I’m hyperaware of the scent lifting
off his skin—rich, spicy. Yum. He’s
waiting for an answer, Ashley.
“Uh, it was great. I got to see north-
shore Oahu. It’s beautiful. Have you
ever been there?” His smile tells me
I’ve struck a chord. Actually, I lived there
for a while, back in my crazy surfer
days. I rode Waimea and the Banzai.
Couldn’t wait for winter and the big
waves. When I start to feel too old and
staid, I go back, looking for that rush.
OF COURSE HE DOES
And I probably never will. I hear
Cole’s voice, I wouldn’t let you out
there on a board. And, Once I leave
here, I’m never coming back.
Yet, I say, “I didn’t get the chance
to ride. I hope to go back myself
and remedy that one day.” It’s true,
I realize, for whatever that’s worth.
His dimples deepen. You’re talking
about some sizeable water. Hope
you get the chance. It’s life changing.
For a second I thought he was going
to try and talk me out of it. Instead,
he encouraged the idea. I like it.
Okay, then. Guess I’ll see you in class
tomorrow. Will you carve out an hour
to make up the test you missed?
I promise I will and start again
toward my car. I can feel Jonah’s
eyes on my back, watching me
walk away. Hey, he calls, making me
look over my shoulder. Why haven’t
I seen a surfing poem from you?
WHY IS HE
So damn attractive?
So damn interesting?
So damn supportive?
At first, when I never
noticed him smile or act
anything but scholarly,
I pretty much saw him
as just another professor,
and a rather uptight one
at that, despite his leather
jackets. But now I have
glimpsed the boy inside
the man. The one who
beach bummed in Hawaii,
anticipating giant surf.
Wonder how an army
brat ended up a surfer.
Wonder how an army
brat wound up teaching
creative writing courses
on the university level.
There’s so much about
him I’d really like to know.
That must be wrong, but
I’m not sure why. It’s all
just so confusing. A wide
stripe of gray sandwiched
between the unforgiving black
and white of my comfort zone.
I CHALK IT UP
To the sleep-deprived twilight
zone I’m currently wandering.
I manage the short drive home
without too much difficulty.
But when it comes to finding
my keys in my bag, I might as
well be legally blind. I’m still
fumbling when my apartment
door opens. “Darian! Good God!
Are you trying to give me a heart
attack?” She has the key, of course
she does. I never took it back.
S-s-sorry. I just . . . didn’t know
where else to go. Come inside.
Uh, yeah. What else would I do?
Leave? “What’s up? Is everything
okay?” She doesn’t look too distraught.
Yeah. Uh, no. I mean, it’s not that.
Spence’s condition hasn’t changed.
I follow her to the living room,
put my book bag down as she says,
Spence’s parents arrived today.
Mom and I were at the hospital
when they got there. It was . . . ugly.
Rewind
THE ONE TIME
I met Spence’s parents was a few months
after he and Darian got married. They had
not attended the wedding. The last thing
a couple of Kansans want for their patriot
son’s wife is some leftie California girl. Really.
Spence was barreling toward his first
deployment. Unlike Cole, whose mom
of me, Spencer was never focused
on going home to his native cornfields.
What energy he didn’t invest in training
was sucked up by his spitfire wife.
Dar does demand attention, and their
marriage was young. Mostly what he
wanted when he got home in the evenings
was a few beers. Dinner. A little TV.
And Darian, who he would be leaving
behind when he went off to the Middle
East in only weeks. They were wading
through paperwork—wills and banking
and such. Both felt overwhelmed.
Drowning in details and “just in case”
preparations. I hate thinking about
him dying, Dar complained. I never
signed up for that. Like, who does?
A TRIP TO KANSAS
Wasn’t happening. Spence’s parents
had to come to him, which influenced
the visit’s tone. Cole was already in Hawaii,
so it was just me, helping Darian make
salad for the occasion. She’s not much
of a cook, and that includes chopping
lettuce. Spence was outside, firing up
the barbecue, when his parents arrived.
I answered the door, and had to smile.
Picture a forever farm couple—the mister
tall and burly, the missus petite and plump.
Now, reverse that. Mr. Blaisdel wasn’t
much taller than me, with a gently-rolling-
hills physique. Mrs. Blaisdel was a regular
she-bear. She looked at me. Cocked her head.
