“Sucks,” my brother supplies. “We actually have a saying over there that pretty much captures it: Embrace the suck.”
“Embrace the suck,” I echo.
Brian nods. “It means that when bad shit like that happens, shit that sucks so bad you don’t even know how to react to it … well, all you can really do is just kind of take it in, deal with it, and move on.”
I guess that’s one way people handle stuff they can’t quite wrap their minds around.
It’s a lot to ponder as we head out to the car. I realize as we walk toward the Gator that even though he doesn’t say anything, Brian’s eyes are scanning the parking lot as if he expects to see a suspicious vehicle coming over the rise at any moment. I open the car door for him and watch him get inside … my brother who has felt the dark, coppery tentacles of death winding their way up through his nostrils to sear their impression forever into his brain.
On the drive home, Brian is quiet. Daylight has faded to almost nothing, and the trick-or-treaters are out in droves now. We pass the football field. “Hey, look—you had some great runs on that field,” I remind him. I’m hoping to take his mind off of everything he’s just told me.
Brian stares out the window. “That all seems like it happened a million years ago. Another lifetime in an alternative universe.”
“Playing the role of Master of the Universe,” I jokingly intone in a movie announcer voice, “Brian Howard!”
Brian chuckles without humor. And now,” he says faintly, “I’ve been cast as Rip Van Winkle. Hey, where am I and what happened to real life?”
Neither one of us says anything more the rest of the way home.
MISSING!
Brian Howard (aka Rip) Last seen wandering outside of his village 20+ years ago. Age progression analysis suggests he might now have a long white beard and a confused, sleepy expression. Reward offered! If found, please contact his concerned brother Dov (aka Not Even a Close Second) Howard.
Twenty-One
Mom’s agitated when Brian doesn’t have much appetite for her Halloween dinner, but we both know better than to mention our after-school meal at the Pepper. After we finish eating (interrupted frequently by the doorbell), I hang out with Leo for a while, straightening up his enclosure. To my surprise, when I lift his cave, I discover the husklike corpses of two crickets. But Leo hadn’t eaten them like I’d hoped; instead, they probably starved to death themselves. With a sigh, I remove the crispy, weightless things and reposition the cave, then drop a couple fresh crickets into the enclosure. It looks like things aren’t going to work out quite so simply after all.
Just as I’m replacing the cover on Leo’s aquarium, my cell phone rings. “Hello?” I answer distractedly.
“Hi, Dov.” Scarlett’s voice is in my ear.
Despite being worried about Leo, the sound of her voice lifts my spirits. I forgot she said she might call. “Hey. What’s up?” I ask.
“Not much. Anything going on with you?”
“Naw. I’m just trying to figure out what to do about my gecko. He’s developed some kind of eating disorder.” I glance over at Leo, who’s lying listlessly in front of the opening to his cave. It’s scary how exposed and vulnerable he suddenly looks there.
“Well,” Scarlett jokes, “I know a little about eating disorders, but nothing about lizards.”
“Thanks anyway,” I agree miserably.
“Did you look on the Internet?” Scarlett asks. “There must be some kind of lizard site where you can find out what’s wrong.”
“Not yet,” I admit. “Up until now, I wasn’t sure there was really a problem.”
Talking about Leo only makes me more worried. I decide it’s time to change the subject. “So, you talk to your mom about the concert yet?”
“Not yet. I usually call her before I go to bed, so I’ll mention it to her tonight.”
“It’s gonna be so sweet. I never thought I’d get to see them live.”
“Yeah,” Scarlett agrees. “I hope I can go. My family is just kind of, you know, overprotective. Especially right now. But I’ll ask.”
“Okay.”
I decide to go out on a limb. “So, I thought a lot about all that stuff you told me. You know … when we were at the Pepper. Pretty intense.”
On the other end of the line, I hear Scarlett sigh. “Yeah,” she says, “It’s complicated.”
