Meet Me Here

by Bryan Bliss

  “We’re going home,” I say.

  Jake stares at his eggs, and it pisses me off. He rubs his face, and it pisses me off. I grab him by the arm and try to pull him out of the booth. When he puts his hand up, I’m ready for him. I want him to try to hit me again.

  “Whoa, whoa!” Wayne jumps between us, pushing me down beside Sinclair, who nearly chokes on a piece of sausage as he tries to get out of the way. Wayne turns to the waitress, holding up both hands as he says, “They’re just playing around, I promise.”

  She gives us one last look before turning to a group of men sitting at a table across the restaurant. Wayne sits next to Jake, the smile slowly falling away from his lips. “What the hell is your problem?”

  I don’t know if he’s talking to Jake or me, but it doesn’t matter because neither of us answers him. I don’t take my eyes off Jake, daring him to look me in the eye. To explain even half of what happened tonight.

  “You’ve got nothing to say?” I ask Jake. He doesn’t look up, just plays with the paper napkin on the table. I pull it away from him. “You’re seriously going to sit here and not say anything?”

  Jake’s eyes dart to mine as Wayne says, “Thomas, c’mon.”

  I ignore him. “I’m tired of this bullshit, Jake. I’m tired of covering for you every single time people ask how you’re doing. Every time they get a glimpse of how fucked up you are. Do you realize how exhausting that is?”

  Nothing. He picks a scab on his knuckle, expressionless. I slam my hands on the table, rattling the plates and the sugar caddy, the windows, it seems. Everybody in the restaurant looks at us, but I don’t care.

  “And what were you doing over at Clem’s?” I ask, my voice growing louder. A couple of guys in the corner stand up and start walking toward us. “Can you answer that? Can you say anything?”

  Jake looks up, his face clear and angry. Like he’s going to take another swing. Before he can swing or speak, a man wearing a VFW hat covered in brass and silver pins, easily old enough to be my grandfather, puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “Y’all are getting kind of loud over here.”

  I try to shrug him away, but his grip is iron. “My friend and I are trying to have a conversation, and all we can hear is you fellas carrying on.”

  “You know what?” I turn and face the man, to tell him exactly what he can do with his complaints. But as soon as I move, he locks his hand harder on my shoulder. Immediately Jake is up and trying to get past Wayne. The man laughs.

  “Boy, you better sit back down. You don’t even know the shit I’ve been through in my life.” He holds out his free hand. “Semper Fidelis” is tattooed in slick black ink across his forearm. “If you don’t know what that represents, I’ll be happy to give you a free lesson.”

  Jake pauses, and for a second I think he’s going to jump over the table. If the man didn’t have me in such a vise, I’d already be between them. Jake rolls up his sleeve, all the way to the shoulder. And I can’t believe it. Or maybe I can, but the tattoo is still shocking. The words are done in thick block text: “Death Before Dishonor.”

  The man laughs once. “A soldier? What, were the marines not recruiting the day you decided to join?”

  “Nope,” Jake says with a casualness I haven’t heard from him in months. “I just wanted to be with the real men.”

  The man smiles bigger this time. “Well, it could be worse. You could be air force.”

  They both laugh. The man turns and yells to the waitress, “Doreen, Ray and I are going to pull our table over here. You good with that?”

  The waitress nods, but her eyes flit over all of us nervously. Whether that’s because of us or them I don’t know. When VFW Hat’s friend stands up, he’s got a prosthetic leg underneath his jean shorts. He’s maybe ten years older than Jake. They’re both wearing the same blue work shirt with “Hickory Hosiery” stitched on the chest.

  “This is Ray, second Iraq,” VFW Hat says. The man smiles but doesn’t say anything or reach a hand out. “I’m Phil, Vietnam.”

  The waitress brings a pot of coffee and six cups to the table, but Phil shakes his head. “Leave the cups, but you can take that coffee away.” He pulls a mason jar from his coat and puts it on the table. As soon as Doreen sees it, she shakes her head.

  “Do you want to get arrested?” she asks. “What if Brickwell shows up?”

  Phil ignores her, telling us: “Lawman. Good dude. But probably wouldn’t be too happy seeing a jar of ’shine on the table.” He shakes the mason jar’s clear liquid and then looks at Doreen. “As soon as I see him pull up, it’s gone.”

