A Hard and Heavy Thing

by Matthew J. Hefti

  “Assuming arguendo—to use your language, Dad—that I go sit in on this Kumbaya circle-jerk to appease you, Liz, Nick, and everyone else who thinks I need help; well, once again I have to be surrounded by all these deified American vets. These guys who are walking talking clichés of the movies they see about themselves. These guys who are, sadly, just like me. And is it really even our fault? It’s not like we know how to act apart from how books, movies, and the Internet tell us to act. We’re all products of our generational influences, that’s all. And perhaps that means there’s a certain lack of culpability here, but at the same time, it makes any kind of change or rehabilitation absolutely impossible. It makes me crazier than the PTSD or whatever else you think I must have. We’re all trying to boil down our meaningless experiences to fit this tiny little conventional, three-act, linear narrative to, like, somehow explain or even validate what we did over there. And of course, each story is bigger and badder and more sensational than the last, and we’re all trying to impress upon people how bad it was, how high the stakes were, how damaged we now are, when the truth is, our stories aren’t all sensational. They’re sad in their ordinariness and they’re depressing in how common they are. Each one of us hitting a climax too soon and then riding out the slow boring burn for the rest of our lives.”

  [And you know what? It’s the denial of that, it’s the attempt to give meaning to it all, or to create drama where there is none, it’s that kind of blatant one-upsmanship, that kind of attention-grabbing instinct—all that ugliness that I feel and recognize in my own self—that fills me full of all this existential angst and saps me of all my goodwill.]

  “So you’re terrified your own story will just turn you into a cliché? Is that it?”

  Levi clenched his teeth and looked at the television. Tying run at the plate in the ninth with only one out. It started with such hope. A fresh season. A new start in front of an adoring and supportive crowd.

  Game over. Home team lost.

  His dad continued on his dinner. “Do I seem like one of these clichés you hate? Does Nick? Do you actually know anyone who embodies this parody of a veteran you complain about?”

  Levi shook his head and downed the rest of his beer. He was starting to feel like his flight of fancy was running out of places to go. “You know what? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Maybe it would be great. You know, I’d probably walk out of the meeting, stroll to my car in the parking lot, and I’d probably even whistle. I’d feel the summer winds on my face and I’d start noticing things again. I’d see that someone took a lot of care in watering, fertilizing, and edging the nugatory island of grass in the parking lot. I’d feel that things were looking up, that there were people in this world who cared about things, and for a second, I’d probably feel something like gratitude.” He lit another cigarette.

  “And then what would happen?”

  Levi didn’t know. He didn’t have an answer. What would happen then? The beer made him tired. The conversation made him tired. There had been an upswing there, a short time where he had been riffing and enjoying himself, enjoying that he was drunk and talking and letting things out and someone was listening, even if it was all nonsense, but then he had run out of answers. Or he realized his answers were no answers at all. He felt like going home and snuggling up in the patchwork quilt of anhedonia that had become so comfortable.

  [And the further I get into chronicling all this, the more I realize the real problem is none of this. No amount of therapy and no amount of psycho-babble can cure what’s really wrong with me. No amount of writing, self-reflection, or emotional upheaval can wash my own black heart. And I know I lack empathy here, and worst of all, I lack love, but bear with me, because I can’t sugarcoat it or in any way let myself off the hook. Not if I’m going to get through this.]

  Levi wished he had told the truth when his father asked if he thought of suicide. He wished he would have told him everything about all the guilt, all the mistakes. He wished he could explain how certain little mistakes in judgment had led to other little mistakes as he tried to cover up the original mistakes, thereby increasing his guilt all the more. He wished he could explain how it was all his fault that people died, and people were injured because he had been stupid and selfish and self-absorbed. He wished he could explain—without sounding like a crazy man—that it had all started with a stupid little stone. He wished he could explain to his father, the lawyer, that it may not legally or even rationally be his fault, but he nevertheless bore a certain moral responsibility for what had happened. They all did, but he especially. He wished he could explain how this downward spiral was nothing new and that he had been falling for years. He wished he could explain how despite the fact that he had taken other lives after that day and made many more mistakes, he had grown obsessive and monomaniacal about that single day in Iraq where he had taken life that wasn’t his to take, or at the very least, he had set the chain in motion. Somewhere along the road he had lost his way.

  He wished he could apologize to the parents of the dead.

  He wished he could come clean about how he had left the army in disgrace and not as some big decorated hero. He wished he could say: Dad, I lied about how I left the army. Please take a moment to listen to what actually happened, and please don’t judge me, because I’ve judged myself enough. Just please, let me tell you the truth.

  But Levi’s moment had passed. It would seem too awkward to go back to the moment when his dad first asked for a simple yes or no. He had said no, and now it would take too much energy to go back and explain.

  “I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know what would happen then. I guess nothing.”

  His dad looked at his plate and set down his fork. Gravity and helplessness pulled the corners of his mouth into a frown. “I want you to know you’re not alone.”

