This is the first chapter of a suspense novel "The Craving." Here, I introduce you to the three main characters, but be forewarned--this story will take numerous sharp turns, all the way until the very final scene. Little is what is first appears to be.
I will be adding chapters as they arise, so let me know what you think of each section as I release it.
Part 1: A Victim of Circumstance
I
Their convoy gradually slowed as they neared the crowded marketplace. For the last three months, this place had been marked as a black route on every pre-mission brief. But as the only road between Camp Victory to a police station on the far west side of Abu Ghraib district, the squad had no choice other than to run it, regardless of the risks. The insurgents knew this, which is why Dan got the infamous “ass pucker” on every mission through here. Even in its well-armored MRAPs, the squad maintained its proper twenty-meter spacing while in the danger area, reflecting their experience—newbies tended to bunch up when they slowed, making them easy prey for an ambush.
Dan hoped that the other three teams' gunners resisted the tendency to focus on the most obvious threat, the crowded marketplace and gas station, neglecting their designated sectors of fire, especially to the rear. Tunnelvision can get you killed, by being too focused on any one direction, say by looking only for a traditional improvised explosive device, like an artillery shell buried under a pressure plate or triggered by a trip wire. The new favorite among the bad hajis was a sticky IED, where a suicidal insurgent runs up to the vehicle and places a magnetic bomb to the metal of a hatch or wheel well. It was hard for a soldier to keep watching the rear sector when he could hear everyone else shooting, but it was absolutely critical. Especially in the marketplace, where guns and bombs could materialize out of each shadowy doorway and from under every burqa and robe. Dan looked down from the turret and saw his team leader in the right seat gripping his pistol as he monitored the radio. To his left, the driver was resting his free hand on the M-4 that now sat in his lap.
As the line of armored vehicles neared the gas station on the right, the lead vehicle slowed to a crawl. There was a long line of cars waiting for fuel, as was typical, but something was off. The lead MRAP moved to the left edge of the road, crossing what specks remained of a yellow center line in the crumbled concrete, giving Alpha team an extra few yards of visibility. Dan's driver drifted in the same direction but not quite as far, creating a slight stagger to the line of armored vehicles. Parked just past the gas pumps was a white fuel truck, abandoned too close to the roadway. Although he didn't see any wires or other indications that it had been weaponized, its proximity was reason enough for the squad to shy away from it.
Dan was in the convoy's second vehicle, so his sector was two-to-six o'clock, and the MRAP behind him had the six-to-ten. He was glad that the squad had been issued the lighter, more agile Caiman MRAPs—although the older Buffaloes had thicker protective armor, but they were as maneuverable as their namesake animal. Both vehicles' primary defense against the notorious improvised explosive devices was a V-shaped steel plate on the vehicle's underside, which was supposed to force the IED blast around the passenger compartment, like the prow of a speedboat pushing water aside. So despite MRAP being an acronym for “Mine Resistant Ambush Protected,” it was a misnomer—more like “Blast Evading Ambush Surviving, Hopefully”—but who wants to ride in a “BEASH”? On missions through crowded areas like this, Dan valued the Caiman's evasiveness to the Buffalo's sheer bulk. Instead of trying to withstand the blast of an IED, better to never run over one at all. Vigilance was crucial—what did firepower matter if you never saw what killed you?
Some of the guys in the platoon griped that they hadn't seen any action in weeks, but war stories were only useful for entertaining drunks and wannabees. Dan referred to Purple Hearts as 'enemy marksmanship badges,' and his goal was to never earn one. His squad had gone six straight weeks without an attack, and if they could make it through a few more safely, they'd all get home safe. As this was his final deployment, Dan's main goal was to be the drunk at the bar who bored everyone with stories about his safe missions through Baghdad and all the gruesome things he didn't see. He would then conclude his tales with a flourish, stumbling out at the bar on a pair of wobbly but unscathed legs.
Today's mission might ruin his plans. They'd made it out to the police station without incident, and did their usual song and dance of “advising” the Iraqi police without actually telling them what to do. Brigade knew that most MPs and infantry types were generally Type-A, so they were adamant that they only guide the Iraqi police toward sensible procedures—Dan must have heard the phrase “respect their cultural differences” a hundred times in briefings. But why should they have respect for people who did nothing? He'd never met a group who needed more to be told what to do than these so-called police.