  When she doesn’t object, Phil slaps the table and unscrews the jar. The odor hits my nose like fire.

  “Well, this should get interesting,” Wayne says as Phil starts pouring the homemade liquor into the coffee cups. Everybody takes one. Sinclair swallows his in one shot, his eyes watering as he puts the cup down. When I reach for mine, Jake stops me.

  “You’ve got to ship in the morning,” he says. It gets a couple of groans from the table, Phil telling Jake to “let the boy drink, and that’s what’s wrong with the army, not a set among them.” I pick up the cup, matching Sinclair’s move and downing the liquid in one quick gulp.

  It feels like I’ve swallowed fire, a sword, some kind of carnival trick, and I’m hacking, unable to talk as everybody at the table laughs.

  “This boy’s greener than a new dollar bill!” Phil says.

  “I thought I was standing up straight, Sergeant,” Ray says, slurring his words and making them all laugh harder. Even Jake smiles. “Exxscccuse meee.”

  “This boy needs another swallow for sure,” Phil says, pouring me an even bigger helping, which I ignore. Pretty soon the conversation at the table is shooting back and forth, person to person, in one cloud of noise.

  Phil seems to be laughing the whole time, pointing and talking animatedly about whatever subject comes up. But more than anything, I can’t take my eyes off Jake. He hasn’t taken a sip from his drink, but the anxiety and tension are slipping off his body like a pair of oversize pants.

  “And then—God Almighty as my witness —he comes in and says, ‘Cap-Captain, I swear it was there when we started!’”

  As Ray finishes telling the story, the entire table falls apart with laughter. The whole of the Waffle House is watching, but who’s going to say anything to these guys? To us?

  Sinclair starts to tell us a story, but then Jake speaks up, as if he can’t hear anything else that’s happening. “One time we were out on patrol, foot patrol. And it’s hot. Like over a hundred at nine in the morning.”

  The rest of the table grows quiet as Jake continues. It’s the most alive I’ve seen him in months. He’s rising up from his chair, moving his arms. He almost looks happy.

  “So we’re all sweating our asses off. Just dying. There’s bugs everywhere, and there’s this dude, a reporter—I don’t even know who he was with—but anyway, he’d just shown up a week before.” Jake starts ducking, twisting his face into funny mock expressions of terror. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Ray and Phil both laugh, slap the table. “The worst,” Ray says.

  As he says it, Jake puts his head down, and for a second I’m worried he’s going to fade out. That he’ll ruin this, too. But when he looks up, he’s laughing. “So anyway, we come up on this pool in the back of an old hotel. And it’s perfect. The water all clear and bright. In the middle of this shithole, this pool.”

  “He didn’t,” Phil says.

  Jake nods enthusiastically. “My buddy Donnelson is whispering in his ear the whole time. Telling him how good that pool would feel. How it’s not against regs for him. Especially now. All the fighting was done, we thought.”

  Phil downs his ’shine, motioning for Jake to continue as he pours another shot.

  “Next thing you know, the reporter is stripping off his suit, dropping everything in the dirt,” Jake says, laughing. “And he just goes running. Sprinting toward that poo
l. I’m still surprised he didn’t yell out, ‘Cannonball!’ Everybody on the team was yelling like crazy.”

  Ray and Phil are both shaking their heads, and Jake is laughing even harder, all of them tied to something I can’t know. On its face I understand the story. I understand why it’s funny and ridiculous that this reporter would drop all his gear and get in a pool during the middle of a war. I get that. But there’s something behind the laughter, something that none of them can, or probably would, explain to an outsider.

  For a second I want it again. I want this brotherhood, this ability to look another man in the eye and know that you have a shared experience. A connection that no matter what else you do in the world, how many times you fail or fuck up, you’ll be able to measure yourself against. Something you’ve given your entire life for. A purpose. A meaning that’s greater than nearly everything else in your life.

  “I swear to God,” Phil says. “If that happened in my corps, I’d kill the dumbass.”

  “Let’s just say it was the last time the reporter went on patrol,” Jake says. They all laugh, and Phil pours another round of shots. Wayne downs his; so does Sinclair. I lift mine to my lips but don’t drink. I’m still reeling from the first ill-advised drink.