“Look,” I tell her, “I’m not trying to be nosy, but maybe if you let other people know about what’s going on, too, it might help. Miranda, for instance. I mean, she’s a girl. She’ll get it. Sometimes talking about this stuff can be a good thing.”
“Apparently that’s why I have to meet with Kerr every other minute.”
“I suppose.”
“I mean, he’s not a jerk or anything, but if I just don’t want to talk about it, why can’t that be okay?”
I’m silent. I don’t know, really, why it all feels so important. I just really like Scarlett, and I want my friends to know her like I do. She’s created a barrier, but I’m anxious to help everyone move past it.
“Look,” I say. “You don’t have to tell people anything you don’t want to, obviously. It’s just that sometimes, talking about things does help a person feel less … alone.”
“Why do you think I’m talking to you?”
“Oh … yeah.”
“Is that what you do, Dov?” Scarlett ask. “Talk to your friends about, you know, your brother, and your parents, and all the crap in your life?”
She has me there. “Not really,” I admit. “Or at least not all of it. But maybe that’s part of why I hang around with Ali and Koby and Miranda. Because even if we don’t talk about everything wrong with our lives, at least we know that we’re with other people who are dealing with some of the same sort of crap. And if we’re not alone, it’s easier to … embrace the suck.”
“Embrace the suck?” she echoes.
“It’s, uh, something my brother says.” Come to think of it, the phrase does kind of capture the common link between me and my friends. Together, we embrace the suck … take what life has dished out to us, deal with it, and move forward in spite of it all.
“I have to admit, I kind of dig it,” Scarlett says. She’s quiet for a minute. “Look, Dov, I’ll make sure I can go to the concert. And I promise I’ll try harder with your friends. Okay?”
I can’t ask for more. “Yeah,” I tell her. “Okay.”
After we hang up, I’m lying on the floor of my room paging through my history book and actually reading a few of the words when Dad appears in the doorway of my room. He told Mom he was going to try and spend more time at home, but having him around more is hard to get used to. “Hey,” I say, caught off guard.
Dad nods. “I was just talking to your brother about heading up north to do some hunting the weekend after next,” he says. “Season opens next weekend, you know.”
I nod, although the opening of hunting season isn’t exactly something I’ve marked on my calendar. In fact, I wonder what any of this has to do with me.
“I figure by then he’ll be fit enough to go and it’ll be good to get him out,” he continues. “Remind him that shooting can be for fun, too.”
“Sure.” If you ask me, it’s unlikely that Brian will be able to do a lot of hunting, banged up like he is. Hunters are like mail carriers, though; nothing stops them.
“Your brother suggested we invite you this year,” Dad says. “You can help carry Brian’s gear.”
Thanks a lot, Brian. “Hunting’s really not my kind of thing, Dad,” I say slowly. “Maybe one of Brian’s buddies should go instead. Don’t some of them hunt?”
“Your brother wants you to come,” Dad tells me, making it clear that it wasn’t his idea. “I think you can do that for him. You need to man up on this one. God knows Brian’s done enough for you.”
I try again. “Are you sure he should even go this year?” I ask. “I mean, he just barely got back.”
“Are you kidd
ing me? The kid can hardly wait. And who knows?” Dad says. “Maybe you’ll enjoy yourself.” He hoists an invisible rifle to his shoulder and points it straight at me. “PKCHEW!” he says, pulling the trigger.
I picture myself tramping through stubble fields in the predawn cold, my nose running like a faucet as the icy wind burns my face and my entire body slowly morphs into a Dov-shaped icicle.
“Sure,” I agree faintly. “Maybe I’ll enjoy myself. You never know.”
Dad heads off, leaving me to mutter to myself in frustration. At least the big hunting trip doesn’t conflict with the weekend of the Poisoned Heart concert. I doubt Dad would think the concert is important enough to get me out of playing gun-mule.
“Well, you know what they say,” I mutter to no one in particular as I slam the cover of my history book and toss it across the floor. Embrace the suck.
