by Rob Rufus
“Anyway,” he went on, “that’s how I got the idea to flunk for a deferment. But when I told Bruce the plan . . . man, he wouldn’t do it.”
I stood silent for a moment, considering his words.
“Did he, uh, just not wanna retake twelfth grade? He must’ve thought you’d find another way—”
“He had plenty of ways,” Lewis snapped, “that’s what was so messed up. He had scholarship offers from every goddamn school in the state.”
My stomach dropped. Any pride I’d felt from the tournament now burned in the acrid bile that bubbled into my throat. I grabbed Ramrod’s arm, and yanked at it until he faced me. His expression rested in the shadowland between heartbreak, anger, and love.
“Scholarship offers? Bruce never told me that.”
“He told Coach—”
“But why didn’t he tell me?!” I cried.
The cigarette smokers and sunset watchers turned, startled. They scurried to the other side of the awning, leaving the two of us alone. I forced a few labored breaths, and tried not to puke.
“I just don’t understand,” I panted. “I don’t understand why he’d do that.”
“He thought deferment would ruin his legacy. I tried talkin’ him out of it, I swear. But he had it in his head that a warrior on the field should be a warrior off it, too.” He put his heavy hand on my shoulder. “That’s what I was tryin’ to say in there, Ronnie. You’re stronger than him in a lot of ways. To buck what society expects of you, it takes a special sorta strength to do that. It takes a brave motherfucker to go to war against war.”
I felt tears on my cheeks. The sensation startled me.
“Goddammit,” I said, as they fell harder, “I can’t believe him.”
“Being a hero your whole life can sure make a mess of things,” he said. “He thought it’d be easier to walk through the fire than it would be to turn around.”
I let go of his arm. I bowed away and wiped my eyes.
Lewis stood beside me, close enough for our shadows to merge.
Together, we stood with that knowledge and watched the sun burn out.
ten
In the World of the Young
Ramrod’s revelation ramrodded through my mind, and all I could think of was Bruce, the war and Bruce, and the war, and the war, and the war. Questions I ached to ask my brother circled in my head uselessly. Why would you go to war if you didn’t have to go? If you didn’t need to go? If you didn’t want to go?
I wished I had someone—anyone—to talk to about it. But all of our record club meetings were canceled until Hana’s suspension was over, and Milo was so fucking grounded he wasn’t even allowed to talk on the phone.
I didn’t dare ask my parents, either, and not just because my questions could bring more scrutiny to my upcoming draft failure. Now that wrestling season was over, Dad seemed to like me again—bronze was enough to buy some affection, but wouldn’t be enough to keep it if I started up with that grief-fueled inquisition.
So day by day, those nagging questions bled over into self-reflection. Was there something I wasn’t seeing? Was Bruce’s reasoning simply something a coward like me could never grasp? Was I using politics to excuse a lack of courage?
WHAT IS COURAGE?
Three mornings in a row, I spent first period hypnotized by the words on the chalkboard. All of my questions and troubles led back to that deadly word—which is why I decided to take a chance and lay my hang-ups on Mr. Donahue. If he was such an expert, maybe he could help me get my head on straight.
So I lingered after class one day, as the other kids rushed into the hall. Mr. Donahue was sitting at his desk, stacking our worksheets in an orderly fashion.
“Mr. Donahue, do ya have a minute? I’ve got a few questions about Profiles in Courage.”
He leaned back in his desk chair casually. “Of course, Ronnie. Shoot.”
“Well,” I said timidly, “I’ve been working on the term paper, but I’m not sure how to define courage. Is it courageous to follow the rules? Or is it courageous to break the rules? Or, like, in some cases, is it more courageous to do nothing at all?”
Mr. Donahue pondered the jumble of questions I’d puked up. Then he cracked his knuckles, straightened his back, and looked up at me.
“Have you ever heard the phrase courage of one’s convictions?”
I shook my head.
“It means acting in accordance with what one feels is right,” he said. “It means jumping into action if the cause is worthy. It also means refusing to act in a way you feel is unjust. Staying true to one’s principles is what takes courage, Ronnie. The need for action or inaction is situational.”
“But what if it isn’t that simple?”
His eyebrows arched with curiosity. “Could you give me an example?”
“Yeah,” I said, “for instance, uh, my friend and his older brother were both against the war, and the draft. But when the older brother turned eighteen, he got scared he’d disappoint people if he took a deferment. So he let himself get drafted, and was killed in Vietnam.”
“Go on,” he urged.
“Then, my friend turned eighteen. There was no way he’d make the same mistake as his older brother. So he split for Canada. He knew he’d be called a coward, but he didn’t care. He thought the war was wrong, and the draft was wrong, and he refused to take part in any of it.”
Mr. Donahue nodded thoughtfully.
“So I guess what I’m asking is, which one of them was actually courageous?”
“Hmm,” he mused, “this certainly is an interesting question. By refusing to participate, your friend definitely acted with the courage of his convictions.”
“Ok,” I nodded, “that’s kinda what—”
“Wait,” he said, “there’s still the matter of his older brother to discuss.”
Mr. Donahue removed a nub of chalk from his desk.