Dan's job was to assist and advise the investigations unit, so every visit he'd ask about the status of active cases. Captain Ali always had the same answer: “Sorry, no witnesses have come forward yet.” Dan was tired of these futile trips, especially with a new Status of Forces Agreement, or SOFA, going into effect in two weeks. That agreement allowed US troops to move through Baghdad only if escorted by Iraqi military or police; this was the same as banning US troops from Iraqi streets, since the Iraqis preferred to do their patrolling from inside barricaded police stations—he'd gone on a single joint patrol this entire tour. Dan liked to say that reason the Iraqis agreed to the SOFA agreement was that they thought they were literally getting a new piece of furniture to take naps on.
The one group that understood what the SOFA really meant was the bad guys. Once it went into effect, there'd be no more American infidels to bomb and shoot at, and they wanted to get their parting shots in before their favorite targets vanished from Baghdad's roads. Attacks had been skyrocketing as the SOFA deadline neared, and Dan was on the wrong side of that trend.
As the lead vehicle passed beside the gas station and neared the ominous fuel truck, and Dan's MRAP tight on its tail, the machine-gunners sat taut in their turrets with the lead gun pointed in the direction of travel—Dan stayed focused on the potential threats to the right. Next was the third MRAP with its gunner swiveling between six- and ten-o'clock, and only ten feet off its back hatch, the trail Humvee followed so close that it looked like it was being towed. The squad's last vehicle ordinarily pulled rear security, with its machine gun perpetually aimed backwards. But with the Hummer trailing like a cyclist drafting a peloton, the third Caiman had to also cover six-o'clock, since its higher guns could shoot over the entire Humvee at targets sneaking from behind, particularly suicide bombers.
The disadvantage of the Caiman's height was that its 50-caliber machine guns couldn't shoot down to street level, so an insurgent with a death wish could sneak right up and under the huge vehicles' defenses. The guys in the trailing Hummer prevented such close-in attacks by driving close to the crowd, M-4s pointed out the windows, ready in a split-second to send a foolish insurgent to a date with his seventy-two virgins. This wasn't official Army doctrine, but his platoon changed tactics after other convoys had been attacked with RKG-3s, Soviet armor-piercing grenades smuggled in from Chechnya. Recognizing that a Caiman's armor and firepower was ineffective against near threats, insurgents could scurry like mice between an elephant's legs, biting their balls off. So his platoon used Humvees as a rear escort, like cruisers escorting aircraft carriers through enemy seas.
Something was definitely different today, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He felt that knot in his gut that signaled the good kind of fear, the kind that made you more alert and ready to act. The streets weren't completely empty—an obvious tip-off that an attack was imminent—but pedestrians weren't milling around the market like usual. The lack of a possible near-threat should have been comforting. Was today some Muslim holy day that the intel officer had failed to brief them on? Dan also thought he smelled something fragrant like roasted apples or maybe those figs the locals seemed to go apeshit over—but how could that get in through the MRAP's ventilation and filtering system? Today, nobody was within fifty feet of the road, but things smelled out of place. He should have been happy at the lack of civilians, which made everyone's job easier, but he just couldn't muster the optimism. Knowing that a thousand people would celebrate your death in the streets can do that.
Dan would rather see Iraqis scatter when US soldiers appeared, like the good old days of his first tour. Now, the American convoys were now so common that the locals barely noticed. Half the time his driver had to honk the air horn or shoot a green warning-laser to shoo kids who wandered too close. If it wasn't for an occasional sign in Arabic, the street could easily be mistaken for a set of an old western movie: unforgiving sun directly overhead, yellowed brick buildings, sand kicked up with each gust of wind. Dan could almost imagine a tumbleweed rolling across the desolate road, and he whistled a few bars of the theme from his favorite movie, “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly.”
That's what was wrong, he realized. Everyone was away from the road, and there wasn't a single kid running near the vehicles, waving their arms and gesturing for water or MREs, crying “meestah, meestah . . . .” For that matter, there weren't any ghosts either—the soldiers' nickname for the burqa-clad women who, feet invisible under flowing black robes, seemed to float like the bad guys chasing Pac-man.
Dan heard on the radio what he guessed was the lead Caiman, since it sounded like Sully: “Everybody stay alert! Something ain't riii—” when his MRAP lurched suddenly to the left, followed a split-second later by a deep, rumbling hiss on his right, like someone had popped the cap off a gigantic bottle of beer. Rotating in the turret toward that side, he saw something had hit vehicle three on the passenger side, a smoking hole on the hood in front of the team leader's now-shattered windshield.
