“What the fuck,” Dime says, staring at them.
“I think they want money,” Shroom says, turning to Scottie for confirmation. Scottie was Bravo’s interpreter at the time, so named for his resemblance to the former Chicago Bulls star Scottie Pippen. Scottie speaks to the boys.
“Yes, they want money. They say they are hungry, they are asking you to give them money.”
“ ‘Give me my pocket’?” Dime laughs.
“Yes! Yes! Mister! Give me my pocket!”
“No, no, no, that’s fucked, that’s not the way you say it. Tell them I’ll teach them how to say it, but we aren’t giving them any money.”
Scottie explains. Yes! the boys cry. Yes! Okay yes!
So there in the street Dime conducts a little English lesson. “Give me money.” Repeat. Give me money. “Give me five dollars.” Give me five dollars. “Give me five dollars, bitch!” Give me five dollars beech! “Thank you!!” Thank you!! “Have a nice day!!!” Haf a naice day!!! The boys are laughing. Dime is laughing. The rest of the Bravos are laughing too, laughing as they scan rooflines and doorways with their weapons raised.
“Thank you!” the boys cry when the lesson is done, and each boy ceremoniously shakes Dime’s hand. “Thank you! Mister! Thank you! Give me money!” And so they’re bellowing as they walk down the street, Give me money! Give me five dollars! Give me five dollars beech!
“Wow,” Shroom says in hushed, trembling tones of New Age feelingness. “Dave, that was just beautiful, man. That was a beautiful thing you did.”
Dime snorts, then lards up his voice with smarm. “Well, you know what they say. Give a man a fish, he eats for today. But teach a man to fish—”
“—and he eats for a lifetime,” Shroom concludes.
Over time Billy came to see this kind of humor as another facet of his education in the realms of global bullshit. Abruptly he feels Shroom’s loss like an awl in the gut, meanwhile noting on a parallel mental track how grief comes and goes, fattens and thins like the moon freestyling across foreign skies.
“I don’t like it,” March Hawey is telling the group. “I think it’s bad psychologically and bad strategically. It’s fine to keep the American public aware and all, but you keep harping on the terror thing twenty-four/seven, after a while you get a negative feedback loop going.”
“But March,” a woman objects, “they want to kill us!”
“Sure they do!” March cuts Billy an amused look. “The world’s a dangerous place, nothing new in that. But you keep putting it in the public’s face, terrR, terrR, terrR, that’s bad for morale, bad for the markets, bad for anybody.”
“Except Cheney,” someone quips, and the group titters.
“Right,” March allows with a slow smile. “Ol’ Dick’s got his own way of doing things. He and I’ve been friends a long time, but I have to say, we haven’t talked in a while.”
A Jack and Coke arrives for Billy. How did they know? Somehow they knew. He nods and sips his drink and makes agreeable-sounding noises as people express their thoughts and feelings about the war. Here at home everyone is so sure about the war. They talk in certainties, imperatives, absolutes, views that seem quite reasonable in the context. A kind of abyss separates the war over here from the war over there, and the trick, as Billy perceives it, is not to stumble when jumping from one to the other.
“I’ll say this for nina leven,” a man confides to him, “it shut the feminists up.”
“Ah.” Billy consults his drink. The feminists?
“You bet,” the man says. “They aren’t so interested in being ‘liberated’ now that we’re under attack. There’s certain things a man can do that a woman just can’t. Combat, for one. A lot of life boils down to physical strength.”
“Maybe we need a war now and then to get our priorities straight,” a second man says.
Clusters of subconversations orbit the main conversation, which is always about the war. Billy meets the man who owns — Coolcrete? Pavestone? One of those backyard leisure surfaces. The man tells Billy that the recent uptick in insurgent attacks is a sign that the tide is turning our way. “It shows they’re desperate,” he says. “We’re hitting them where it hurts.” “Could be,” Billy concedes as an oak log of an arm falls across his shoulders, and their host, Norm himself, is snugging up to him. The group falls silent. Anticipation beams from every smiling face.
“Specialist Lynn.”
“Sir.”
“Is everything satisfactory?”
“Yes, sir. It’s all good.”
People laugh as if he’s said something terribly witty. Norm squeezes the back of his neck, gives his head a couple of shakes. “What an honor,” he tells the group, “what a privilege, having these young heroes with us today.” Billy catches a yeasty whiff of bourbon on Norm’s breath. “They are the pride and joy of our nation, and this one”—he gives Billy another couple of brain-rattling shakes—“this young man, well, let me put it this way. Is anybody surprised that a Texan led the charge at the Al-Ansakar Canal?”
The group answers with a sharp burst of applause. Everyone in the vicinity turns and joins in. Billy is helpless, Norm has him pinned like a specimen to a board and there is nothing to do but stand there and smile like a shit-eater caught in the act. “Look, he’s blushing!” a woman cries, and it must be true, Billy can feel the heat pulsing off his face. Thus misery is taken for wholesome modesty.
“I think we’ve got another Audie Murphy on our hands,” March says, grinning at Billy. “Now there was a great American hero. And a Texan.”
“He’s a hero,” Norm agrees, hugging Billy close. “That’s why he wears the Silver Star. And I have it on good authority he was recommended for the Medal of Honor, but some desk jockey at the Pentagon shot it down.”
A zithering hum of disapproval roils the crowd. Billy hopes none of the Bravos is watching, but there is Dime placidly taking it all in, and Albert is smiling, no, smirking when he catches Billy’s eye, and in this way Billy is given to understand the source of the leak. As soon as he can Billy excuses himself and heads for the nearest bar. Coke, he says. Just a plain regular Coke. After a minute Dime is squeezing in next to him.
“Billy, don’t be flaking.”
Billy lifts his chin. “That was bullshit.”
“What was bullshit?” They speak in barely audible murmurs.
“That. The Medal of Honor shit.”
“Oh, that. Billy, chill. You’re a certified star.”
“Albert—”
“Albert knows what he’s doing.”
“How the fuck did he even know?”
“ ’Cause I told him, dipshit. Any booze in that drink?”
“No.”
“Good, I want you halfway sober for halftime. And no they haven’t told me what we’re supposed to do.”
Billy hunches over his drink. “It’s all bullshit.”
“You’re being awfully touchy, Billy Sue.”
“Why the fuck did you tell him?”
Dime doesn’t even bother answering that. They stay turtled up to the bar. The moment they turn away people will start talking to them.
“You know that old man you were talking to?”
“Well, yeah.”