He got up, and went to the blackboard. I followed.
“Now,” he said, scribbling as he spoke, “courage of conviction consists of two principal components: bravery of thought, and bravery of action. By coming to the unpopular opinion that the war is unjust, both brothers exhibited bravery of thought. But only one of them acted on that belief.”
“Right,” I said.
“But this is where it gets interesting. You see, there’s a variable you failed to account for at play here, Ronnie. A difference between the two of them.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“The difference is, your friend knew he could actually be killed in Vietnam. His older brother, on the other hand, likely didn’t consider it a real possibility.”
Mr. Donahue put down the chalk. He turned to me, and sighed. “Boys are urged to heed the drums of war. In cultures all over the world, to do otherwise means ostracization. So young men are compelled to go to battle, because the risk of combat doesn’t outweigh the loss of social norms at home. The possibility they may not make it back to their homes is nothing but a theoretical concept. In the world of the young, death doesn’t really exist. Until, of course, it does.”
“Oh.”
“Your friend and his brother acted with the courage of their convictions. His older brother simply didn’t have the same knowledge to base his convictions on. But his death, while tragic, allowed your friend to clarify his own beliefs, and act on them accordingly. It’s a brutal lesson, Ronnie, but the vital ones often are. The difference between an opinion and an educated opinion can be life and death.”
eleven
The Deafening Hour Before Us
I opened my eyes to the morning. It seemed like any other. I groaned and winced as I got out of bed, still sore from the wrestling tournament. I pulled on my Levi’s and threw on a button-up, then zombie-walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth and hair. I looked at myself in the mirror.
/> Eighteen. Old enough to buy booze in Florida. Old enough to die anywhere.
I went back into my bedroom to get my things. I knew Momma was fixing me a birthday cake for breakfast—a tradition in our house—but still, I was in no rush to go downstairs. I leaned my head on the cold windowpane and looked over at Hana’s house. I wished I could see her, see all of them, and hash through the plan one more time.
As far as I knew, nothing had changed—I was to bring a 45rpm single with me to work that was at least three minutes long, Hana and Lewis were to meet us at midnight, Milo was to do the rest—but the idea seemed to make more sense when we were all together. In the circle, it seemed genius. Alone, it seemed fucking crazy.
“Ronnie,” Momma called from downstairs, “breakfast, birthday boy!”
“Whatever,” I mumbled to myself. “Crazy times call for crazy shit.”
Then I went downstairs to eat cake.
―
Dad’s Studebaker rumbled as the neighborhood blurred by in a pastel rainbow. I rested my hands on my stomach to keep the seatbelt from cutting too tight—after four pieces of Momma’s peach yogurt cake, one pothole could make me pop like a zit. But the sugar high seemed to put Dad in an unusually good mood, and he whistled some unknown tune as he steered us toward the school.
“Feel any different now that you’re eighteen?”
“Not yet,” I said, “just stuffed.”
He smiled and nodded. He turned the corner.
“Ronnie,” he muttered, “we should talk about the draft exam tomorrow. I’d like to drive you up to Jacksonville myself, if that’s all right.”
“Sure, Dad. Thanks.”
“What time is the exam?”
“Nine,” I said, “at Military Entrance Processing Command, wherever that is.”
“I know where it is. I drove your brother when his car was in the shop.”
“Oh.”
We turned onto Racine Street. The sidewalk was filled with kids. The safety monitor stopped us and flagged them across the intersection. A boy and girl near the back of the group held hands. Their arms swayed together—back, forth, back, forth—keeping their own special time like a pendulum of innocence.
“Look,” Dad said, “getting a 1-A classification tomorrow doesn’t mean you’ll get drafted. Not for sure. So don’t fret about it today. It’s your birthday, you should try to enjoy it.”
“Yeah,” I said carefully, “you’re right, who knows how it’ll go tomorrow. I probably stress too much. Whatever will be will be.”
“It will at that, son.”
He pulled to the curb where he usually dropped me off. But as I reached into the back seat for my books, he took hold of my arm. “You have any tests today?”
“No,” I said.
“Any work that needs turnin’ in?”
“Just some calculus homework. Why?”
“Give it to me,” he said. “You’ve already gotta work tonight. I ain’t gonna make you spend your whole birthday bustin’ ass. Just pick me up in the employee lot as soon as school lets out. And don’t tell your mother that I let ya take the car.”
“Wait,” I asked, skeptically, “I can borrow the car to ditch?”
“Take a joyride,” he said. “Have some beers. Enjoy the day.”
Stunned, I gave him my calculus homework. He got out of the car.
The engine was still running. I crawled into the driver’s seat.
I thought of the coming night.
I thought of Milo. Lewis. Hana.
I thought about the deafening hour before us.
I buckled my seatbelt and switched on the radio. My shoulders eased back in the unfamiliar seat as I got a firm grip on the steering wheel. The car idled in place, perfectly still, but the world outside was spinning.
―
I drove across town, toward Freedom Beach. I passed a mailman and a dog walker, but otherwise the streets were deserted. The hourly WQRX news bulletin said Bobby Kennedy finally announced a presidential run.
