No Man's Land

by S. T. Underdahl

  “Let’s all meet at Dov’s at four-thirty,” Koby proposes. “The concert doesn’t start until nine, so that should give us plenty of time.”

  “I’ve got some bad news,” I announce glumly. “I can’t drive.”

  Brian has already commandeered the Gator for this weekend, leaving me without wheels. Some of his buddies from boot camp are coming through town, and he wants to show them a good time. I know better than to suggest to anyone at my house that the concert is more important.

  Everyone looks crestfallen. “I can try to get my mom’s car,” Koby says finally. “I’ll convince my shrink it’s important to my mental health for me to go. He’ll talk to her.”

  I wonder how much of Koby’s crap his shrink really buys into, but I’m relieved that we have a possible alternative mode of transportation.

  “What about you, Scarlett?” Miranda asks. “Should we pick you up?”

  “Uh, sure.” Scarlett nods. Even though she’s smiling, I know she’s nervous about going out of town with us all. “You guys have been friends for so long,” she told me during one of our phone calls. “It’s hard to really feel like I fit in.”

  I told her not to worry about that, but the truth is, I know what she means.

  Scarlett is definitely trying harder with all of us lately, but it’s clear that she still feels like the outsider in our group, even with me. Maybe we can all feel how she’s holding back, so it makes us do the same. It’s kind of a trust thing, I guess.

  I’ve opened up some to Scarlett about the things that are going on with Brian. Besides Ali, she’s the only one who knows. Somehow, the fact that she didn’t know the old Brian Howard makes it seem like less of a betrayal. She thinks that Brian’s problems might be something called post-traumatic stress disorder. “Seriously, I’ve heard of it,” she told me. “Lots of soldiers have problems with it when they come back from war. You should talk to Mr. Kerr—maybe he can give you some advice.”

  I don’t want to imagine Mom and Dad’s reaction if they find out I’ve told the school counselor that my brother, the pride of Longview High, has fallen into the deep end of the crazy pool. All I can do is just hope Brian won’t drown.

  Now everyone at the lunch table is discussing how much gas will cost for the trip from Longview to Milford and back, and how much money we should bring for Tshirts, CDs, water, etc. “And for food,” Miranda reminds us. “For after.” It’s a given that we’ll leave the Poisoned Heart concert feeling giddy, a little deaf, possibly banged up from moshing, and starving … it’ll only make sense to rehash the best night of our lives over plates of greasy food in some roadside diner on the way home.

  “Man, it’s going to be so sweet,” Koby predicts for the millionth time.

  When I get home after school, Brian’s conked out on the couch. His late-night wanderings leave him exhausted during the day, and he’s taken to napping on the couch in the late afternoons. Actually, “napping” is a weak description of what my brother does with his eyes closed. “They’re coming in checkpoint … 323 have copy? ” he’s muttering now. “Can anyone confirm reports of SA-6 south of Mir Bacha Kot? Go ahead, go ahead, we got you up here … ”

  From the top of the recliner where she’s sunning herself, Sheba raises an eyebrow at me. “I know, right?” I tell her, shaking my head.

  I’m finishing an after-school bowl of cereal at the kitchen table when Brian appears in the doorway. “Hey,” he says, running a hand through his hair. He looks terrible: dark, smudged crescents have appeared under his eyes, and his skin, which was tanned and ruddy when he arrived home, now looks sallow and unhealthy. Shaving has become a random act, and the stubble on his face makes him seem unwashed, a long way from the thin-but-clean-shaven soldier who came walking toward us in the Longview airport. He’s even stopped wearing his eye patch most of the time and his discolored and bloodshot eye is so disturbing that I heard Mom timidly ask him to put it back on.

  Now he slides into one of the kitchen chairs and leans back, stretching his arms over his head. It’s good to see him have full use of them again. “What’s happenin’?”

  “Not much. You?”

  Brian yawns. “Well,” he says, “looks like I’m single and ready to mingle.”

  “Seriously?” He’s managed to shock me. “Victoria broke up with you?” If Brian was on the edge before, I can’t imagine what this is going to do to him.

