Chapter Seventeen
Zack
Carson and I were crossing the airport on our way to baggage claim. It was our first time back in the states in almost a year. Behind us a man was talking loudly on his cell phone; his thick accent and the way he kept saying “y’all” and “fixin’ to” suggested that he was from Texas. Ahead of us a couple of teen girls in light-up sneakers were sharing a large pretzel.
“Damn, don’t it feel good to be back?” said Carson, staring gaily around him. “I bet this is how it feels to come out of prison.”
“I can’t really compare it, having never been to prison,” I said. “But I feel like what we went through was a lot harder in some ways. Let’s throw America’s criminals into a hundred-degree furnace for ten months and see if they make it.”
“Literally the only thing that got me through that,” said Carson, “was knowing that I would be going home soon. All in all, it was probably the most hellish experience of my life.”
“After what we just went through,” I replied, “you will never hear me complain about Texas summers again. Shit, those things are mild compared to the Sahara.”
“I don’t understand how anyone can choose to stay there,” said Carson. “And they say it gets hotter every year because of global warming. Pretty soon, no one will be able to live there.”
“Yeah, but they can’t really afford to move,” I said. “There’s either going to be a lot of migration or a lot of deaths.”
“No wonder everybody in that part of Africa is fleeing to Europe. I hear Germany’s taken in millions of new immigrants, just in the past year or two.”
By now we had reached baggage claim, where a couple of boys were gathered playing a game on their parents’ phones. I could see my green duffel bag on the opposite side of the circular conveyer belt, Carson’s resting beside it. I nudged him and pointed at it. “We’ll just wait here and let it come to us,” I said. “I think I’ve earned the right to be a little lazy, haven’t you?”
“If I had had to do one more sit-up, I would have died,” he replied. “Is there a vending machine around here? I want to drink a cool, refreshing soda.”
“Don’t use the vending machine.” My bag was coming back around now; I grabbed it while Carson reached for his. We turned, looking for the exit. “Not when you can get a real soda at any bar or restaurant in Manhattan. What do you say we go out?”
“Any place you had in mind?” he asked as we headed outside toward the waiting taxis.
I shook my head. “And you know, it doesn’t even matter. Our deployment is over, we’re out of the heat, we’re home, and tonight we’re going to celebrate being back in the best damned country on earth!”
***
We ate dinner at an Irish pub in Midtown with wood-paneled walls, plush red carpeting, and furniture that seemed to have been there since the nineteenth-century. A life-size statue of a leprechaun, carved out of oak, stood in one corner, and a plaque on the back wall paid tribute to the victims of an 1860s massacre, all of them mowed down by an Italian mob on their way home from church.
We sat down at the bar next to an older man with a gray beard wearing a green camo vest and a red hat. Carson ordered a plate of chicken wings with honey barbecue sauce and a foaming root beer while I ordered a bacon, turkey, and avocado sandwich, greasy potato crisps, and a cherry soda. I was so absorbed in my meal that I didn’t speak for a good while, soaking in the air of the pub and watching the girls passing by.
“Honestly, I wasn’t sure this day was ever going to come,” I said as I ate my last crisp. “I keep worrying that this is all just a dream and I’m going to wake up in a minute in the hundred-degree heat.”
“That’s the crazy thing about life,” said Carson, his fingers covered in wing sauce. “Sometimes it feels like you’re stuck in a moment, and there’s no way out of it. And then when it’s over, it feels like it only lasted a minute. How does that happen?”
“I bet life is just going to fly by,” I said, raising my glass to my lips. “Even if we live to be ninety, we’ll look back at the end and say, ‘That didn’t last very long.’”
Carson shrugged. “But at least for right now we’re young, and we’re home, and we can bang anyone we want. Though if this turns into a competition, you’re probably going to beat me.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “What makes you say that?”
“The beard you’ve got coming in. Back when you were clean-shaven, I’d have given us roughly equal chances, but now it’s an unfair fight.”
“Well, I don’t think you’ll have to worry too much,” I assured him. “If the girls come over here hitting on me, I’ll just point them in your direction.”
“Thank you,” said Carson sarcastically. “That’s very gracious of you to help me.”
“Well, I do what I can. Anyway, I haven’t really been in a banging mood lately.”
Carson turned me a confused stare. But before he could inquire further, we were interrupted by the old man in the green camo vest. “Pardon me,” he said. “I couldn’t help but overhear you.”
I braced myself, thinking he was going to reprimand us for our loose morals. nstead he said, “Were you in the military? Did you just get back from overseas?”
I was about to respond, but Carson spoke over me. “We did, actually,” he said proudly. “U. S. Navy SEALs, stationed in the Congo and Libya. Boy, you can’t know how good it is to be home after being over there for so long.”
“I think I might, actually,” the old man said. “I did two tours in ‘Nam back in the ‘70s. Lost three of my best friends from childhood. One of them walked into the jungle and never came out again. Two of them were taken out by landmines.”
“God, that’s incredible,” said Carson. “And by incredible, I mean horrible. I’m so sorry you went through that.”
“Well, I’m always glad to meet a fellow SEAL,” he replied. “Nobody else really understands what they put us through. It can be lonely.”
“That it can,” I said, raising my glass slightly.
“Anyway,” he said, “don’t worry about paying for your meal. It’s on me.”
We were both so taken aback that we didn’t really know how to respond. “That there’s a good man,” said Carson as we emerged from the pub a half-hour later, both carrying ice cream cones. “I don’t care what anyone says, the men and women of the U. S. SEALs are some of the most decent, God-fearing people in the whole dang world.”
We continued on our way up the sidewalk, but we soon found our path blocked by about a hundred protestors, many of them carrying signs that read “End the War!” and “Who Would Jesus Bomb?” One of the signs even had a picture of Dwight Eisenhower on it, but I couldn’t get close enough to see what it said.
An older man with a long, narrow face and a grey beard was leading them in a chant: “If war is the answer, we’re asking the wrong question!” They said it again and again, their voices growing louder with each iteration.
“What are they all so mad about?” Carson asked, looking bewildered.
“The war, probably,” I said, not feeling particularly interested. “What, you don’t think they followed us here, do you?”
“No, I’m not that paranoid. I bet they’ve been planning this protest for a while.”
One of the protesters, a woman, shouted, “We’re not against the soldiers! We’re against the war!” and the chant was picked up by the rest of the group. The pedestrians who were having to walk out into the street to get around them didn’t look too happy about it.
“Lordy, I haven’t seen anything like this since before the Iraq War started,” said Carson. “What do you suppose has gotten them so riled up?”
“I mean, from what I’ve heard, a lot of people are scared right now,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road in search of a taxi. They’re afraid we’re going to end up back in the Middle East, fighting another war that we can’t win. Even though no one really wants to be over there, and every problem we solve just creates another, even bigger problem that we then have to solve. And really, if we do end up in another war, it’s guys like you and me who will suffer for it.”
“I guess that makes sense,” said Carson. “I don’t know about you, I just have a visceral reaction to protesters. I don’t know what it is, I just hate them.”
“I don’t mind them,” I replied. “I think they’re just doing what they think is in the best interests of the country, same as we do. We just have different ideas about how to defend it and where our blood and money should be spent.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” said Carson, adding in a lower voice, “and ‘Who Would Jesus Bomb?’ What does that even mean?!”
I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“God, sometimes I don’t understand the people of this country. We’re sweating away for a year in the jungle to protect them, and this is the kind of welcome we come home to. If those bastards had even an ounce of respect…”
“I don’t get it, either,” I said sadly. “I just have to keep telling myself they’re doing what they think is best.”