“Well, obviously we’re playing in an aging facility,” Norm answers. “But Texas Stadium has been a wonderful home for the Cowboys. I don’t see that changing any time soon.”
“But,” the reporter prompts, drawing laughs. Norm smiles. He’s happy to play the straight man in this routine.
“But for the long-term health of the organization, I think it’s something we’ll have to look at.”
“Some of the Irving city council think you already are. They’re saying that’s why you cut the stadium maintenance budget by seventeen percent.”
“No, not at all. We just did our review in the normal course of business and found a few places where some fat could be trimmed. We have every intention of maintaining Texas Stadium as a first-class facility.”
“Any chance you’ll move the team back to Dallas?”
Norm merely smiles for the cameras, which click away like parakeets cracking seeds. A few of the medias keep on about the stadium, but Norm ignores them. Billy begins to get a sense of the dynamic here, a power equation along the lines of the CEO of a giant corporation vis-à-vis the urinal puck he so thoughtfully studies as it’s drenched with his mighty personal stream. It is Norm’s job to maximize the value of the Cowboys brand, and it is the job of the medias to soak up every drop, dab, and dribble of PR he sends their way. As sentient human beings endowed with reason and free will, they naturally resent such treatment; perhaps this explains their sourpuss attitude, the karmic dampness that breathes off them like the towel hamper at a gym. Tomorrow he’ll read the newspaper and wonder why this, too, isn’t part of the story: that the press, however grudgingly, gathered as instructed to record in its stenographic capacity Norm’s presentation of Bravo Squad, a blatantly formulaic marketing event that enlightened no one, revealed nothing, and served no tangible purpose other than to big-up awareness of the Cowboys brand.
The bullshit part of it, isn’t that part of the story too? But not a word, not a murmur, not a peep from the press about how thoroughly they’ve been used, and no hint of their personal feelings toward Norm, which, as Billy infers from the body language, consist in roughly equal measure of resentment and fear. If he so wished, Norm could probably get any one of them fired. Could probably get them killed, if he wished. Not that he would. Probably. Billy spots Mr. Jones nearby, discussing the line with several other suits. Cowboys by four? ’Boys by three? They chuckle like men comparing the talents of a carnally shared woman, and Billy would like to go over there and beat their faces in. He doesn’t know why he’s so offended, but he is, maybe it’s Mr. Jones’s gun that sets him off, something about the presumption of it, the ignorance, the sheer fucking ego of carrying around an instrument of deadly force. Like you know? You wanna see what deadly force can do? Bravo can show you, Bravo does deadly like you wouldn’t believe, the kind that will break your mind and make you wish you’d never spilled out of your mother’s crack.
When the photo op is done Billy decides he needs a moment. He takes up position with his back to the wall, just to the left of the stage where the arc of the backdrop as it curves inward shields him from much of the room. He stands at parade rest and works on smoothing out his breathing. A couple of medias see him and here they come. Well fuck. What the hell. Billy sucks it up.
“Hey.”
“Hello.”
“What up.”
They introduce themselves. Billy gave up trying to remember names long ago. They talk a little while for the recording gadgets, then one of them asks has Billy considered writing a book about his experiences in Iraq. Billy laughs and gives him a Dude! sort of look.
“A lot of soldiers are doing it,” the man tells him, “there’s a market for that right now. It’d be a way to get your story out there and make some money. Paul and me could help you with that, we’ve ghostwritten a couple of books. We’d be interested in working with you on something like that.”
Billy shuffles his feet. “I never saw myself ever trying to write a book. I hardly even ever read, till I joined the Army and a buddy started giving me books.”
What, the medias want to know.
“Well, okay. You really wanna know? The Hobbit. Kerouac, On the Road. This book Flashman at the Charge, which was hilarious. Why don’t they tell you about these books in school? Like maybe then they’d get people to actually read. Let’s see, the Hell’s Angels by Hunter S. Thompson. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Slaughterhouse Five, Cat’s Cradle. Gorky Park and another one with that same guy, the Russian dude.” All books given to him by Shroom.
“What did you think of the Thompson books?”
“They made me wanna get high,” Billy says, and laughs so they’ll know it’s a joke. “No, seriously, I think you’d have to say the man’s a total lunatic, but in a way it makes sense, like it’s a normal response to the situations he puts himself in. Though why a person would do a lot of the shi— stuff he does… I bet he’d have some interesting things to say about Iraq, like if he went, if he could see it the way the soldiers see it. I’m not saying I endorse his lifestyle or anything. I just like the way he writes.”
“Would you say there’s much drug use among the soldiers over there?”
“I wouldn’t know about that. I’m only nineteen. I can’t even drink beer!”
“You can vote and die for your country, but you can’t walk into a bar and buy a beer.”
“I guess that’s one way to put it.”
“How do you feel about that?”
Billy takes a moment to reflect. “It’s probably for the best.”
Again the medias raise the idea of writing a book. Billy becomes aware of a radiant heat source on his right, and glancing over he sees it’s her standing patiently at his side. His pulse takes off at gazelle speed, oh God oh God oh God oh fuck fuck fuck fuck, meanwhile the medias natter on about markets, contracts, agents, publishers, and God knows what. He gives them his e-mail address just so they’ll leave him alone, and when at last they do he turns to her. She regards him steadily, with an air of frank expectation. Somehow he has the poise to look her up and down, not a leering perv look but more like that of a childhood friend encountering the splendid grown-up version of the knock-kneed, noodle-armed, grass-flecked little girl he used to chase around the playground in first grade.
“So you’re gonna write a book?”
“No,” he gruffs, and they both laugh. Suddenly he’s barely nervous at all. “Don’t you get cold out there, cheering in that rig?”
“We move around so much it’s almost never a problem, though I’m tellin’ you, last week in Green Bay I thought I was gonna freeze my you-know-what off. We do have coats for really cold weather, but we hardly ever wear them out on the field. I’m”—sounds like pheasant? She shifts her pom-poms and holds out her hand.
“Say again?”
She laughs. “Faison. F-a-i-s-o-n. I know who you are, Billy Lynn from Stovall. My grandmother was Miss Stovall 1937, how about that?” She laughs easily, a husky trilling from deep in her chest. “Everybody said she had a shot at winning Miss Texas that year. A bunch of local business guys got together and financed her wardrobe, voice lessons, all her travel expenses, they really wanted it for the town. Back then Stovall was sort of a big deal, with all the oil they were pulling out of the ground.”