Aeon Ten

by Aeon Authors

  "Yeah. How was it? A real trip, right?"

  "I can't get rid of it, that's what. It's weird. I was humping my brains out, and it wasn't me anymore. It was someone else inside her, and I was in the war. I think it was someone she'd had before. Some guy in Nam who'd been through all that. Now, I keep having these flashbacks."

  "No shit. The minute I pull out the joy ride's over with. Back in the good ol’ U. S. of A."

  "I'm in trouble, man. You hear what I'm saying?"

  "I latched on to one right after you,” he went on. “Great tits. It was all I could think about while I was getting my ass shot at. Mortars going off around me. Bullets shredding the air, cutting up leaves like a goddamn Vegematic. Jesus, they were beautiful. I'm gettin’ hard just thinkin’ about it."

  "Goddamnit, Rick, you're not listening. I need help."

  "You could try seein’ a counselor."

  "Right. What the hell am I supposed to say? That I picked up post traumatic stress at a nightclub. I'd be laughed right out of the goddamn office."

  "Nah. They'd just think you were crazy and roll out the red carpet."

  "A lot of fuckin’ help you are."

  "Listen,” he said. “It's almost halftime. Why don't you dump Judy for a couple of hours, come on over and watch the game, have a few beers? It'll give you a chance to unwind, get your head together."

  "I don't know what the hell's going on,” I said. “I'm not in control anymore and I'm scared shitless."

  But he wasn't listening. I could hear him shouting to the guys in the other room. I slammed the phone down hard and stared at the twisted remains of defoliated trees rising up around me, like skeletons out of a fog.

  * * * *

  "You all right?” Judy asked, walking across the living room to the sofa where I lay. “You look a little pale."

  "Headache,” I said. “Is he asleep?"

  "Tucked in for the night. He was pretty tired.” She sat down on the sofa beside me. A dull ache hammered in the back of my head and I felt nauseous. There was an ugly rash on both arms and my eyes burned.

  "It's been a long day,” she said. I nodded and she bent down and kissed me, her tongue gentle but urgent.

  I put my hand on one of her breasts and with the other unsnapped her jeans, pulled the zipper down and worked my hand inside, felt the tension drain out of her. She loosened my belt, then squeezed me and stood, pulling me after her with one hand. We went into the bedroom and slipped out of our clothes. Judy lay on the bed, and I felt last night rip through me like an aftershock. All I could think about was being face down in the mud with part of my leg gone and everything else going limp.

  "You really must not be feeling very well,” Judy said few moments later. She sat up and stroked me, her tongue flicking and teasing, but it was no good.

  "Sorry,” I said.

  Judy got up. “I think I'll fix some tea."

  I watched her walk down the hall, listened to the clanking of pans in the kitchen, the sound of the faucet as she filled the teapot. Ten minutes later, when the pot began to whistle, I was still standing there, waiting for it to end.

  * * * *

  Monday morning I called in sick. Around eleven the phone rang. It was Rick.

  "Where the hell are you?” he demanded.

  "Under the weather."

  "No shit. In case you forgot, we've got a major sales presentation this afternoon. A career-maker, remember?"

  "Fuck it."

  "Jesus Christ, I don't believe what I'm hearing. What the hell's wrong with you, pissing your life away because of some worthless cunt?"

  "I've got some thinking to do, all right?"

  "In the meantime it's bend over, Rick. My ass is getting reamed because you're feeling guilty or depressed or whatever."

  "Go to hell. Your head's so far up your ass you don't know what's going on."

  "Look,” he said. “Why don’ t we have lunch, talk things over. Rennie's at twelve, okay?"

  "I'll think about it."

  "Don't think,” he said, “just do."

  * * * *

  Rennie's was upscale down-to-earth. Expensive pâté and sprouts. Imported wine. Rough, butcher block tables and oak chairs with lots of hanging plants below angled skylights. I never could figure out why Rick liked the place. Maybe he thought it made up for his usual beer and pretzels approach to life. He had a window table with a view of the new airport, and when I walked up he was watching the jets take off and land.