His peripheral vision caught the follow-through of a figure in jeans and a black t-shirt, his body pulled forward by the momentum of his throw, right hand still extended, almost touching the ground. In an instant, Dan registered that it must have been a RKG-3 exploding, not an IED or rocket-propelled grenade, which was why the blast was so focused, without excess smoke and flames. As the thrower came up and straightened, he made the mistake of pausing to admire his handiwork—he might even as smiled a little. It was just the slight hesitation Dan needed, and the .50-cal moved just a few degrees as his thumbs slid the safety off, an action that he'd practiced a thousand times to build muscle memory. The big gun already had rounds chambered, despite standard operating procedure was that all .50s stay on yellow status. Everyone who actually went outside the wire ignored these paper orders—they didn't have the luxury of an extra half-second to pull back on the .50's charging handle to chamber a round. His squad was in red status, fully locked and loaded, the second they were out of sight of the main gate.
The grenade thrower was standing bolt upright when the first burst of automatic fire ripped through his midsection. Dan was shocked at how much red sprayed in all directions at impact. He'd always thought that the thick rounds would go right through a person at such close range, but the seven- or eight-round burst tore the thrower in half, literally. His torso toppled back and to the right, his arms moving spasmodically, and a quickly expanding red puddle formed in the dust beneath him. The half of his body containing the legs and lower torso had fallen directly in Dan's line of sight, so he saw a bright red, oozing smudge just above what looked like a belt. Oddly, very little blood seemed to flow out of that area. Perhaps gravity kept it all pooled in the legs.
For a second, his throat tightened and gagged at the horrific sight, but just for a moment. Dan heard distant gunfire ring out and he knew they were under attack from all directions. He elevated the barrel of the machine gun and started spraying suppressive fire at some nearby building where he'd seen flashes with his peripheral visions. Yet even as he shot at those targets a hundred meters away, Dan's eyes locked onto those of the dying man, transfixed by his death throes. He couldn't look away, but squeezed the trigger and held it on auto, spraying toward the sounds of gunfire in the distance, yet never taking his eyes off the dying man's face. He could smell the familiar scent of burnt gunpowder, crisp and smoky, but now mixed with the aroma well-roasted beef, almost burned. As round after round poured through his .50-cal, the barrel got so hot that he could feel the warmth on his cheeks as he looked down its sights. Yet still he stared into the glassy eyes of the dead insurgent, firing as if by instinct. He knew he was hitting the enemy by their agonized screams, which started as a high-pitched background buzz and escalated, second by second, until it crescendoed into a hysterical 100-decibel mechanical howl.
Dan kept firing, and the Iraqis in the distance kept screaming. The grenade-thrower's upper torso twitched in agony, his convulsions slowing, but without his eyes ever leaving Dan's own. The burned meat smell turned acrid, searing his throat and lungs, now like smoldering tires. The distant screams of the Iraqis became deep, transforming into moans and guttural roars, and he felt a wetness that must be blood on his face and shoulders: first a mist, then a spray, finally a deluge. He realized that it had begun raining, and the gunshots of the squad had tapered off into silence, but still he couldn't stop squeezing the trigger or break the dying man's gaze, even after the long chain of ammunition had long run out. The rain was warm at first, but now it fell sharp and hard and freezing, and the chill ran down his spine, making him shudder. This cold dampness ran into his eyes and made him shake his head to clear his vision. This sudden motion at last forced him to look away from the now-still thrower, his frozen torso looking like those little plastic soldiers he'd played with as a boy. With one violent, final jerk to fling the water from his eyes so he could see, Dan smacked his head against something, and he awoke, soaked in sweat. He looked up, confused, and it took a few seconds before he realized that he had thrown himself completely out of bed.
II
This dream—he refused to call it a nightmare, because he was the bogeyman, after all, not the insurgents—had only happened a few times since the attack, and Dan didn't understand why. The dream re-enacted the first half of the ambush in perfect detail, but quickly got deviated from the actual incident. After he'd blown the young man into two large pieces, Dan had been able to look away, laying down suppressive fire that chewed up the gravel and allowed the other teams to dismount. Under the protection of his mammoth machine gun, the rest of the squad was able to pursue the attackers into and beyond the gas station. The squad took out five or six of the main attackers, including two who were aiming an RPG into their stationary MRAPs. Once the dismounts had found cover on the ground, Dan turned his attention to AK-47 fire coming from an apartment building several hundred yards away. Since his rounds could pierce the soft clay walls of Iraqi masonry, the .50 nearly chewed the window into a door—he must have killed a few more guys up there. The squad's response had been textbook: each kill was an insurgent who had directly participated in the ambush, with no collateral damage or dead civilians.
