years ago to find myself. My love for him allowed me to see myself for who I really was, and not just the rough exterior I surrounded myself with before him.”
“Wow, that’s really awesome, man.”
“He’s awesome,” Sarge says, smiling. “I’m just lucky.”
“Were you ever straight?” I ask, and he laughs. I immediately feel stupid for asking such a senseless question.
“I pretended to be for a while. I was married once. For a spell. But straight? Me?” He laughs. “Nah.”
“No shit. You were married?”
“That’s right. Married my high school sweetheart. I was trying to do what was expected of me, I guess. I was married to her for two years before it all fell apart. Like I said, I had this barrier up no one could breach. I didn’t feel. I just existed. And war became my mistress.”
“And you knew while you were married that you were gay?”
“Bishop, I knew since I was a kid. I was just following the pattern. Until the pattern just didn’t make sense to me anymore.”
“Do your Army friends know now?”
“Most of them. Some, I just can’t tell. Probably should, but likely never will.”
“I can’t even imagine havin’ to tell everyone. To even need to tell everyone. It shouldn’t matter.” I hesitate for a moment, pulling out another cigarette. “What about your parents?”
“My parents are both gone now, but my mom was the first person I ever told. She supported me, no matter what. Helped me a lot through my divorce. It was a really difficult time. My dad never knew and probably never would’ve wanted to know. He was a farmer with that old-school mentality. But he loved me. He was just the ‘what you don’t know, doesn’t hurt’ kind of person.”
I lift the nearly empty jar of moonshine and smirk at him. “Now, I don’t have to worry about you makin’ moves on me, seein’ as I’m drunk, do I?” I take a chug as he laughs.
“You wish. I like my guys skinny and a little on the feminine side.”
“So, what’s so different between that and a woman?”
He grins, swiping the jar from me. “I don’t need to give you an anatomy lesson, do I?”<
br />
“No, no. I mean, like if they’re feminine and kind of girly-lookin’, ain’t that about the same as datin’ a woman?”
“Well, let me ask you this. Would you fuck a feminine-looking gay guy?”
I shake my head firmly. “Nope. Nothin’ against it. I just like the pussy.”
“Okay, so it’s not the same. And I like dick.”
“Got it.”
“I like dude’s buttholes. Man pussy.”
I laugh loudly. “I’m pickin’ up what you’re puttin’ down. Good to go.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Only when I think about it.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “I feel the same way about pussy.”
“I don’t know how. Pussy is delicious, man.”
“Some pussy is delicious,” he corrects me. “Remember, I played straight for a few years and she wasn’t always flowers and spring meadows down there.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” I agree, grimacing. “But you fuck what people shit out of.”
He passes me a doubtful look. “You’re telling me you’ve never fucked an asshole?”
“Well, yeah. Of course, but …”
He chuckles. “Of course, nothing. It’s the same thing. Dude ass. Woman ass. It’s all the same. There aren’t different brands. It’s called good personal hygiene, Bishop.”
“I’ve had some bad experiences.”
“Haven’t we all. You have to enema. It’s a must,” he says, shrugging.
“I think we’ve talked enough about assholes tonight, actually.”
“You did say you wanted to change the subject.” He grins wide.
I laugh and then look over toward the parking lot, hearing faint noises. “I wonder how the other guys are farin’.”
Louder now, a cackle comes from out of the darkness, and then obnoxious howling. Mac abruptly scurries across the parking lot on all fours. Tim follows behind him, laughing, with a beer in one hand and his phone in the other, recording.
“Mac! What the fuck are you doin’?” I yell, standing. Sarge stands too, and we lean over the railing. Mac is down by the street now with a leg hiked up as if he’s pissing on a hydrant.
Sarge laughs. “This motherfucker,” he says, shaking his head.
“Dude is a fuckin’ lightweight. Then again, he can’t weigh more than like ninety pounds.”
“He looks like a bulimic Carrot Top,” Sarge quips, and I burst out in laughter.
“Like Ellen’s red-headed cousin … who happens to be bulimic. And addicted to cocaine,” I add as Mac crawls back toward the porch.
Tim pockets his cellphone and heads our way.
“Wolfpack Family!” Mac yells, followed by an annoyingly high-pitched howl.
“That red-headed fuck is drunk,” Tim bellows, his eyes bloodshot and the beer can unsteady in his hand.
“And what about you?” Sarge asks, pointing to Tim’s crotch where a large wet spot sits. “Did you piss yourself, Tim?”
Tim looks down slowly, inspects his piss-coated sweatpants, and then his eyes trail back to us. He shrugs. “Would you look at that.”
Mac, standing now, makes his way toward us in zig-zagging, uncoordinated steps. “I’m a fucking wolf, man!” he yells, howling again. “Wolfpack, baby!”
“Mac, shut the fuck up,” I say, chuckling as I shake my head at him. “Where’s everybody else?”
“I’m a wolf,” Mac repeats, trying his best to look at me, but his eyes are distant.
I put two hands on his shoulders, forcing his eyes onto mine. “You drank too much, buddy. What’s everyone else up to?”
Mac sighs, his bourbon breath turning my stomach. “Downstairs. Zane went to bed and Jeremy is passed out. Brady’s hooking up with a chick.”
“What about Carter?”
“He’s in the basement. Drinking. Drunk.”
“By himself?”
Mac nods.
I look back toward Sarge, and he motions to the door.
“Go ahead, man. I’m just a short cab ride away from some more moonshine,” he says, passing me a wink.