  My brother shrugs. “Naw, I broke it off,” he says, as casually as if he was telling me he just changed the oil in the Gator, not kicked the hottest girl in the world to the curb.

  “But … why?” They were the perfect couple—the Jack and Diane of Longview. When they got engaged, the Longview Herald ran a feature about them in the “Notable Engagements” section. “What about the wedding?” I ask stupidly.

  “Obviously there’s not going to be one, dumbass.”

  “Mom’s going to kill you.”

  Brian frowns. “Yeah. I know.”

  We’re both silent for a minute. “I mean … what’s going on, Brian?” I say finally.

  He puts his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers together like he’s about to say something important. I wait expectantly, really wanting him to explain everything, to make it all make sense. To tell me there’s been a mix-up and that Brian Howard, Human Being Extraordinaire, will be arriving in Longview on the next plane.

  “It just wasn’t right,” he says finally, shrugging again.

  “What? You and Victoria?”

  “I don’t know.” Brian grimaces. “Me and Victoria … me and this place … me and life. Face it, Dov; I just don’t fit with anything anymore.”

  “Yes, you do,” I tell him. “It’s just going to take time—”

  “NO!” Brian explodes. “It’s not that easy! When I was over there, I was part of something … meaningful. I mean, no offense, bro, but this stuff that goes on here … it’s a fucking joke.”

  Suddenly I’m furious. Everyone has bent over backwards to try and make Brian’s return as easy on him as possible. Heck, I even went hunting. And not only does my new, asshole brother not appreciate any of it, but he isn’t even trying to make things work.

  “Really,” I shoot back at him. “So we’re all a fucking joke to you, huh?”

  Brian doesn’t respond to my question; he barely seems to see me at all as he pushes back his chair and gets up to pace around the kitchen. “That’s not what I said. And I know everyone’s trying, but no one can see that I’m a completely different person than the Brian Howard who left here nine months ago. Dude, that guy was an idiot !” my brother rants. “A pathetic tool who thought he had it all figured out … football, college, Victoria … such a simple plan. But now everything’s different.” He turns and focuses intently on my face, like he’s going to tell me something that he wants to make sure I hear. “I seem like I’m here, but I’m not, Dov. I’m in a totally different space. It’s like … no man’s land.”

  “No man’s land,” I repeat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “So explain it to me then,” I demand. “If we’re all just too goddamn lame to ‘get you,’ then why don’t you tell me what we’re missing?”

  Brian leans against the kitchen counter. His eyes travel away from my face and over my shaggy hair, my Paramore T-shirt, my dark Bullhead jeans and black tennis shoes. “I know you get it,” he says softly, nodding toward me.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know … the stuff you wear, your hair, your whole ‘darkness’ thing.”

  I shake my head, confused.

  “That’s me,” Brian says simply. “That’s what I am. You’re just strong enough to show it on the outside.”

  A moment of silence stretches between us. “Brian,” I say, leaning forward to make sure he’s listening to me now. “Don’t you think maybe you’re depressed or something? Maybe you should see a doctor.”

  “Depression is just
a word, man, a small, meaningless word.”

  “But if you tell Mom … ”

  “Yeah, right,” he chuckles. “Mom and Dad don’t want to hear about this. All they want is for me to be the old Brian, the football-star-gonna-marry-the-mayor’s-daughter-and-someday-maybe-own-his-own-business Brian Howard. Am I right?”

  I’m silent. To my surprise, a moment later Brian leans down and throws an arm around me. The way he smells tells me he hasn’t showered today, or maybe yesterday either. “I love you, bro,” he says, his breath sour, his cheek rough and scratchy against mine.

  Straightening up, he adds, “Whatever the hell that means.”

  I sit there helplessly and let him walk away.

  Thirty-One

  (CNN)—Thirteen Americans were killed in two helicopter crashes yesterday, bringing the number

  killed this month to 55. Officials said that the

  attacks involved “ multiple, complex bombs,”

  raising the fear that Al Qaeda’s weaponry is

  becoming more sophisticated and lethal …

  It’s Saturday afternoon, over a week since Jared the Lizard Guy gave me his input. If Leo has eaten anything at all since then, it sure doesn’t show in the gauntness around his midsection. Even so, I’m still trying to put off the idea of force-feeding him.