Of course, the townspeople claimed that Dan’s squad opened fire for no reason: every corpse was a law-abiding student that just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They said the guy who'd tossed the grenade to start the ambush was a fifteen-year-old honor student, walking his sister home from school. The next morning, his parents appeared at the main gate demanding financial compensation for his death, as was the custom. Brigade seemed to side with the locals, but should have known better. Abu Ghraib District was a Bundt cake of sectarian conflict, with seams of Sunni extremism winding through a majority Shia neighborhood.
His squad had been up for twenty hours straight when they returned to base, but were taken straight to company headquarters to write up sworn statements: first at battalion HQ, two hours later at brigade, then finally the boys from Criminal Investigations Division. Dan's squad wasn't debriefed as much as interrogated. It was clear that the higher-ups were more interested in avoiding bad press than discovering the truth; the questioning was a real cover-your-ass session. Higher-up was looking for any deviation from SOPs or rules of engagement so they could blame it on our own people; some of the CID guys said they doubted the squad had ever taken fire.
The locals' claims had a superficial appeal: not a single dead Iraqi had a weapon on them, and CID couldn't find a single shell-casing from an AK or other foreign weapon. But the townspeople had been too industrious in gathering up the evidence: they dragged away the shot-up cars and donkey-carts, mopped the blood from the streets and doorways, and removed or replaced every shattered window—but where were the thousand-odd shell-casings from the American's guns? If the Iraqis had never fired, where did all those AK-47 holes in the Caimans come from, much less the molten hole in vehicle three's engine block?
The inquiry dragged on for weeks, until two months later they received a fax—a freaking fax!—from brigade that there had been “no finding of misconduct.” The Iraqi Army Public Affairs office later apologized for initially claiming that the Americans had attacked, as if any of Dan's guys gave a fuck what the Iraqis thought. The whole fiasco only hardened Dan's cynical view of the military—you could only count on the guys next to you in a firefight, and expect higher-up to buddy-fuck you if anything goes wrong or it will help their chances of promotion.
The results confirmed what Dan new deep in his gut: that he was entirely justified in ripping that guy apart with his 50-cal. Once the kid decided to kill him and his buddies, he forfeited any right to life, or to Dan's remorse. So why was he having these crazy dreams?
It wasn't guilt. Dan felt none for shooting people who attacked his brothers with an armored-piercing grenade. Yeah, it was too bad that he was so damn young, but aren't suicide bombers always kids? Wizened imams, spouting the glories of jihad and the afterlife, never strap explosives to their chests, even though they have lived long, full lives. No, war is always old men convincing young men to die for a noble cause, be it a religion or a country.
Politics aside, when someone points a gun at you with intent to do harm, man or woman, young or old, there is only one question: will I be a victim or a survivor? The equation was unequivocal, and the math was not of Dan's making. Awake, he believed this to the core of his being, without a wisp of conscious guilt. Why was it so different in his dreams?
* * * * *
Once he got back in-country at Fort Drum, Dan considered telling his dream to the Army psychiatrist. His entire squad was required to meet with him after the attack, and every soldier demobilizing had to do it again to be cleared to go home. He'd had enough experience dealing with incompetent military doctors to be skeptical, but maybe this doc could offer some insight into why his superego seemed to manifest itself so vividly in his dreams. Major Cromwell had jump wings and a prior service patch, so he wasn't a complete pussy or fobbit; maybe he'd seen some shit too. Dan especially hated the patronizing tone most officers used with grunts, as if a college degree was something so rare or valuable these days. But Dan worried that if he didn't at least appear to confide in the shrink, Cromwell could put something in his records that would tag him as a head case, killing any shot of promotion. He'd play along.
Some of the soldiers treated by Cromwell were legit: they had seen awful things and it stuck with them. Often it was the medics, who had to deal with guys blown to ground beef, talking to them as they fought desperately to hang on—Doc said it was their eyes that stuck with him the most. Worse still were the ones that had done the awful shit, caught up in the fury of the moment, or trying to show how the other guys how hardcore they were. These guys got home from the sandbox and slowly it would sink in that they had sinned, deeply, and they too would remember the eyes of those they'd hurt.