I shift my eyes back toward Mac and pat him on the shoulder. “Get some rest, Red.”
Mac nods, his eyelids fluttering. “I’m crashing on the couch tonight,” he mutters.
I pat him one more time before dropping my hands to my sides. “Y’all are gonna catch somethin’ from those couches one of these days.” I laugh as I slap hands with Sarge. “Have a good night, brother. And thank you.”
“No problem,” he says, pulling me in for a bro hug.
Before I let go of his hand, I say, “Really, I mean it. Thanks for trustin’ me enough to open up.”
He nods. “That’s what family’s for. Welcome to the Warrior Family, brother,” he says.
“Wait, what’s that even mean?” I ask. “You were supposed to tell me earlier, but then we got drunk.”
“Since 1922, any brother within the Warrior Family has served in the military.”
I nod approvingly. “Fuck yeah! I love that. Alright, man. Well, have a good night,” I say, making my way around the house to the side door. I can hear Mac’s heavy footfalls behind me. Heading through the door, I see Carter on the couch cradling a beer in his lap and Jeremy passed out next to him.
Mac beelines toward the bar.
“How you feelin’, man?” I ask, taking a seat beside Carter.
He takes a deep breath, belches, and responds, “Fucked. Up.”
I laugh, motioning toward Jeremy, who is angled awkwardly on the couch next to him, his mouth wide open and a puddle of drool on the cushion. “Fared better than him, at least. And let’s not even talk about Mac,” I say, my focus shifting toward Mac as he clunks around in the refrigerator.
He hiccups, his head wobbly as he looks over at me. “I feel like dog shit.”
“Yeah, I’m not faring too good myself. Gonna cab my ass home here in a few. Just wanted to check on you.”
He waves me off. “I’m good. I’m good. Going to crash here tonight.”
“Alright, man.”
“You know, Bishop,” he says, raising a finger in the air. “I’m really glad you’re doing this with us. I’m glad you’re our president.”
“I’m glad too, man. I probably wouldn’t still be here if it weren’t for y’all.”
“I don’t think I would be either,” he says. He swallows thickly and then adds, “You know, I used to have a real brother. A sister, too.” His focus shifts to the TV, though it’s not on.
I’m caught off-guard, gulping. Hesitating, I study his darkening features before asking, “The car wreck?”
He nods, his face reddening, his focus still lost. “My mom was driving,” he mutters. “You might have heard about it.” His eyes eventually come back to mine. “It was all over the news. There was a documentary on it, too.” He says this with a spiteful tone.
“How long ago was it?”
“Back in 2005. I was fourteen. My mom was acting really weird, like she was drunk or something. But they found nothing in her system, or that’s what my dad always told me. I never brought myself to watch the documentary or read any of the articles. I want to keep my memory of her as it used to be. Before all the chaos.”
He picks at the beer label on his bottle, a wrinkle of exasperation etched on his forehead. “I can’t tell you how hard it was to ignore all that. It was a fucking circus. Everyone trying to figure out who to blame. But they really didn’t care. They just loved the ratings it got.” He hesitates, taking a deep breath and gulping.
“My mom killed five people that day,” he continues, and his words ice my veins, a shiver sweeping down my spine. He shakes his head, and I can see the sharp curves of his cheekbones as he clenches his jaw, the thick scar on his cheek tightening, his solemn eyes on the frayed beer bottle label he picks at.
“You don’t gotta talk about it if you don’t wanna, Carter. I appreciate you sharin’ what you have.”
He waves me off. “No, I
want to. I don’t ever talk about it, and I get pissed at myself sometimes for pretending like it never happened. For pretending like they never existed.” He shakes his head firmly, his expression reading inner turmoil. “My grandma, my sister, my brother. And then the two in the Explorer. All gone. I was sleeping. It’s the only reason I survived, you know that? It’s like how drunks are always the only ones to survive a bad wreck. It’s why I can’t tell you what happened that day.”
“Oh fuck,” I mutter, remembering now exactly what he’s talking about. It had been all over the news for weeks. Months, even. I may have even watched the documentary at one point though I can’t recall much of it. Just the details he now lays on me—a wrong way crash, the mystery surrounding the mother and her behavior that day, and another bit of information from the documentary passes through my thoughts—a message she had left for her husband just before the crash.
“You remember it?” he asks.
I nod. “What’s Wrong with Mommy?” I ask, and he nods his head slowly, his eyes glistening over.
“That’d be it. You watched it?”
“I think I did, but I can’t recall anything from it, other than what you’ve just shared. Sorry, man.”
“Do you remember the message?”
I nod, my lips pinching together and brow furrowing as I find it hard to see him hurting as he is. He’s so young, and the whole world sits right in front of him, wide open and ready for the taking. Yet he suffers just as I do, for reasons much different than my own. I chose to join the Army. I chose to put myself in harm’s way. He was just a kid led astray down an unfair road.
“The police leaked the voicemail my mom left my dad just before the crash and the documentary crew and news people got their dirty little hands on it.” Tears well in his eyes. I want to console him somehow, but I don’t know how.
There’s a silence between us for a moment. I set my hand on his shoulder and I squeeze, which seems to allow a few more tears to fall.
“They just kept digging and digging. Of course they’d find something. Of course they would. And what did it do anyway? What did finding out my dad was having an affair and she knew about it have to do with fucking anything? It changed nothing!” he growls, dropping his head into his hands.
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