  "Beautiful,” he said. “You look like warmed-over shit. What happened? Judy cut you off?"

  "Wouldn't make any difference.” I took a sip of water from the glass in front of me.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I can't get it up. Hell, I don't even want to."

  "So? You wouldn't be the first. That's no reason to trash your whole life, everything you've worked for."

  I held onto the slick, condensation beaded glass with both hands. “I think it's some kind of reaction. Agent orange. Dioxin. I read somewhere it screws up your sex drive. Saturday, at the zoo, this stuff was blowing all over the place. There were hardly any trees or bushes left, and I had this rash, tiny blisters underneath my skin."

  "It's all in your head, man. Psychosomatic. You realize that, don't you?"

  I squeezed the glass harder, watched the skin on my knuckles turn to ivory. “Afterwards, Judy wanted to make it, you know. I tried, but it was no good. I was just going through the motions. I didn't feel anything. Inside, something had died, and I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. I felt as mutilated and empty as the guys who lost arms and legs."

  Rick looked at me hard while he fiddled with a napkin on the table. A waitress came up and I leaned back, still holding on to the glass. I could see his eyes checking her out as we ordered, pupils darting up and down her body.

  When she was gone he said, “Look, lots of guys made it through the war without any serious problems. It was hell, sure, but they pulled themselves together and are leading normal lives. Nobody ever talks about them, but they're out there. Guys who figured out a way to cope because it was the only choice they had if they wanted to stay sane and go on living. Somehow they managed to put it behind them, and that's what you've got to do."

  "Sure. How the hell am I supposed to do that when I don't even know what's real anymore and what's not? If my feelings are my own, or someone else's?"

  Rick slammed his fist down hard, rattling the table. “This is real, goddamnit. Right here, right now. All that other shit is history. Christ, even the Vietnamese people managed to rebuild their lives, and they suffered a helluva lot. What I'm sayin’ is remember the past, but don't live in it. Treat it the same as that whore you had. Experience it, learn from it, and then get rid of it, like a piece of used toilet paper."

  "You're sick, you know that. I didn't ask for what happened. But you eat this shit up."

  "The hell you didn't. You dipped your wick the same as me."

  Our voices had risen. People were looking and at the same time trying not to.

  "Don't do this to me,” Rick said. “If you want to ruin your life, fine, but don't drag me down with you. Get through this afternoon and I'll help you out any way I can. I swear it. Whatever you want."

  "What if I don't make it? What if I have a flashback and fall apart. It'll be worse than if I didn't show up at all."

  "You'll be fine,” he said. “There was no way to win the war in Nam, but you can win this one. All you've go to do is tell yourself to keep moving forward. If you don't, you're going to be stuck right where you are. What do you say?"

  "I don't know,” I said, shaking my head. “I'd like to, but I can't get rid of it. Like the melody to a song that's stuck in your head. You force yourself to concentrate on something else, another tune maybe, and after a while you think it's finally gone, but it's not, and all of a sudden there it is again and there's not a goddamned thing you can do about it. It keeps playing, over and over again, until you get so frustrated and pissed off you'll do almost
anything to end it."

  I closed my eyes. Part of me was starting to drift again, the plants blending into a dense, leafy canopy, the skylights shafting between them. I tried to hold on and felt myself tremble, like an addict going cold turkey. Then I heard the waitress. Plates clanked loudly on the table and my hand jumped, spilling water across the surface.

  "I'll get some more napkins,” the waitress said. She hurried off and I saw Rick watching her ass, the quick movement of her hips.

  "I know what you're saying,” Rick said. “Believe me. I have the same problem with women. I think about ‘em every goddamn second of the day the same way you're thinking about the war. If they weren't so fuckin’ beautiful, I think I'd kill myself."

  * * * *

  Six hours later I stood in front of the weathered, graffiti-stained door of the Old Nam. It had taken me that long to work up the courage to go back. I'd spent most of the afternoon walking around downtown and Washington park, trying to convince myself that it was the right thing to do, that I hadn't made a mistake by telling Rick to eat shit and die. During the day my intestines had balled up, and I'd spent as much time on a toilet as I had on my feet. My guts were still cramped, but by now the spasms were nothing but dry heaves.

