Back in the World

by Tobias Wolff

  Hooper slowed down when he left the post. He was AWOL now. Even if he couldn’t find it in him to care much about that, he saw no point in calling attention to himself.

  Drunk drivers were jerking their cars back and forth between lanes. Every half mile or so a police car with flashing lights had someone stopped by the roadside. Other police cars sat idling behind billboards. Hooper stayed in the right lane and drove slowly until he reached his turn, then he gunned the engine again and raced down the pitted street that led to Mickey’s house. He passed a bunch of kids sitting on the hood of a car with cans of beer in their hands. The car door was open and Hooper had to swerve to miss it. As he went by he heard a blast of music.

  When he reached Mickey’s block Hooper turned off the engine. The truck coasted silently down the street, and again Hooper became aware of the sound of crickets. He stopped on the shoulder across from Mickey’s house and sat listening. The thick, pulsing sound seemed to grow louder every moment. Hooper drifted into memory, his cigarette dangling unsmoked, burning its way toward his fingers. At the same instant he felt the heat of the ember against his skin Hooper was startled by another pain, the pain of finding himself where he was. It left him breathless for a moment. Then he roused himself and got out of the truck.

  The windows were dark. Mickey’s Buick was parked in the driveway beside another car that Hooper didn’t recognize. It didn’t belong to her husband and it didn’t belong to Briggs. Hooper glanced around at the other houses, then walked across the street and ducked under the hanging leaves of the willow tree in Mickey’s front yard. He knelt there, holding his breath to hear better, but there was no sound but the sound of the crickets and the rushing of the big air conditioner Mickey’s husband had taken from a helicopter hangar. Hooper saw no purpose in staying under the tree, so he got up and walked over to the house. He looked around again, then went into a crouch and began to work his way along the wall. He rounded the corner of the house and was starting up the side toward Mickey’s bedroom when a circle of light burst around his head and a woman’s voice said, “Thou shalt not commit adultery.”

  Hooper closed his eyes. There was a long silence. Then the woman said, “Come here.”

  She was standing in the driveway of the house next door. When Hooper came up to her she stuck a pistol in his face and told him to raise his hands. “A soldier,” she said, moving the beam of light up and down his uniform. “All right, put your hands down.” She snapped the light off and stood watching Hooper in the flickering blue glow that came from the open door behind her. Hooper heard a dog bark twice and a man say, “Remember—nothing is too good for your dog. It’s ‘Ruff ruff’ at the sign of the double R.” The dog barked twice again.

  “I want to know what you’re doing,” the woman said.

  Hooper said, “I’m not exactly sure.” He saw her more clearly now. She was thin and tall. She wore glasses with black frames, and she had on a white dress of the kind girls called “formals” when Hooper was in high school—tight around the waist and flaring stiffly at the hip, breasts held in hard-looking cups. Shadows darkened the hollows of her cheeks. Under the flounces of the dress her feet were big and bare.

  “I know what you’re doing,” she said. She pointed the pistol, an Army .45, at Mickey’s house. “You’re sniffing around that whore over there.”

  Someone came to the door behind the woman. A deep voice called out, “Is it him?”

  “Stay inside, Dads,” the woman answered. “It’s nobody.”

  “It’s him!” the man shouted. “Don’t let him talk you out of it again! Do it while you’ve got the chance, sweetie pie.”

  “What do you want with that whore?” the woman asked Hooper. Before he could answer, she said, “I could shoot you and nobody would say boo. I’m within my rights.”

  Hooper nodded.

  “I don’t see the attraction,” she said. “But then I’m not a man.” She made a laughing sound. “You know something? I almost did it. I almost shot you. I was that close, but then I saw the uniform.” She shook her head. “Shame on you. Where is your pride?”

  “Don’t let him talk,” said the man in the doorway. He came down the steps, a tall, white-haired man in striped pajamas. “There you are, you sonofabitch,” he said. “I’ll dance on your grave.”

  “It isn’t him, Dads,” the woman said sadly. “It’s someone else.”