  “Tomorrow morning,” I threaten. “If you haven’t started eating on your own by then, you and I have a breakfast date, and I have the feeling neither one of us is going to enjoy it.”

  Leo regards me balefully.

  “I’m serious,” I tell him.

  We should talk, Grasshopper … Leo begins tiredly.

  “Dov!” Mom calls. “Your friends are here.”

  “Okay!” I yell back, feeling a rush that the long-awaited day has finally arrived. In a few short minutes I’ll be in the Buick with everyone else, heading toward our rendezvous with Poisoned Heart.

  “Look,” I say to Leo sternly. “I’m done talking. Tomorrow, amigo, we’re eating.”

  Before I leave, I check myself out one last time in the mirror. After much deliberation, I decided to wear my skinniest Bullheads, a studded belt, black Converses, and a new black T-shirt from the Dusty Groove. My hair is growing out nicely, and I added a smudge of guy-liner for the occasion.

  “What time will you be back?” Mom asks as I come through the kitchen.

  “Honestly, Mom, I have no idea,” I tell her. “Can we not do the curfew thing tonight?”

  Mom considers. “I suppose,” she says finally. “Just promise me … well, just be careful.”

  “I will.” I watch her take everything in and decide to bite her tongue, which I appreciate.

  Brian is already gone; his boot camp buddies arrived mid-afternoon, their loud voices audible from the basement as they compared notes on where they’d been and what they’d seen. When they left in the Gator, Brian was in a better mood than I’ve seen him in since he came back to Longview.

  From outside, the Buick’s horn lets me know my friends are impatient to get going.

  “Later,” I tell Mom, who waves me off with a sigh.

  “If you didn’t show up in about ten seconds we were gonna leave without you,” Miranda informs me over her shoulder when I pull open the Buick’s heavy door and climb into the back seat. She’s riding shotgun while Ali, Scarlett, and I are in the back seat.

  “You’d never leave me,” I say. “I’m the brains of this operation.” That prompts a barrage of friendly abuse, and I settle back against the seat, grinning.

  “Hey,” says Scarlett. She looks especially pretty tonight with her hair held back by two small flowered clips. Ali has gone out on a fashion limb, with red eye shadow and a checkered flannel shirt. I imagine his parents watching him leave the house, their dark heads inclined toward one another in pride and fascination.

  Koby backs down the driveway and onto the street. From the front, Miranda turns and holds up her cell phone. “Everyone get closer together,” she orders; we do, and she snaps a pic to document the occasion.

  “Send it to me,” I ask.

  “Me too,” Scarlett echoes.

  We drive across town toward the highway that leads to Milford; passing Marhoola’s bar, I’m surprised to see the Gator parked in the lot.

  “Hey Dov, isn’t that your car?” Miranda asks.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “My brother has it tonight. Some of his Guard buddies are in town.”

  Koby pulls to a stop at the light. “I heard Brian broke it off with Victoria Hart,” he says, looking at me in the rearview. Clearly news of the broken engagement is making its way across Longview. “Is he nuts?”

  I shrug. “He’s sort of … not himself these days. I don’t think he knows what he’s doing.”

  “I’ll say,” Koby agrees. “That chick’s hotter than Megan Fox.”

  There’s a general murmur of agreement. I don’t join in, hoping the subject will die.

  “Turn up the radio,” I instruct Miranda as we pull onto the highway. This is going to be a great night, one we’ve all looked forward to for a long time, and there’s no way I’m going to let anything, much less Brian, ruin it.

  The Milford Coliseum is already buzzing with activity by the time we turn into the east access of the parking lot. Dark-haired kids in tight clothes and colorfully dressed kids with wide belts and bright hair swarm everywhere; it’s like an emo/screamo extravaganza. Loud speakers play songs from Poisoned Heart’s latest album, getting everyone in the mood, as if we hadn’t all been born in the mood for this concert.