  Asshole, I thought. Get it over with.

  When I stepped through the doorway my hands started to shake and I stuffed them into my pockets. It seemed like I'd never left. Nothing had changed except for the dancer on the stage, and after a while even that would be the same, hips, shoulders and arms gyrating under the hot lights.

  I paused just inside the door for a few minutes, watching, then turned and headed for the bar. I sat down, ordered a beer from the overweight woman at the counter, and peered through the dim haze at the waitresses out on the floor. It took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust, and a little longer for me to find her. She was with three guys at a table close to the stage, not far from the EMPLOYEES ONLY door that led to the rooms in back.

  I sipped my beer shakily and watched her work, the hands of the men grabbing her ass and reaching for her breasts as she playfully squirmed away, leading them on. Don't think, I remembered Rick saying. Just do.

  I chugged the rest of my beer and stood unsteadily, made my way over to the table, sweat crawling down my sides, stinging the corners of my eyes. Her perfume burned my already-raw throat, spun my head dizzily as I grabbed her by the arm.

  "Hey,” she said. “What do you want, man? I'm busy."

  "This way,” I said, yanking her after me.

  One of the guys at the table got up fast. His knees banged hard against the edge, scattering bottles and foamy beer.

  "Son of a bitch,” he said, wiping at the wet spot on his pant legs.

  There was a wadded up twenty in my pocket. I pulled it out and tossed it on the table. “This one's on me,” I said, pulling her toward the door.

  "You owe me,” she said when we were in the back hall. “Fifty bucks for each one of those guys."

  "Which room?” I asked, shoving her down the door-lined corridor.

  She went into the same room we'd been in before. I closed the door behind us, heard the latch click softly. It sounded like the bolt of a gun being pulled back, and I wondered if I could go through with it. I couldn't feel my hands or feet. They seemed wooden and unfamiliar, as if they belonged to someone else. I closed my eyes for a second, felt myself start to tumble aimlessly, and quickly opened them.

  "Let's get on with it,” she said. “I haven't got all night."

  She was already loosening the black-and-green flowered blouse she had on. I stepped forward and took her by the wrists.

  "What's your problem, man? You some kind of addict, or what?"

  "I need to know how,” I said, my voice a barely audible whisper. “Why."

  "What difference does it make? You want it, or not?"

  I shook my head and tightened my fingers, squeezing the bone beneath them.

  "Knock it off, asshole.” She tried to pull away and we stumbled to one side. Her knee came up, catching me in the hip, and one of her hands raked painfully across my face. I knocked it away and caught her by the throat, slammed her hard against the wall and held her there. Her eyes had the same glazed, lifeless look as those of the dead NVA soldiers, as if they'd been dulled by everything she'd seen and been through.

  "You going to kill me?” she asked, forcing the words through her clenched throat. “Strangle the life out of me the way you did my country?"

  "No,” I said, wondering if maybe it was true. I'd come looking for answers, a way of getting rid of what possessed me, of choking to death the memories, guilt and anger that were tearing me apart.

  "Even if you do, she went on, “I won't die. You can't undo what you've done. I'll live on. I'm inside you the same way you were inside me and the rest of us, our villages and homes."

  It took a couple of seconds for my fingers to relax. There would be bruises on her neck and wrists, and I thought of all the other guys that had done the same thing trying to escape themselves, the marks they had left.

  "I'm sorry,” I murmured, to her, but also to myself.

  She didn't say anything, and a moment later I let her go. Warm spit struck the side of my face. I pressed my forehead and fists against the wall and listened to the small movements she made knotting her blouse, slipping into her red high heels. I could still feel her throat between my fingers, the ragged words passing through them, and her pulse throbbing to the rhythm of my own heart, telling me it was possible to carry death inside you and go on living.

  A few minutes later, when she was finally gone, my hands relaxed and my breath came easier. Her strong perfume lingered in the air, mixing with the other memories she had given me as the saliva began to cool on my cheek, taking away some of the pain and bitterness I felt by reminding me of hers.