  Levi rooted in his pocket for a second pack of cigarettes.

  “You know I got a medal once too. Not a Silver Star, but it was something. I silently took the congratulations of the base commander and whoever else was there. Some other guys got medals. I came home and I didn’t think we did anything worth anything either.”

  “Dad, you don’t have to—”

  “Now I listened to you, so do me the same courtesy.” Tears welled in his eyes.

  Levi stared at the bar, embarrassed by his father’s foreign vulnerability.

  “You know what? Listen to me, Son. I can’t offer you what you need. All I can do is tell you what I see that you may not see yourself.

  “Now I’ve been where you are. I’ve taken a bullet for my country; you know that. I’m not just flapping my gums here. And I know it’s hard to talk about it. People don’t really want to hear about what it was really like over there. What we really did. But when I came back, they didn’t have any programs to help us, and the ones they did have were ineffective and full of red tape.”

  “And our programs now are so streamlined and effective, Dad?”

  “I know. I know the system is broken and the politicians creating the system will never understand the human cost, but that’s not where I’m going. I can’t emphasize enough that this isn’t about that.

  “The thing is, Levi, you’re smart and you’re charismatic and that’s why everyone likes you when you want them to. But you’re also selfish and arrogant and prideful, and you think you’ve got everything figured out. And you know what else? It’s easy to hide, Son. For a smart guy like you, it’s nothing at all to convince people who don’t know better that you’ve got it figured out. And people are scared. They don’t like confrontation, so you give them an excuse to leave you alone, and they will. If you give enough people a reason to leave you alone, you’ll end up alone. It’s as simple as that.”

  Levi’s eyes grew heavy. His mouth had begun to dry out. Where was the bartender already?

  “In my case, your mother wouldn’t quit on me. She’s tough in the same way your sister is tough. She kept pushing me and wouldn’t leave me alone no matter wha
t I did to push her away. She’s pushing me to push you. She’s not naïve like you think she is. I know everyone else in the world may leave you alone when you make it clear you don’t want to deal with things, but I won’t. Your mother won’t. Your sister won’t. Your brother won’t. Nick won’t.”

  Levi sat in silence. He had run out of things to say. It was time for a nap. Or another drink. Or some levity.

  The way his father looked sitting there with his silverware in front of him, cold dinner, and warm beer—the way he just looked so old, and so—Levi didn’t know what. He had never seen this man before. His dad picked up the silverware and sliced furiously at a hunk of cold low-grade beef.

  Levi stood up and patted his dad on the back. “So, Dad. Listen to this one. A three-legged dog walks into a tavern in the Wild West about a hundred years ago, probably like this tavern right here except without the neon signs. And so, he saddles up to the bar and this three-legged dog says—well, do you know what he says?”

  His dad shook his head slowly.

  “He says, ‘I’m looking for the man who shot my paw.’”

  His father said nothing.

  Levi sighed and tossed two twenties onto the bar. “Thanks for the chat.”

  The man used his knife to scrape some corn into his mashed potatoes. He gritted his teeth and forked a piece of meat. He shoved it into his mouth, never taking his eyes off the plate.

  3.15 CHOKE ARTISTS

  Nick leaned over a booth in the back of the empty pub to wipe off the sticky remnants of spilled pop. He didn’t know Levi had walked in until he left the floor, wrapped in a Heimlichian bear hug.

  After Levi set him down, Nick turned to face his friend. Levi wore a broad grin. His eyes were glass, but there was a spark in them, and Nick hadn’t seen life there in months.

  “You smell like cigarettes and beer,” Nick said. “It’s not even dinnertime.”

  “Dad and I did lunch. Made an afternoon of it watching the Brewers tank the opener.”

  “You saw your dad?”

  “Yeah. You catch the game?”

  “Most of it. Almost rallied, just not enough.”

  “Choke artists.”

  “One hundred and sixty-one games left. No biggie.”

  “Have a drink with me.”

  “Ah, you know I can’t. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Place is dead, dude. Have a drink.”

  They sat at the bar, and Levi ordered a vodka with Diet Coke. When Shirley brought the drink, Levi said, “One more thing, gorgeous? Bring this guy a shot. Something he can throw down before the customers flood in and see him drinking on the job.”

  “Don’t bring me a shot, Shirley.”

  “Shirley, surely you can bring him a shot.”

  “Never heard that one before,” she said.

  “Shirley. Surely, you have Shirley. That is, surely you’ve heard the Shirley-surely bit.”

  “He’s the one who signs my paycheck.”

  “And the customer is the one who provides his paycheck, and the customer is always right. Right?” Levi smacked his hand on the bar. “Ain’t that right, Nick? Tell her the customer is always right.”

  Nick gave her a little nod. She brought him back a beer.

  “Good to see you again,” Nick said. He turned on the stool to face Levi.

  “And you, Brother. How are things?”

  “Same.”

  “Still working as much?”