Twenty-Two
(CNN)—The U.S. military suffered another
day of heavy losses in Afghanistan on Friday as roadside bombs killed four soldiers. An Afghan civilian working as an interpreter with NATO troops also was reportedly killed in the attacks. According to initial reports, both blasts
took place just outside Kandahar …
I’m still fuming about the hunting trip when I get home from school on Friday and find Brian sitting in front of the television, trolling through channels in case there’s any coverage on Afghanistan. This has become a routine for him lately; it reminds me of the days when Mom used to do the same thing, her nose two inches from the screen in hopes of catching a glimpse of Brian.
When he sees I’ve arrived, Brian reaches for his jacket, which is lying on the couch. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he says. “I need you to take me somewhere.”
“Just let me get something to eat,” I tell him, heading toward the kitchen.
“We’ll grab something on the way.” Brian is already on his feet, gesturing toward the door.
I’m surprised Brian isn’t spending more time with Victoria, having her take him wherever he needs to go. Instead, he seems to prefer to rely on me. Every time I feel annoyed at having to drive Brian somewhere, my dad’s words pop into my brain: Man up … your brother’s certainly done enough for you.
Outside, Brian’s already climbed into the passenger seat and is trying to reach across with his good arm to slam the door.“What’s the rush?” I ask, closing it for him.
Through the window, I see Brian let out a holler. “AAAAAAAHHHH!” he bellows at the top of his lungs.
I pull the door back open. “What the hell, dude?” I demand.
Brian shakes himself. “You have no idea how jumpy I feel today, bro. All day long, it’s been like I could crawl out of my skin, for real.”
“Well, chill a little,” I tell him. “You’re freaking me out.”
Brian holds up his hands. “Let’s go, bro! Let’s go, bro!” He repeats it like a mantra until I slam the door again and stomp around to the driver’s side, shaking my head.
Once we’re out of the driveway Brian focuses on giving me directions. “Turn here,” he says, pointing. “Take a right at the next corner.”
I don’t argue. We cruise toward downtown, where he gestures for me to pull into the parking lot of Hval’s Liquor Store.
“Are you serious, Brian?” I ask when I realize where we are.
“Sure. Why not?”
I gesture toward the sign on the glass door of the liquor store. “Uh, because I’m a minor, douchebag. And in case you’ve forgotten, so are you. They’re not going to sell us anything.”
Brian makes a face. “You’re half right, little brother,” he tells me. “We’re both minors. But there’s one important difference between you and me.”
“Oh, I can think of more than one,” I mutter.
“I may be a minor,” he continues, “but I’m a minor who’s also a veteran.”
“You think that’s going to change the birth date on your driver’s license?” I ask him. “It’s against the law for them to sell to you. Plus, since when do you buy booze, anyway?” I know that before he left for Afghanistan, Brian drank a beer or two with his friends on occasion, but it wasn’t something he did regularly. And I’ve never known him to try and walk into a liquor store and buy.
“Bro,” Brian tells me, “some days … like today … I just need something to take the edge off. If you were in my shoes … if you knew the things that go through my head all day … you’d totally get it. I promise.”
“What do you mean, ‘the things that go through your head all day’?”
Brian opens his mouth to answer, then shrugs. “You know what, buddy?” He reaches up to run a hand over his freshly buzzed crew-cut. “Some things are just better not said out loud.”
Something in those words sends a chill down my spine, but Brian doesn’t give me any time to think about it.
“Come on,” he says, pulling the door handle. “I won’t be able to carry it myself.”
I trail him uneasily into Hval’s, anticipating the humiliation of being asked to leave at any moment. Longview is a conservative town, and businesses are regularly fined for selling alcohol or cigarettes to minors. There’s virtually no chance this little field trip will end well.
I’ve never actually been inside a liquor store before, and despite my discomfort, it’s impressive to see the shelves of glossy bottles, row after row of colorful labels.