You’re not her, she said. Apparently,
Spence had sent photos. Mrs. Blaisdel
stormed past me, toward the kitchen.
Mr. Blaisdel shrugged an apology,
stepped inside. I extended my hand.
“I’m Ashley, Darian’s friend.” His grip
surprised me. I expected Play-Doh,
instead got iron. Despite his stature,
he could probably carry a cow. I’m Jim.
Pleased to meet you. And don’t let
Clara fool you. She’s mostly bluff.
Clara was at that moment mostly
bluffing Darian in the kitchen.
Jim and I arrived, not quite in time
to interfere. Our Spencer tells us
you’re born and bred California.
This is my first time here. So far,
I’m not impressed. Never mind
that all they’d seen was the airport,
freeways and a military base.
Darian, terrified, kept chopping
vegetables. “California is a very
big state, Mrs. Blaisdel,” I said.
“Darian and I grew up in Lodi, in
the Sierra foothills in the northern
part of the state. It’s mostly ranchland.
I bet you’d love it. And while you’re
here, I hope you get the chance to go
to the beach. The Pacific’s beautiful.”
Spence came in through the side
door. He kissed Dar as he walked by,
then went to shake his dad’s hand
before hugging his mother. Hey,
Mom. His goofy grin alone should
have melted her ice shell. But, no.
&n
bsp; SHE WAS PISSED
And she wanted us all to know it,
and I was pretty sure she wasn’t
faking her anger one little bit when
she said, I really don’t understand
why you made us travel all this way.
Like you couldn’t spare a little of
your paycheck on airfare to come
home before you leave? Where’s
your respect for your family, son?
Bam! Darian and I exchanged
anxious glances. Spence stayed
totally calm, calling her bluff, if
that’s what it was. He kissed her
cheek. Went to the fridge and
grabbed a beer. Anyone want one?
He was still shy of twenty, and his
mother reacted like it was a sin.
Beer? You’re drinking now? Is
this what California teaches
young men? The way she glared
at her daughter-in-law made it very
clear that in her mind, California
and Darian were synonymous.
Spence forged straight ahead.
The thing is, Mom, I’m about to lay
my life on the line for my country.
I’d think my enjoying a brew should
be at the bottom of your worry list.
I HAD TO HAND IT TO SPENCE
He knew exactly how to manipulate
his mother. She retreated. A little.
Still, the afternoon was not pleasant.
I probably would have begged off
early, except I didn’t want to leave
Darian to face the she-bear alone.
Neither of us drank beer. But when
the Blaisdels went outside to watch
Spencer flip the burgers, Dar and I
chugged from a bottle of Jäger.
It helped us paste obviously phony
smiles on our faces throughout dinner.
In retrospect, I can see how Spence’s
mom looked at him as a stranger. Or
maybe more like an alien, who had
invaded her son’s body. He had yet
to leave American ground, though
to her California was a foreign land.
But Spence had changed, evolved
from Kansas farmer into U.S. Marine.
Darian was not to blame for that,
of course. But she was responsible
for another, subtler transformation,
one many a mother has regretted
for her son. And that was the shift
from boy into man. For some women,
this translates to loss, and so the source
of that loss becomes someone to envy.
Jealousy is never pretty. But when
a mother becomes jealous of her son’s
love interest, it can become hideous.
I felt so sorry for Dar. Despite everyone
else’s best efforts to divert the negative
attention away from her, Mrs. Blaisdel
kept refocusing it squarely Darian’s way.
There was dust on the living room shelves.
The ketchup bottle was gooey and there
wasn’t enough mayonnaise. The burgers
were burnt—that one squarely Spence’s
doing, but somehow she blamed Dar.
By the time they took off for their hotel,
the Jägermeister bottle was drained.
I HAVE TO ADMIT
I’ve helped drain a lot of bottles
since I met Cole. Not that I was
even close to a teetotaler before
we hooked up. In high school,
there were plenty of postgame
Friday-night parties. Keggers up
in the hills. Jello shots at friends’
houses whenever their parents
took off for a couple of days. And,
once Dar and I started school
in San Diego, oh those frat parties.
Weekend benders. The odd midweek
celebration. But I was pretty much
a lightweight. Hated hangovers.
The one time I woke up in my bed
and couldn’t remember how I got
home, I almost swore off drinking
completely. Never did I imbibe
to deal with stress. Never to help
me fall asleep, dunk me deeper
than nightmares could follow.