  “Yup.”

  “Let’s blow this joint and hang out like the old days.”

  “Why can’t we just hang out here?” Nick lifted his beer and took a drink.

  “Do I really have to tell you? This is your work. Your job. Duh.”

  “Do people still say duh?”

  “Boom. Just did. Now let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  They sat there for a moment staring at each other.

  “Crazy,” Levi said. “We’ll go crazy. Case of beer in the Blazer. We’ll go wherever you want to go.”

  Levi already looked crazy to Nick. His mood, his eyes, his rapid speech made him seem lost in the throes of some type of episode, the likes of which he had never witnessed before. Nick shook his head slowly. “I’m sure it will get busy here soon. It’s almost dinnertime.”

  Levi turned back to the bar in a huff and chugged down his drink before lifting a finger to signal for another one. After a while, he turned quickly and smiled. “Okay. Make a deal. We sit here and drink together until eight. If no one comes in by then, you leave the place in the fine and capable hands of Miss Shirley here, and we take off.”

  Nick looked at his watch. “Deal,” he said.

  After the first two beers, the drinks went down more quickly for Nick. They laughed about the old days, before they had even joined the military. Nick reminded Levi of things he had nearly forgotten, like getting beat up by Caleb Meyers out by the fence at the schoolyard in the middle of winter, the cows breathing their snot on him over the fence as he lay crying in the snow. Levi reminded Nick about falling through the ice as they attempted a shortcut through the marsh. He had to go home to Oma covered in frozen green algae. They talked about starting another band.

  “We can play right here in the bar since you never leave the place,” Levi said.

  “Or we could play downtown La Crosse since you never come to Bangor anymore.”

  “But you’d have to rig some wireless hookup for my guitar since I never leave my apartment.”

  Levi did impressions of their drill sergeant. “You boooooys.” He dragged out a long, slow, southern accent. “You still don’t know yer woobies from yer weenies.”

  Nick’s stomach hurt from laughing so hard. He had forgotten how much fun Levi could be. Yet, underneath it all, there seemed to be a dark undercurrent that Nick pushed away and ignored. He wanted to enjoy his old friend.

  An elderly couple came in at quarter after seven.

  “I didn’t see a thing,” Nick said.

  “Customers? What customers?”

  “Let’s roll.”

  Levi called out, “You’ve been great, Shirley. And Shirley?”

  She looked up and raised her eyebrows.

  “Surely you’ve been the greatest bartender I’ve had all night.” She rolled her eyes. Levi left a hundred dollar bill under his glass.

  They sat in Levi’s Blazer under the streetlights of Commercial Street, the old main drag that went down Bangor’s center. They each chugged a beer and threw the empties into the backseat.

  They maneuvered into the village park, which sat in a geographical bowl half a klick from their SP. They dismounted on arrival. They loaded their pockets with ammunition. They patrolled the playground equipment, dropping dead soldiers as they walked, the shiny aluminum cans acting as bread crumbs to show their path.

  They stopped by the steep bank of the creek and toasted their dead friends by pouring beer over the glossy rocks leading down to the stream. They climbed a muddy embankment to the bike trail and the old train bridge that crossed the winding creek. They sat down on the bridge with their legs hanging over and they listened to the sound of rushing water.

  Levi pulled a joint from his cigarette box and lit it. The sweet familiar smell wafted to Nick’s nose. Levi passed it to him, and he hesitated, but he was drunk enough to only feign resistance.

  “This is nuts,” Nick said. “I haven’t smoked since before we joined the army.” He took a puff and inhaled. Held it. “I wouldn’t even know where to get this stuff anymore,” he croaked.

  “Me neither.”

  “Never took you for a liar.”

  “Scouts honor.”

  They smoked.

  They listened to the raging water wear the hardest of stones into nothing while it polished others into something beautiful.

  Levi broke the silence. “You know they can see the cherry from this joint from over a klick away?”

  “Who’s they?”

  “No one.”

  The early A
pril clouds hung thick and heavy above the dense trees that tented the trail. Nick couldn’t see a single star. He stared into the blackness. The night grew cold quickly and the damp air penetrated to the bone.

  “You know,” Levi said. “The stuff we’re doing in Afghanistan now is way sicker than what we did in Iraq. What the two of us did in Iraq doesn’t even compare.” He paused and took a drink of beer. “Hiking around. Clearing caves. Firefights all the time.” He threw his beer can and opened another. “People step on mines, like, every day. In Afghanistan—” He belched. “They don’t run, man. They’ll fight you all day and then they’ll fall on grenades when they die. That way, when you kick them over, you blow up.”

  Nick said nothing for a while. Talk of war bored him. He pulled his last beer from his pocket and threw his empty into the water below, thinking of something to say to change the subject. “Eris is finally going back to school in the fall.”

  “Finally doing it?”

  “Yup.”

  They lapsed into another silence.

  “What are you going to do?” Nick said. “Ever going to do something?”