  “So he says,” the man snapped. He started down the driveway, hopping from foot to foot over the gravel. The woman handed him the flashlight and he turned it on in Hooper’s face, then moved the beam slowly down to his boots. “Sweetie pie, it’s a soldier,” he said.

  “I told you it wasn’t him,” the woman said.

  “But this is a terrible mistake,” the man said. “Sir, I’m at a loss for words.”

  “Forget it,” Hooper told him. “No hard feelings.”

  “You are too kind,” the man said. He reached out and shook Hooper’s hand. He nodded toward the house. “Come have a drink.”

  “He has to go,” the woman said. “He was looking for something and he found it.”

  “That’s right,” Hooper told him. “I was just on my way back to base.”

  The man gave a slight bow with his head. “To base with you, then. Good night, sir.”

  Hooper and the woman watched him make his way back to the house. When he was inside the woman turned to Hooper. “Why are you still here?” she asked. “Go back to your post.”

  Captain King was still asleep when Hooper returned to the guardhouse. His thumb was in his mouth and he made little noises as he sucked it. Hooper lay in the next bunk with his eyes open. He was still awake at four in the morning when the telephone began to ring.

  It was Trac calling from the communications center. He said that Porchoff was threatening to shoot himself, and threatening to shoot Trac if Trac tried to stop him. “This dude is mental,” Trac said. “You get me out of here and I mean now.”

  “We’ll be right there,” Hooper said. “Just give him lots of room. Don’t try to grab his rifle or anything.”

  “Fat fucking chance,” Trac said. “Man, you know what he called me? He called me a gook. I hope he wastes himself. I don’t need no assholes with loaded guns declaring war on me, man.”

  “Just hang tight,” Hooper told him. He hung up and went to wake Captain King, because this was a mess and he wanted it to be Captain King’s mess and Captain King’s balls that got busted if anything went wrong. He walked over to Captain King and stood looking down at him. Captain King’s thumb had slipped out of his mouth but he was still making sucking noises and pursing up his lips. Hooper decided not to wake him after all. Captain King would probably refuse to come anyway, but if he did come he would screw things up for sure. Just the sight of him was enough to make somebody start shooting.

  A light rain had begun to fall. The road was empty except for one jeep going the other way. Hooper waved at the two men in front as they went past, and they both waved back. Hooper felt a surge of friendliness toward them. He followed their lights in his mirror until they vanished behind him.

  Hooper parked the truck halfway up the drive and walked the rest of the distance. The rain was falling harder now, tapping steadily on the shoulders of his poncho. Sweet, almost un-breathable smells rose from the earth. He walked slowly, gravel crunching under his boots. When he reached the gate a voice to his left said, “Shit, man, you took your time.” Trac stepped out of the shadows and waited as Hooper tried to get the key into the lock. “Come on, man,” Trac said. He knelt with his back to the fence and swung the barrel of his rifle from side to side.

  “Got it,” Hooper said. He took the lock off and Trac pushed open the gate. “The truck’s down there,” Hooper told him. “Just around the turn.”

  Trac stood close to Hooper, breathing quick, shallow breaths and shifting from foot to foot. His face was dark under the hood of his glistening poncho. “You want this?” he asked. He held out his rifle.

  Hoo
per looked at it. He shook his head. “Where’s Porchoff?”

  “Around back,” Trac said. “There’s some picnic benches out there.”

  “All right,” Hooper said. “I’ll take care of it. Wait in the truck.”

  “Shit, man, I feel like shit,” Trac said. “I’ll back you up, man.”

  “It’s okay,” Hooper told him. “I can handle it.”

  “I never cut out on anybody before,” Trac said. He shifted back and forth.

  “You aren’t cutting out,” Hooper said. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  Trac started down the drive. When he disappeared around the turn Hooper kept watching to make sure he didn’t double back. A stiff breeze began to blow, shaking the trees, sending raindrops rattling down through the leaves. Thunder rumbled far away.

