"You talk too much about writing," I said.
We found another bar near the bus depot. It wasn't a hustle joint. There was just a barkeep and five or six travelers, all men. Becker and I sat down.
"It's on me," said Becker.
"Eastside in the bottle."
Becker ordered two. He looked at me.
"Come on, be a man, join up. Be a Marine."
"I don't get any thrill trying to be a man."
"Seems to me you're always beating up on somebody."
"That's just for entertainment."
"Join up. It'll give you something to write about."
"Becker, there's always something to write about."
"What are you gonna do, then?"
I pointed at my bottle, picked it up.
"How are ya gonna make it?" Becker asked.
"Seems like I've heard that question all my life."
"Well, I don't know about you but I'm going to try everything! War, women, travel, marriage, children, the works. The first car I own I'm going to take it completely apart! Then I'm going to put it back together again! I want to know about things, what makes them work! I'd like to be a correspondent in Washington, D.C. I'd like to be where big things are happening."
"Washington's crap, Becker."
"And women? Marriage? Children?"
"Crap."
"Yeah? Well, what do you want?"
"To hide."
"You poor fuck. You need another beer."
"All right."
The beer arrived.
We sat quietly. I could sense that Becker was off on his own, thinking about being a Marine, about being a writer, about getting laid. He'd probably make a good writer. He was bursting with enthusiasms. He probably loved many things: the hawk in flight, the god-damned ocean, full moon, Balzac, bridges, stage plays, the Pulitzer Prize, the piano, the god-damned Bible.
There was a small radio in the bar. There was a popular song playing. Then in the middle of the song there was an interruption. The announcer said, "A bulletin has just come in. The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. I repeat: The Japanese have just bombed Pearl Harbor. All military personnel are requested to return immediately to their bases!"
We looked at each other, hardly able to understand what we'd just heard.
"Well," said Becker quietly, "that's it."
"Finish your beer," I told him. Becker took a hit.
"Jesus, suppose some stupid son-of-a-bitch points a machine gun at me and pulls the trigger?"
"That could well happen."
"Hank…"
"What?"
"Will you ride back to the base with me on the bus?"
"I can't do that."
The bartender, a man about 45 with a watermelon gut and fuzzy eyes walked over to us. He looked at Becker. "Well, Marine, it looks like you gotta go back to your base, hub?"
That pissed me. "Hey, fat boy, let him finish his drink, O.K.?"
"Sure, sure… Want a drink on the house. Marine? How about a shot of good whiskey?"
"No," said Becker, "it's all right."
"Go ahead," I told Becker, "take the drink. He figures you're going to die to save his bar."
"All right," said Becker, "I'll take the drink."
The barkeep looked at Becker.
"You got a nasty friend…"
"Just give him his drink," I said.
The other few customers were babbling wildly about Pearl Harbor. Before, they wouldn't speak to each other. Now they were mobilized. The Tribe was in danger.
Becker got his drink. It was a double shot of whiskey. He drank it down.
"I never told you this," he said, "but I'm an orphan."
"God damn," I said.
"Will you at least come to the bus depot with me?"
"Sure."
We got up and walked toward the door,
The barkeep was rubbing his hands all over his apron. He had his apron all bunched up and was excitedly rubbing his hands on it.
"Good luck, Marine!" he hollered.
Becker walked out. I paused inside the door and looked back at the barkeep.
"World War I, eh?"
"Yeh, yeh…" he said happily.
I caught up with Becker. We half-ran to the bus depot together. Servicemen in uniform were already beginning to arrive. The whole place had an air of excitement. A sailor ran past.
"I'M GOING TO KILL ME A JAP!" he screamed. Becker stood in the ticket line. One of the servicemen had his girlfriend with him. The girl was talking, crying, holding onto him, kissing him. Poor Becker only had me. I stood to one side, waiting. It was a long wait. The same sailor who had screamed earlier came up to me. "Hey, fellow, aren't you going to help us?
What're you standing there for? Why don't you go down and sign
^^ up?
There was whiskey on his breath. He had freckles and a very large nose.
"You're going to miss your bus," I told him. He went off toward the bus departure point.
" Fuck the god-damned fucking Japs!" he said.
Becker finally had his ticket. I walked him to his bus. He stood in another line.
"Any advice?" he asked.
"No."
The line was filing slowly into the bus. The girl was weeping and talking rapidly and quietly to her soldier. Becker was at the door. I punched him on the shoulder. "You're the best I've known."
"Thanks, Hank…"
"Goodbye…"
I walked out of there. Suddenly there was traffic on the street. People were driving badly, running stoplights, screaming at each other. I walked back over to Main Street. America was at war. I looked into my wallet: I had a dollar. I counted my change: 61.
I walked along Main Street. There wouldn't be much for the B-girls today. I walked along. Then I came to the Penny Arcade. There wasn't anybody in there. Just the owner standing in his high-perched booth. It was dark in that place and it stank of piss.
I walked along in the dark aisles among the broken machines. They called it a Penny Arcade but most of the games cost a nickel and some a dime. I stopped at the boxing machine, my favorite. Two little steel men stood in a glass cage with buttons on their chins. There were two hand grips, like pistol grips, with triggers, and when you squeezed the triggers the arms of your fighter would uppercut wildly. You could move your fighter back and forth and from side to side. When you hit the button on the chin of the other fighter he would go down hard on his back, K.O.'d. When I was a kid and Max Schmeling K.O.'d Joe Louis, I had run out into the street looking for my buddies, yelling "Hey, Max Schmeling K.O.'d Joe Louis!" And nobody answered me, nobody said anything, they had just walked away with their heads down.
It took two to play the boxing game and I wasn't going to play with the pervert who owned the place. Then I saw a little Mexican boy, eight or nine years old. He came walking down the aisle. A nice-looking, intelligent Mexican boy.
"Hey, kid?"
"Yes, Mister?"
"Wanna play this boxing game with me?"
"Free?"
"Sure. I'm paying. Pick your fighter."
He circled around, peering through the glass. He looked very serious. Then he said, "O.K., I'll take the guy in the red trunks. He looks best."
"All right."
The kid got on his side of the game and stared through the glass. He looked at his fighter, then he looked up at me.
"Mister, don't you know that there's a war on?"
"Yes."
We stood there.
"You gotta put the coin in," said the kid.
"What are you doing in this place?" I asked him. "How come you're not in school?"
"It's Sunday."
I put the dime in. The kid started squeezing his triggers and I started squeezing mine. The kid had made a bad choice. The left arm of his fighter was broken and only reached up halfway. It could never hit the button on my fighters chin. All the kid had was a right hand. I decided to take my time. My guy had blue trunks. I moved him in and out, making sudden flurries. The Mexican kid was great, he kept trying. He gave up on the left arm and just squeezed the trigger for the right arm. I rushed blue trunks in for the kill, squeezing both triggers. The kid kept pumping the right arm of red trunks. Suddenly blue trunks dropped. He went down hard, making a clanking sound.