Never, ever to make me forget.
THE REPORTED STATISTICS
Are harrowing. Triple the amount
of problem military drinking since
the war in Iraq began. Not to mention
how said drinking figures into suicide
attempts and victories, and vehicular
deaths. Marines—especially frontline
warriors—top the lists. Why wouldn’t
they? Oh, the things they’ve seen!
The things they try to scrub from
their brains, through self-medication.
I’ve seen it too often at the VA hospital.
But dope only masks their memories.
I’m sure many of their significant
others are much like me—we drink, too.
We drink, playing hide-and-seek
with the omnipresent fear. We drink
to find a pathway into sleep.
We drink to believe The Reaper
cannot harvest us. To attempt
common ground with our soldiers.
We are too young, most of us,
to go looking for hope in a bottle.
I ASKED COLE ONCE
If soldiers can drink while deployed
to Iraq or Afghanistan, where alcohol
is frowned upon—or rejected completely—
by the Muslim population. He laughed.
Believe it or not, with the influx
of Westerners, not to mention
the exodus of the Taliban, you can
find bars in big cities like Bagdad
and Kabul. Good Muslims won’t
drink in them, and bad Muslims
get kicked out of them, but foreign
business is much appreciated.
Soldiers aren’t supposed to drink
except every now and again, for
a special occasion, with a two-beer
limit. But it isn’t hard to find liquor.
Some guys get it in care packages.
They’re not supposed to, but it
comes, looking like mouthwash.
And local moonshine is plentiful.
That there is some crazy shit,
let me tell you. I’ve seen guys go
totally off the deep end drinking
that loco-juice. Gotta be careful.
We were drinking together at
the time. When he’s home, it’s one
way he tries to fight the depression
that sometimes gulps him down.
That night, I also saw him pop
a pill. Prescription. Maybe his,
maybe not. I couldn’t see the label,
but I recognized the Prozac. My mom
took them for years. Cole’s voice
got all thick, heavy. The brass
don’t condone alcohol. Shit happens
when soldiers go a little out of
their heads, you know? This one
dude got all fucked up and started
shooting stuff, just for kicks.
Took out four or five Humvee
tires and the side of a crapper.
Good thing no one was inside.
I mean, that was kind of funny
and all. But another time, these
guys drank a whole lot of moonshine
and went all apeshit. Grabbed
a little girl, like thirteen or fourteen.
Gang raped her. Jesus, man.
She didn’t even have titties.
And then, when her father tried
to stop them, they up and killed
him. The girl, too. Blew ’em away,
left them bleeding in the street.
ALL OF THOSE MEN
Were court-martialed, even the one
who shot up the outhouse—for conduct
unbecoming. But others got away with
much worse. Like assaulting their fellow
grunts. Female and not. Rape among
the deployed reached epidemic proportions
in Iraq and Afghanistan. And, while those
in command got a little better about coming
down on the offenders, often they looked
the other way, or blamed the victims. Many
never reported being assaulted. Those who
did were insulted, even called traitors, for
turning on their battle buddies. Some buddies.
As emotional as Cole got when he told me
about the Iraqi girl, when I mentioned
the story I read about rape in the ranks,
he actually jumped on the defensive.
We’re under a lot of pressure. Some guys
can’t handle it, and it’s how they blow off
steam. Anyway, some of those women
ask for it, the way they wear shorts and all.
I blew off a little steam myself. “Are you
kidding me? Do you wear shorts when
it’s a hundred degrees, Cole? And do you
really believe anyone deserves to get raped?
Rape isn’t about sex. It’s about violence.”
Why do women want to be soldiers?
If they can’t stand the heat, they should
go back to the kitchen. War is violence.
WAR IS ALL KINDS OF UGLY
It is putrefaction, steaming
upon sun-brittled clay,
flesh-chewed corpses
staring with vacant eyes
at the steel-edged sky.
War
is a shivering child, alone
in the street, mourning
the father dragged off
to hell, the home that
is
burned to ashes,
a smoldering memory.
War is men, fueled
by hatred for a philosophy
they don’t understand and
a
soul-deep fear of what
they can’t see, but suspect
is on the far side
of any wall. And when a
man’s
instinct screams,
he hears a voice much
louder than his own.
All bets are off. In the