  It felt like a tear, one I had cried myself.

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  Another Saturday Night in Georgia by Lorelei Shannon

  "Another Saturday Night in Georgia” first appeared in Lorelei Shannon's short fiction collection Vermifuge, and Other Toxic Cocktails, from Scorpius Digital Publishing, 2001.

  Author's Note: “This story was actually inspired by the TV show Jackass. The first and only time I watched, I sat there with my mouth hanging open, wondering why anyone would voluntarily do such stupid, dangerous, and dumb things. Sure, there's the ‘I'm going to be on TV so it's worth it’ element, but the truth is, people do this kind of stuff all the time, whether there's a cameral present or not. I realized there must be a compelling reason, something common to all these folks, something universal that anybody could understand. Something that crosses the widest cultural borders. Something that could happen on any Saturday night in Georgia.

  Or anywhere else, for that matter."

  SO THERE WE WAS by the Edge of the Gauntlet, breathin’ fire, spittin’ nails, ready to tear the world to pieces. Billy Ray looks at me and grins, the ugly snaggletooth sumbitch. “You ready to die, shithead?” he says.

  "See you in hell, needledick.” I pause to scratch my balls, showin’ him I ain't scairt.

  Jesse Lee, who was takin’ a piss in the woods, saunters up. He's the old man, the champion, still alive after playin’ the Gauntlet for three summers. Ever'body says his luck's gotta run out soon.

  He nods at me an’ Billy, blinks his eyes, yawns like the whole thing bores the shit out of him. I hope I look half as cool as he does.

  The girls is on the sidelines, goin’ crazy. Raylene bats her black eyes at Billy. “See you when you win, honey,” she hollers, and shows him her pink tongue. Little slut.

  My gal Betty Jean flashes me a purty smile. “Go baby go!” she squeals, and shakes he
r hot little tail. My nuts tighten jus’ lookin’ at her, an’ I give her a wink. Damn, I love a woman with a nice tail on her. Jesse's woman Flozetta is dancin’ foot to foot. She jus’ plum looks scairt. She's all swole up with his young ‘uns. It'd be an awful thing for a gal in her condition to see her man spread all over the Gauntlet like a jar a’ strawberry jelly dropped on the floor of the Piggly Wiggly. Jesse blows her a kiss.

  Oh shit, here comes the Machine. It's a big bastard, big as a building, tall as a pine tree, roarin’ like the end of the world. The lights are the brightest things I've ever seen, washin’ away the moonlight, glarin’ down like the eyes of a pissed-off demon.

  My insides turn to water. It happens every time. I ain't ashamed, though. What fun would the Gauntlet be if it was easy as takin’ a dump?

  I can tell by the way Billy Ray's startin’ to drool that he's as scairt as I am. But Jesse, he's a rock. His eyes is narrowed, chin up, steady as the hills.

  Oh, sweet Jesus, the ground is shakin'. We step up to the Edge as the Machine comes for us like the sulfur-stinkin’ devil hisself.

  "Go!” screams Raylene, the bloodthirsty little bitch.

  An’ we go. We run like our asses are on fire, right in front of the God-forsaken, flesh-eatin', hell-breathin’ Machine.

  At first it's like I'm dreamin'. I feel my legs movin', but it's like I'm not really there. Time stops. I cain't hear nothin’ but my own breathin'. I cain't see nothin’ but the eyeball-meltin’ glare of the Machine's lights.

  Them lights. It's like they catch me, hold me, stop me in my tracks. My breathin’ stops. I cain't move. The world is in them awful lights, brighter than a hundred suns.

  "Go, Kid!” screams Jesse Lee, right in my ear. “Go, you silly shit!” And wham! Jus’ like that, I'm back. The roar of the Machine deafens me; throat-squeezin’ exhaust fills my lungs. I can see Jesse jus’ ahead of me, runnin’ like hell. Billy Ray's alongside me, sides heavin', eyes glazed with terror.

  Oh Christ, the Machine is on us like a bulldog on a bloody steak. Jesse zigs, Jesse zags, an then he's on the other side, he makes it one more time.