At least his infantry brethren had an outlet for their frustration, as they humped Iraq's dusty streets and kicked down doors with an explosiveness that only hinted at the fury buried within. That anger never really went away, but instead simmered and grew stronger, waiting for an excuse to be released.
Stateside, these demons burst loose when a door slammed loudly, they saw piles of trash on the roadside, or had one too many beers. Their girlfriends discovered quickly how little fun it was to hang out with a guy who screamed or cried randomly; their wives weren't much more loyal, having gone months and years apart, with only emails and video-chats to remind them of what it was that first drew them together. Many times it was sex for the soldier and military benefits for the spouse—not great, but better than they could do in a minimum-wage job in the ghettos outside of the Fort Bennings or Camp Lejeunes. They even had a word for it: “dependapottamus.” For guys that returned with psychological chips on their shoulders, realizing that their marriage or soulmate was a lie became just another reason to dive into the abyss.
But the slide down was slow and numbing. Unlike Dan's dreams, these soldiers' dark visions followed them when they awoke; they tried to dull them with booze, video games, or jerking off. Even if Dan had some residual issues from the attack, and even if Dr. Cromwell could help him, he was too afraid of being lumped in with that bunch. Not only by his peers, but by himself.
Sully was a classic PTSD basket case, and not just from that last ambush. This was his third tour in four years, so the sandbox had become his new normal—his problem was returning home. Sully hit the clubs every night they got back, which meant everyone else had to kick his ginger Bahston-Irish ass out of bed to make formation each morning, or cover for him to the platoon sergeant, which was getting old. At first going hard every night was fun, chasing the all-too-willing off-post women, or participating in the sausage-fest at the NCO club. Their status as returning veterans made them minor celebrities to the bored townies, who viewed a potential husband and military benefits as good reasons to blow a guy in the restroom. But after banging the three or four decent chicks that came to the club, the falloff was pretty steep, and casual sex with such calculating partners felt like a business negotiation for Dan.
But for Sully, the NCO Club was a Victoria's Secret runway. He was constantly babbling about how many chicks he'd hooked up with and how hot they were. Most guys had fallen victim to the overseas beauty index, where consistent with the laws of supply and demand, a female soldier you'd consider a 5 in the states became a perfect 10 on deployment. But he and Sully had managed to stave off this impulse while in Iraq, so why had his friend fallen victim to the less potent strain of pussy-goggles now that he was home? Coupled with the constant drinking, Dan worried that Sully had been more deeply affected by his combat experiences than he could admit.
Dan and Sully were the perfect wingman for each other, their tastes in women as disparate as their physical appearance. Sully looked the part of a classic South Boston brawler: short, wide, and muscular, his bulky triceps and biceps jutting out akimbo from a fire-hydrant stout torso. He kept a shock of bright orange hair aggressively groomed within regulation, the side of his head razored smooth, with a boot heel of half-inch buzzcut serving as his rooster’s crown. Nature reserves the brightest plumage for its most dangerous creatures, the psychedelic pastels a warning to the other animals to avoid contact—so it was with Sully’s do-not-fuck-with-me scalp. A champion wrestler in high school who learned to box in the service, Sully looked strong and tough, and his appearance underestimated his abilities.
In contrast, Dan was tall, dark, and lanky. He’d read once that Abe Lincoln was so freakishly strong that he earned side money wagering on wrestling matches and feats of strength against other bargemen on the Mississippi to fund his education; on the campaign trail, Honest Abe once held a ____ with an outstretched arm longer than anyone else, astounding the corwd of voters. Dan might have been a direct descendant: at six-four, he was a foot taller than Sully, but just as wily a grappler. Unlike his buddy, whose very presence counseled caution, Dan’s soft face and inquisitive eyes invited both conversation and confrontation from those wanting to prove their mettle. Where Sully moved with the power and deliberateness of a Sherman tank, Dan was all crouches, spins, and arms that sliced the air like daggers. Sully would savor his fights and slowly crush an opponent into surrender, while Dan’s foes were usually pinned or pummeled into submission before the look of shock had left their faces.
Unlike Sully’s straight GI crewcut, Dan tried to keep as much of his dark brown hair, letting it grow perilously close to his earlobes and collar as the regs allowed. He’d already been ordered once to get a haircut already since he’d been stateside, and he didn’t plan to cut it a second time until ordered again—so he might be smoked with ten minutes of pushups, he could do two hundred while yawning, the lean and taut muscles not much to look at, but equally as functional and powerful as Sully’s guns. After a few early scuffles with some loudmouths in a neighboring company, other soldiers gave Dan as wide a berth as Sully despite his demeanor.