I pulled over a block down from the pier. The public parking lot was empty, besides an old fishing truck. I parked beside it and killed the engine. I opened the door and swung my feet out. I removed my Converse and socks, and then rolled up my jeans. I saw that Dad accidently left his newspaper folded in the back seat. I grabbed it, and then stepped onto the toasty pavement.
Up ahead was a plank footpath that led through the dunes. I followed the wooden beams, already sweating beneath my shirt. The sun was harsh in the sky, but I was still happy to see it.
I stepped off the footpath and into the sand. The tide was low and revealed the vastness of the empty beach. I sat up near the dunes, where the sand was fluffy enough to be boxed on a playground. I dug my feet in deep. I opened the paper and held it at an angle that would shield my eyes as I read.
I don’t know why I expected anything but bad news.
The first article I came to—short and incredibly brief—was an update on the aftermath of the recent Orangeburg Massacre, which went down just a few hours north of us. The South Carolina Highway Patrol had fired into a crowd of young people protesting segregation at a bowling alley. Thirty people were shot, most in the back. Three of ʼem were killed. One was a high schooler, a black kid even younger than me. The paper gave word that none of the officers would be charged or penalized at all.
“Goddamn,” I said out loud.
I folded the paper shut. I couldn’t stomach any more current events. I stood, put the news in my back pocket, and walked toward the surf. I dipped my foot in—Jesus! The water was freezing. Still, I forced myself to go a little deeper, cringing as the water rolled over my ankles. I squinted past the breaking waves to where the ocean simply rose and fell like the breath of a sleeping god.
A few yards out, a pelican swooped down and grabbed a fish. I watched it fly away from everything. I decided it was time to do the same.
I walked back to the parking lot and threw the newspaper away.
―
Last Chance Liquors had been open for exactly three minutes when I arrived, but a short line had already formed at the register. Sad boozers jittered as they waited on the clerk, a young guy with chin-length hair nearly as blond as my baby brother’s. I nodded at him as I passed the line, then moved into the first row.
In the sun, the bottles sparkled like brown and green stained-glass windows. I knew booze would help me get through the night ahead, but I had no clue what to buy. So I checked my wallet, and then made my selections on price alone (based on quantity over quality, of course). I loaded my arms with a bottle of Old Crow, a pint of Smirnoff, and a six-pack of Black Label.
I carried it all to the register, relieved that the line had vanished.
“How’s it hangin’, partner?” the clerk asked.
“Not too bad. How ʼbout yourself?”
“Low and easy. ID?”
I took out my wallet and handed him my driver’s license.
“It’s your birthday?” he asked, perusing it.
“Yep.”
“You 1-A?”
“No,” I stammered, surprised by his offhandedness. Then added, “I mean, I won’t know until tomorrow, when I take the exam.”
“Jacksonville?” he asked, glancing up from my license.
I nodded.
“Ya know what, partner? Hooch is on the house today.”
“Really?”
“Consider it a birthday present—or a parting gift, dependin’ on what Uncle Sam has in store for ya.”
He handed back my license. When I took it from him, I flinched.
The tip of his trigger finger was missing.
twelve
The Deafening Hour at Hand
I slid my books beneath the passenger seat of the car and hid the booze in my backpack before picking Dad up f
rom school. I held it to my chest like a desperate mother so the bottles wouldn’t rattle, and stored them in my bedroom back at home.
My parents gave me my birthday present—a beautiful Seiko Bell-Matic wristwatch with a steel face, brown leather strap, calendar, and alarm. It was the nicest gift they’d ever given me, and it made me feel guilty for the first time since we’d concocted our draft-dodging scheme.
After thanking them for nearly an hour, I spent just as long in Bruce’s bedroom choosing a song for the night’s ritual. Milo had called from the theater to tell me everything was still a go, and to remind me I needed to be exposed to the sound for at least three minutes straight. The timing narrowed my options a little, but not enough to make it easy. Bruce had so many great 45s, it was impossible to choose. Finally, I closed my eyes and touched one of the records in the special stack.
I opened my eyes, and looked at the label—3:17.
Perfect.
I slid the vinyl between the booze, and then crammed Bruce’s bomber jacket into the backpack for cushioning. Momma passed down the hall as I did this, and threw me a curious smile. “A little hot for that jacket, isn’t it?”
“You’d think,” I said, “but Mr. Dori likes to crank the AC as cold as it’ll go.”
“Men,” she scoffed. “Y’all are too hot-blooded for your own good.”
“History would certainly agree with you there.”
Both of us laughed. I zipped the backpack shut.
“You want another piece of cake before ya run off to work?”
“Momma,” I smiled, “nothin’ in this world sounds sweeter’n that.”
―
I got to the Royal Atlantis twenty minutes before my shift. There was no line at the ticket window. When I looked up at the marquee, I wasn’t surprised.
STAY AWAY JOE
DAY OF THE EVIL GUN
PRODUCERS
BLACKBEARD’S GHOST
I strolled into the lobby, where a few folks waited for the five o’clock show. I walked over to the refreshment stand and waved to Susanne, the counter girl.
“Milo’s upstairs,” she said without me asking.