  Hooper turned and walked through the gate into the compound. The forms of shrubs and pines were dark and indefinite in the slanting rain. Hooper followed the fence to the right, squinting into the shadows. When he saw Porchoff hunched over the picnic table he stopped and called out to him, “Hey, Porchoff! It’s me—Hooper.”

  Porchoff raised his head.

  “It’s just me,” Hooper said, following his own voice toward Porchoff, showing his empty hands. He saw the rifle lying on the table in front of Porchoff. “It’s just me,” he repeated, monotonously as he could. He stopped beside another picnic table ten feet or so from the one where Porchoff sat, and lowered himself onto the bench. He looked over at Porchoff. Neither of them spoke for a while. Then Hooper said, “Okay, Porchoff, let’s talk about it. Trac tells me you’ve got some kind of attitude problem.”

  Porchoff didn’t answer. Raindrops streamed down his helmet onto his shoulders and dripped steadily past his face. His uniform was soggy and dark, plastered to his skin. He stared at Hooper and said nothing. Now and then his shoulders jerked.

  “Are you gay?” Hooper asked.

  Porchoff shook his head.

  “Well then, what? You on acid or something? You can tell me, Porchoff. It doesn’t matter.”

  “I don’t do drugs,” Porchoff said. It was the first time he’d spoken. His voice was calm.

  “Good,” Hooper said. “I mean, at least I know I’m talking to you and not to some fucking chemical. Now listen up, Porchoff—I don’t want you turning that rifle on me. Understand?”

  Porchoff looked down at the rifle, then back at Hooper. He said, “You leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone.”

  “I’ve already had someone throw down on me once tonight,” Hooper said. “I’d just as soon leave it at that.” He reached under his poncho and took out his cigarette case. He held it up for Porchoff to see.

  “I don’t use tobacco,” Porchoff said.

  “Well I do,” Hooper said. He shook out a cigarette and bent to light it. “Hey,” he said. “All right. One match.” He put the case back in his pocket and cupped the cigarette under the picnic table to keep it dry. The rain was falling lightly now in fine, fitful gusts like spray. The clouds had gone the color of ash. Misty grey light was spreading through the sky. Hooper saw that Porchoff’s shoulders twitched constantly now, and that his lips were blue and trembling. “Put your poncho on,” Hooper told him.

  Porchoff shook his head.

  “You trying to catch pneumonia?” Hooper asked. He smiled at Porchoff. “Go ahead, boy. Put your poncho on.”

  Porchoff bent over and covered his face with his hands. Hooper realized that he was crying. He smoked his cigarette and waited for Porchoff to stop, but Porchoff kept crying and Hooper grew impatient. He said, “What’s all this crap about you shooting yourself?”

  Porchoff rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Why shouldn’t I?” he asked.

  “Why shouldn’t you? What do you mean, why shouldn’t you?”

  “Why shouldn’t I shoot myself? Give me a reason.”

  “No. But I’ll give you some advice,” Hooper said. “You don’t run around asking why shouldn’t I shoot myself. That’s decadent, Porchoff. Now do me a favor and put your poncho on.”

  Porchoff sat shivering for a moment. Then he took his poncho off his belt, unrolled it, and began to pull it over his head. Hooper considered making a grab for the rifle but held back. There was no need, he was home free now. People who were going to blow themselves away didn’t come in out of the rain.

  “You know what they call me?” Porchoff said.

  “Who’s they, Porchoff?”

  “Everyone.”

  “No. What does everyone call you?”

  “Porkchop. Porkchop.”

  “Come on,” Hooper said. “What’s the harm in that? Everyone gets called something.”

  “But that’s my name,” Porchoff said. “That’s me. It’s got so even when people use my real name I hear Porkchop. All I can think of is this big piece of meat. And that’s what they’re seeing, too. You can say they aren’t, but I know they are.”

  Hooper recognized some truth in this, a lot of truth, in fact, because when he himself said Porkchop that was what he saw: a porkchop.

  “I hurt all the time,” Porchoff said, “but no one believes me. Not even the doctors. You don’t believe me either.”

  “I believe you,” Hooper said.

  Porchoff blinked. “Sure,” he said.