The two worked so well as wingmen because neither shared the same taste in women, and few women were attracted to both of the romantically polar opposites. The cerebral Dan was a master of the rap, needing enough quiet to converse if he was to seduce a woman, whereas Sully was all id, eyes, and muscle who knew that his forceful personality was either to a lady’s taste or not. He rarely chased women that didn’t want to chase him, unlike Dan who seemed to gravitate toward women who were smart enough to intrigue him, but too smart to fall for his Lotharian lines. Mirroring their own coloring, Dan liked brunettes while Sully loved blondes and redheads. Just as on the battlefield, the pair was more formidable as a team then solo.
Although he and Sully held the same rank and were in the same squad, their experiences differed. This was the third deployment for their unit, but Sully's first in combat—he'd broken his leg in Ranger school right before the unit's first trip to Iraq, so he had desk duty in Kuwait; during their second, Sully was recycling through Ranger school and by time he caught up with the unit, they were assigned as customs inspectors on base. Although Sully earned the coveted Ranger tab and was considered one of the best soldiers in the company, the fact that everyone else had bonded through the crucible of combat made him a bit of an outsider, as someone who'd yet to be tested under fire.
Sully instinctively felt this, so to prove himself, he was usually the first one to jump out during mounted patrols or break down a suspected insurgent's door. Dan had been shot at dozens of times, so he was free to do things that an outsider might view as overcautious: bound only from one covered position to another, call EOD for suspected mines, and only assault forward when the squad had fire superiority. In contrast, Sully was the stereotypical Hollywood war hero—he'd charge across open streets upright, daring someone to shoot him, he'd blow suspected IEDs with machine-gun fire, which didn't always work, and he'd bitch about waiting for reinforcements before assaulting an objective. Even though they were both twenty-five years old with six years on active duty, Dan had assumed the role of the war-weary veteran, while Sully got to be the wild child who chafed under authority.
That wasn't the other difference. When Dan had been away on leave—a drinking tour of German breweries and damen—there'd been a real bad car bomb attack. Dan's squad hadn't been hit, but a VW bus with its trunk filled with explosives had driven right up to a checkpoint manned by some MPs from California, detonating yards from three Humvees of napping soldiers. His squad was closest, and everyone heard the Medivac call over the radio—basically a lot of guys screaming over each other on the same frequency. The GIs that weren't instantly turned to sawdust by the explosive were knocked out by the blast and ignited; the guys said that every MP they pulled out had third-degree burns.
Sully lived up to his legend that day, earning a Bronze Star with 'V' device. He charged into the molten vehicles and dragged out three guys, by then barely functioning torsos. He'd never gone into the grisly details with Dan, but Sully was clearly shaken by the sight of those charred appendages. “If I was one of those guys and knew that I had to live with stumps, I wouldn't want to be rescued,” Sully confided to Dan one night drinking. “One round in the temple, no more pain.” The memory of those words spooked him. When Sully was out barhopping, Dan started checking his room for live rounds.
III
For the first few weeks at Drum, Dan settled into a routine of shadowing Sully by acting as his wingman. He could never keep up with his Irish friend's consumption of all things whiskey, but he could keep a respectable pace downing beers. After the first week, he'd almost weened Sully off the NCO Club, reminding him that there was a reason “Go Ugly Early” was written over the exit doorway of the mens' room. Although the club's proximity and drink prices couldn't be beat, Dan convinced him to go into Watertown with the lure of women who didn't weigh more than he could bench press. That's how they ended up becoming regulars at the most elegant dive in all of Watertown, New York: “Hopper's.”
First off, the place had some history, for chrissakes, unlike the usual faux Cheers-clone bars with fake memorabilia and mass-produced sports photos on the walls. Hopper was at least 70 now, and unlike every other business owner within 50 miles of Fort Drum, he freely admitted that he'd never served in the military. He'd been born too late for WWII or Korea, and had been too lucky for Vietnam. He'd been recruited by the government in 1967 as an intelligence analyst due to his degree in Far East History, but since he'd written college papers that too candidly analyzed U.S. foreign policy toward China and Korea, the DoD felt he was a little too familiar with communism and blackballed him.