“Hey,” Brian says to the guy behind the front counter. The man’s eyes travel over Brian and his military haircut, then move on to me, evaluating. Whatever the guy thinks of Brian, I know it’s pretty obvious that I’m not twenty-one, and according to the door, my very presence on the premises can cost the establishment two hundred and fifty big ones.
I expect Brian to head toward the back of the store, where cases of beer are stacked waist-high, but he takes a detour down an aisle to the right. Once he finds what he’s looking for, he points, gesturing for me to lift down a large, economy-sized bottle of clear liquid from the shelf just below the top. “Vodka?” I demand under my breath. “You’re nuts.”
“You’re right,” he agrees, pointing to a second bottle. “I’d rather have Jack Daniels, but the ’rents would be able to smell that.”
I don’t know what to say, just pull down the second bottle and follow him to the counter.
The clerk straightens, looking as if he’s sizing us up for the confrontation to come.“You fellows find what you need?” he asks me as I set the bottles on the counter.
Wordlessly, I back away. This is Brian’s deal, not mine.
“Yep,” my brother says, reaching for his wallet. “That oughtta do it.”
“Got identification?”
And here we go, I think. I picture our parents being called, who will of course blame me. Why would you take your brother to a liquor store? Mom will ask accusingly. I don’t care if he asked you to. You should know he’s in a fragile state. He needs your support Dov; I would expect you to have a little more sense, but maybe that’s too much to ask …
One-handed, Brian pulls out his wallet and lays it on the counter so he can shuffle through it. Instead of pulling out his driver’s license, he produces his military ID and drops it in front of the clerk.
The man picks it up and studies it, then glances back at Brian. “Vet?” he asks.
“Yessir,” Brian replies sharply. “Just got back from the Afghanistan, in fact.”
“Army?”
Brian nods. “National Guard.”
“Some folks call you guys ‘weekend warriors.’ Doesn’t exactly strike me as fair. Once you get over there, you’re dodging the same artillery as the rest.”
I see Brian’s face grow hard, but he keeps silent.
“Hey,” the man says, realizing. “Weren’t you the kid on the news the other night?” Something in his gruff voice grows softer. “Sounds like you were involved in some serious shit.”
Brian swallows. “Yessir,” he agrees. “Some serious shit.”
; The clerk’s eyes fall on me. “Who’s this character, your bodyguard?”
“My brother, sir.”
The clerk hands Brian’s military ID back to him. Glancing at the door, he pulls out a brown paper bag and put the bottles into them. “Tell ya what,” he says, holding the bag toward me. “This one’s on me.”
My mouth falls open. Wordlessly, I accept the paper bag with the clinking bottles inside.
“That’s not necessary,” Brian tells him sincerely. “I have money right here … ”
The man waves us away. “Nope,” he says. He lifts his shirt sleeve and shows us an eagle insignia tattooed on his shoulder. “Vietnam. Two tours. Had to lean on the bottle a little myself after I got back. The least I can do is buy another soldier a drink.” He holds out his hand and Brian shakes it, staring wordlessly into the man’s face as something significant travels through the air between them.
“Now get your kid brother out of here before the cops stop by,” the man says gruffly. “I could lose my license.”
When we get out to the car, I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “I can’t believe it,” I say, “Not only did he sell to us, we got it for free!”
Brian pulls one of the bottles from the bag I put on his lap and hands it to me so I can unscrew the cap. “Just so you know, you’re not drinking any of it,” he informs me. “You’re too young.” I hand it back and watch as my brother takes a long swallow, then a second. The sweet, sharp aroma of alcohol reaches my nose, and I wonder if Brian really thinks Mom won’t be able to smell it.
“Drive,” my brother orders, leaning back against his seat with the vodka bottle resting against his chest.
So I do.
Twenty-Three
(AP)—An Army sergeant who arrived home recently was shot and killed after opening fire on police officers in Detroit Monday evening. The victim’s wife told authorities that the man had been depressed and suffering symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder since returning from a one-year deployment,
and that earlier in the day he had sent her a
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