  “I believe you,” Hooper repeated. He kept his eyes on the rifle. Porchoff wasn’t going to shoot himself but the rifle still made Hooper uncomfortable. He was about to ask Porchoff to give it to him but decided to wait a little while. The moment was wrong somehow. Hooper pushed back the hood of his poncho and took off his fatigue cap. He glanced up at the pale clouds.

  “I don’t have any buddies,” Porchoff said.

  “No wonder,” Hooper said. “Calling people gooks, making threats. Let’s face it, Porchoff, your personality needs some upgrading.”

  “But they won’t give me a chance,” Porchoff said. “All I ever do is cook food. I put it on their plates and they make some crack and walk on by. It’s like I’m not even there. So what am I supposed to act like?”

  Hooper was still gazing up at the clouds, feeling the soft rain on his face. Birds were starting to sing in the woods beyond the fence. He said, “I don’t know, Porchoff. It’s just part of this rut we’re all in.” Hooper lowered his head and looked over at Porchoff, who sat hunched inside his poncho, shaking as little tremors passed through him.

  “My dad was in the National Guard back in Ohio,” Porchoff said. “He’s always talking about the great experiences he and his buddies used to have, camping out and so on. Nothing like that ever happens to me.” Porchoff looked down at the table, then looked up and said, “How about you? What was your best time?”

  “My best time,” Hooper said. He thought of telling Porchoff some sort of lie but the effort of making things up was beyond him and the memory Porchoff wanted was close at hand. For Hooper it was closer than the memory of home. In truth it was a kind of home. It was where he went to be back with his friends again, and his old self. It was where Hooper drifted when he was too low to care how much lower he’d be when he drifted back, and lost it all again. “Vietnam,” he said.

  Porchoff just looked at him.

  “We didn’t know it then,” Hooper said. “We used to talk about how when we got back in the world we were going to do this and we were going to do that. Back in the world we were going to have it made. But ever since then it’s been nothing but confusion.” Hooper took the cigarette case from his pocket but didn’t open it. He leaned forward on the table.

  “Everything was clear,” he said. “You learned what you had to know and you forgot the rest. All this chickenshit. You didn’t spend every living minute of the day thinking about your own sorry-ass little self. Am I getting laid enough. What’s wrong with my kid. Should I insulate the fucking house. That’s what does it to you, Porchoff. Thinking about yourself. That’s what kills you in the end.”

  Porchoff had not moved. In the grey light Hooper could see Porchoff�
�s fingers spread before him on the tabletop, white and still as if they had been drawn there in chalk. His face was the same color.

  “You think you’ve got problems, Porchoff, but they wouldn’t last five minutes in the field. There’s nothing wrong with you that a little search-and-destroy wouldn’t cure.” Hooper paused, smiling to himself, already deep in the memory. He tried to bring it back for Porchoff, tried to put it into words so that Porchoff could see it too, the beauty of that life, the faith so deep that in time you were not separate men anymore, but part of each other.

  But the words came hard. Hooper saw that Porchoff did not understand, and then he realized that what he was trying to describe was love, and that it couldn’t be done. He said, “You’ll see, Porchoff. You’ll get your chance.”

  Porchoff stared at Hooper. “You’re crazy,” he said.

  “We’re all going to get another chance,” Hooper said. “I can feel it coming. Otherwise I’d take my walking papers and hat up. You’ll see. All you need is a little contact. The rest of us too. Get us out of this rut.”

  Porchoff shook his head and murmured, “You’re really crazy.”

  “Let’s call it a day,” Hooper said. He stood and held out his hand. “Give me the rifle.”

  “No,” Porchoff said. He pulled the rifle closer. “Not to you.”

  “There’s no one here but me,” Hooper said.

  “Go get Captain King.”

  “Captain King is asleep.”

  “Then wake him up.”

  “No,” Hooper said. “I’m not going to tell you again, Porchoff, give me the rifle.” Hooper walked toward him but stopped when Porchoff picked the weapon up and pointed it at his chest. “Leave me alone,” Porchoff said.