  “You’re the kid from the paper,” Ray says, stopping every conversation in the restaurant. Or at least it feels that way to me. My chest tightens, and I’m afraid to move. To speak. I almost down the liquor until Jake nods.

  “Yep.”

  “This is that kid they’re naming the bridge after,” Ray tells Phil. “Remember?”

  “Holy hell,” Phil says, standing up and saluting. There isn’t a more earnest or genuine gesture I’ve ever seen. When he sits back down, he says, “They don’t name a goddamn bridge after just anyone. Hell, no.”

  I search Phil’s face for a hint of sarcasm, but there isn’t a trace of it. Even wobbling, Phil is like my dad in his sincerity when it comes to honor and respect. When it comes to having a bridge named after you. Maybe it’s the liquor, but I laugh.

  Phil glares at me, like I slapped the waitress. I apologize immediately. “I’m not used to this stuff,” I say, pointing at his jar. He doesn’t lift his stare, his dark brown eyes serious.

  “It’s fine,” Jake says. “Like I said, he’s shipping tomorrow morning.”

  Phil’s still staring at me when Ray asks: “Marines or real military?”

  “Boy, you’re pushing buttons,” Phil says, reaching over and pretending to put Ray in a headlock. “By the look of him, I’d say that’s a soldier all day long.”

  I’m not sure how to take that—compliment or slight—so I don’t say anything, and they both laugh. “He’s messing with you,” Ray says. “So, Fort Jackson or Fort Benning?”

  “Jackson, sir,” I say. The sir to impress them. The lie, a jab to my ribs.

  “Lord, this kid’s so green he’s growing roots,” Phil says.

  “He’ll do all right,” Ray says, winking.

  The waitress brings a pot of coffee, then dumps and fills the mugs scattered across the table. Phil tries to object, but she holds up a hand and says, “I’m not hearing it. Drink the damn coffee, Phil.”

  “How come you don’t have a boyfriend?” Phil asks the waitress.

  “Because all the men I meet are drinking ’shine at the Waffle House,” Doreen counters. Phil holds his hands out to us like: What can you do?

  “I’ll quit drinking, quit running around,” he says. “No more fun, just for you.”

  Doreen laughs, head back. “Wonderful. Let’s run away together right now. I’m sure you’re going to take care of my three boys, too.”

  They share a smile as she fills up his cup. “I’m too old and tired anyway,” Phil says. Then he points to Jake. “But what about the young buck here?”

  Doreen gives Jake a once-over, then glances at me. “I forgot to add: boys fighting in the parking lot. Another immediate turnoff.”

  “Blowing off some steam, that’s all.” Phil downs his coffee, and she fills it up. Doreen laughs, this time more to herself. She looks at Jake one last time and says, “I’ve got work to do, but y’all have fun.”

  When she leaves the table, Phil watches—not creepy, but like a proud father—and then turns to Jake and me and says, “Well, she does have a point. You two fighting and carrying on in the parking lot is about as stupid as it gets.”

  My words are knee-jerk and familiar. “It’s nothing. We were only messing around.”

  “Shit, boy. You think I’m stupid?” Phil turns to Ray. “He thinks we’re stupid.”

  “I’ve seen messing around,” Ray says, pointing at Jake. “That wasn’t messing around when you grabbed that backpack. That punch was real.”

  I stare at Jake, who isn’t reacting to any of this. I wait for him to respond, to give any kind of defense. But he just sits there, like always, letting me do all the answering. All the work.

  “Just brother stuff,” I say, touching my eye.

  Phil considers me for a long time before he says, “Uh-huh.”

  We’re standing in a half circle around the back of Wayne’s truck in the parking lot, talking. Wayne and Sinclair aren’t saying much; it’s mostly Ray and Phil alternating jokes with advice for my first day in basic.

  “In my day you had something to worry about,” Phil says. “But now, hell. They about hold your hand and help you wipe your ass. And they wonder why people are trying to push us around.”

  I’m supposed to tell them I’m not scared, but I don’t think they’d hear me. Phil’s slam on the army has Jake and Ray on fire, calling him an old man and laughing at his threats. Jake looks comfortable. These men bring something out of him, a vitality I’ve wanted to believe was still inside him. I soak in the normalcy, if only for a minute.