  Finding a parking spot is a challenge, but Koby finally spots one on the outer fringes. Even from this distance, we can hear the music in the still night air. “I can’t wait to get in there!” Miranda squeaks, doing a little skip beside me.

  “Me neither,” I agree. “It’s going to be awesome.”

  Miranda has gone really intense with her red hair tonight; it’s ratted a mile high, like a character from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. To top it off, she’s wearing black cotton fishnet stockings and striped legwarmers; I wonder how girls think of these things. “You look really pretty,” I tell her, leaning over to say it directly into her ear.

  Surprise blooms on Miranda’s face. “Thanks,” she says, smiling. “You look good too.”

  Outside the Coliseum, we stop for a minute to catch our breath. “Check it out,” Ali says, nodding toward a throng of scene kids in bright Tshirts. They’re hardcore dancing, their arms flailing and spinning.

  “Someone’s going to dislocate a shoulder,” Scarlett comments dryly.

  Ali nods. “Looks like they’re having a group seizure.”

  Miranda leans toward me. “Why are scene kids so bad at karate?” she asks.

  “Why?”

  “Because they can never get beyond the white belt.”

  “Ha.” I laugh, feeling great, happier than I’ve felt in a long time.

  “Hey, Dov,” Miranda says, her voice so quiet I have to lean close to hear. “I’ve kind of been meaning to … ”

  Suddenly Scarlett appears beside us, interrupting. “Should we go inside?” she asks. I check my phone and see that it’s nearly seven; from inside come the sounds of the opening band, Moby Dick, playing their first notes right on cue.

  “Yeah,” I agree, “let’s go in. Definitely.” As we follow Scarlett, Ali, and Koby into the current of bodies flowing through the coliseum’s massive doors, I grab Miranda’s hand, not letting us get separated.

  Inside, we lose ourselves in a throng of kids with long bangs and sprayed, ratted, or dyed hair. Moby Dick’s first number, “Eskimo,” is phenomenal; their stuff makes me think of Samiam and Still Life. The mosh pit swings into action, pulsing and throbbing as kids flail and shove and run at each other. Periodically, small clearings are made for the dancers who compete to impress each other and the crowd. Making room for them is the only way to avoid getting seriously hurt by their violent windmills and spin kicks. For reasons unknown to anyone, part of
hardcore dancing is trying to appear as if you have absolutely no concern for the well-being or safety of anyone around you. This sometimes leads to injury … I’ve once seen a guy take a serious elbow to the forehead when he got too close to a kid who was “picking up change”—standing with his feet shoulder-width apart and brutally punching at the ground.

  Every so often, a mosher is involuntarily ejected from the fray, only to be caught by random onlookers and boomeranged back in. Along the pit’s fringes, scene kids are whirling around safely, smiling at each other and doing their happy little dances.

  The non-moshing contingent stays out of harm’s way for the most part, content to bob their heads to the music and snap pictures with their phones. Later tonight, there will be thousands of uploads to hundreds of LiveJournals and Facebook pages.

  Miranda pulls at my arm. When I lean down, she yells “Sah-weet,” into my ear, or at least I think that’s what she says. The music is so loud it feels like it’s coming from inside my head, and the place is getting warm from the crowd’s body heat. I look around for Scarlett and see her standing a few feet away with Ali and Koby; her eyes are closed and she’s pumping her fist to the beat of the music.

  Satisfied, I turn my attention back to the band. None of the five band members are much older than we are, yet they’re opening for Poisoned Heart. It must be amazing to have your life come together like that, I think.

  Two songs later they finish their set to enthusiastic applause and leave the stage. Roadies come out to pack up their gear and the crowd begins milling around, shaking off sweat and talking in loud voices in order to cut through the ringing in everyone’s ears.

  “I need air,” Scarlett says, her voice tinny and far away. “Want to come with me?”

  “Sure.”

  I break a path through the crowd as we thread our way toward the concessions. People seem to be moving in currents; I feel Scarlett curl a finger through one of my belt loops so as not to get separated from me.

  The line at the concessions stand is long, and the one at the T-shirt stall is even longer. “Let’s go outside,” I tell her. “We can come back later.”