  “Damn, you look like the world’s ending,” Ray says to me. “You okay?”

  “He’s going to be fine,” Jake says, without the smallest glance in my direction. “He’s almost ready.”

  “You got, what? Two? Three hours? Ray looks at his watch. “You probably need to get home and get some sleep, brother.”

  “What he needs to do is go get his damn truck,” Sinclair says. Wayne hits him. “What? It’s just sitting out there. A man doesn’t leave his truck behind.”

  “What’s that mean?” Phil asks. “Where’s your truck?”

  “Stuck in some Sherrills Ford trailer park,” Sinclair says, before I can make up an answer. I don’t want them to know the hows and the whys of our being there.

  Phil turns to me, his eyes on me like spotlights, the way my dad looks at me when he wants an answer. But unlike my dad, whose eyes are always filled with accusations and limits, Phil’s are gentle but wild. As if he knows something. Even when Sinclair tells the story, Phil only nods. When he gets to how they cut the tires, it’s Ray who turns to me.

  “They cut your tires? Why?”

  I hesitate. “I don’t know.”

  “And what did you guys do?” Phil asks, looking at Jake.

  When Jake doesn’t answer, every bit of life draining from him once again, I speak.

  “He pulled a knife on us,” I say. “We couldn’t do anything.”

  They don’t ask why we were there, but I can tell Phil wants to know. He looks from me to Jake and then finally back to Ray, who nods.

  “Let’s get that truck back,” Ray says to him. They slap hands and then the tailgate of Wayne’s truck, making plans and building up steam, as Jake continues to fade away.

  “We don’t have any tires,” I say.

  “I can get you tires,” Ray says dismissively.

  “It’s five in the morning,” I say.

  “His dad owns Ray’s Tire downtown,” Phil tells me. “Next to the Chinese buffet?”

  And then it hits me: I know who Ray is. His picture is on every wall of that place, and when I was growing up, whenever Dad needed to get the tires rotated or replaced, he and Ray senior would talk and boast. I wanted my dad to talk me u
p the way Ray senior would. I’d stare at those pictures of Ray, young and serious, and just wish. The Ray in front of me rubbing his eyes is a ghost of the kid on that wall. But back then he looked like he could walk through a building.

  “I mean, you’ll have to pay for them eventually,” Ray says, pulling a key out of his pocket. “But seeing as it’s an emergency, I’m sure we can get you rolling.”

  Wayne steps forward, like he’s afraid to ruin the good times. “They’re not telling you the whole story. These guys are—” I shoot him a look, shake my head. He sighs. “They’re not good dudes.”

  “Well, they sound like a bunch of fuckups to me,” Phil says, turning to Ray. “Go get the truck. We’re doing this.”

  Wayne turns to me. “I can get your truck tomorrow. They sleep half the day. I’ll go around ten and get it. I’ll bring it back to your house, and it will be there when you get back from basic. But man, you know we can’t go there.” He looks over at Jake, who’s fiddling with the straps on his damn backpack.

  “As I live and breathe,” Phil says. “Is there a sack among you boys? This is what’s wrong with your generation. You’re off watching videos on the damn computer and not getting out there and kicking ass. Fuck that. We’re going.”

  Wayne groans, but Sinclair, despite everything, actually looks excited. Phil turns to Jake and says, “What do you think? You ready to see how a marine handles his business?”

  “I’m not going,” Jake says, flat. Still playing with the backpack.

  “What do you mean you’re not going?” Phil asks.

  “I’ve got something to do,” he says, glancing at me.

  “Something to—this is your brother, man! Hell if you’re not going.” When Jake shakes his head again, Phil says, “A bunch of damn pansies, as I live and breathe.”

  Jake’s leaning against Wayne’s truck like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. I don’t care if he comes, but I have no idea how to explain that to Phil and Ray. How to be indifferent to what should be an absolute. And I understand his not wanting to go back to Clem’s, especially with Phil. The questions would come. Why were we in a sketchy trailer park? Who are these guys? But I need my truck, and right or wrong, I’m not going to let covering for him ruin this, too.