Around twenty years ago, after losing his umpteenth job for being too smart for his bosses, Hopper had renovated basement of his corner rowhouse in the old part of Watertown. The house dated to somewhere in the colonial era, and there were stories that it had served as headquarters for one Revolutionary War general or another. Despite his unusual background, Hopper couldn't be pigeonholed as liberal or conservative, neither gung-ho military nor hippie pacifist—just really smart, and smart-ass. As a result, every weirdo, ne'er-do-well, and outcast naturally gravitated to his bar. Representatives of every night-owl community made the place home: cops, strippers, drug dealers, hospital workers, they all showed up around 10 each night and lingered as long as they could still drink, at least until 4 a.m. The cops never shut him down because Hopper made it a private club, so you had to pay a $20 membership fee the first time you came. Law enforcement seemed to appreciate that Hopper's concentrated the town's late-night drinkers into one spot, which made their job easier. Plus, few nights passed without at least a captain getting a taxi home.
You'd get the occasional college professor or student—there were four decent colleges within 20 miles—but few had the taste for meeting the real, unvarnished versions of characters that they'd profess to love in a Bukowski story. Hopper's patrons could be ugly drunks, with a tendency to throw down at the slightest insult or kiss you at the first opening, but he screened these folks out skillfully. All soldiers loved a brawl, which is why at bars near military bases, fights break out like zits on a teenager. But Hopper's bouncers didn't try to break up such tussles; instead, they'd shoot both brawlers with tasers and laugh as they made them “ride the lightning.” These bouncers were selected as much for psychological skill as size: they could smell a bad attitude a mile away, and would deny them admission without explanation—at least one out of four who sought entrance were turned away. The result was a bar full of happy wiseasses who were more likely to break out in “Rocky Mountain High” than a donnybrook.
The friendly vibe extended to the refined brand of female who flocked to Hopper's expatriate watering hole—just as male-on-male dominance rituals were quickly quashed via taser, male-on-female misbehavior was dealt with an equally firm hand. Hopper knew that a woman-free bar meant grim dudes sucking down $2.50 drafts, as well as an overall less fun atmosphere, so he made sure that everyone from a solo lass reading Sartre to a bachelorette party would have their personal space protected from unwelcome incursion—and that those seeking welcome incursions would have that decision respected as well. Hopper had taken his favorite line from Lonesome Dove, famously uttered by Tommy Lee Jones, and mounted it about the bar: “I hate rude behavior in a man. I won't tolerate it!” It was no empty boast.
Dan and Sully had fallen in love with Hopper's on their first night back at Fort Drum. Even though statistically their chances of getting lucky seemed remote, due to the few women present that night, they quickly saw that what Hopper's lacked in quantity of women, it made up for in quality. And nothing confirmed the Darwinian nature of its female winnowing than spectacular representative of the gender that was Rita.
The phrase “tall, dark and handsome” is generally used to describe men, but boy did it fit her: six-feet-plus in knee-high leather boots; dressed in a black linen workshirt, its long sleeves rolled tightly up to the elbow, which only heightened the sinew of her lean arms; faded but not tattered Levis (which is sadly the fashion now) that, while not exactly form-fitting, certainly didn't hide her alluring profile. Dan couldn't decide whether he liked the final piece of Rita's fashion puzzle because it was stylish or nerdy: black-and-white checkerboard cat-eye sunglasses that would have been appropriate on either a library or dominatrix. The overall effect was that Rita stood out like a Bentley at a tractor pull.
The first evening they saw her, Sully made a beeline for the open bar stool next to Rita. Minutes later, he sat down next to Dan, his ego tucked between his legs. “What happened, Romeo?” Dan asked.
“Well Brainy Smurf, I got two big problems: first, she is wicked hawt; second, she is wicked smaht.” Dan loved Sully's south Boston accent so much, he stopped ribbing his buddy over his pronunciation for fear he'd tone it down. “As you know, I only give a faaack about one of dose things.”
Sully didn't do well with the intellectual types, so he focused on the sexy ones, as epitomized by his motto “if I'm getting shot down, it's going to be by the top ace.” One reason they got along so well was they were never interested in the same woman. Sully's approach was loud and laughing, while Dan did the whole silent, brooding thing—the lack of romantic competition between them reduced the chance of a fight between them by 90%.
“Sully, there's no reason to give up on her solely based on intelligence—physical attraction can be as powerful as an intellectual or emotional connection,” Dan offered as token consolation. “Where's that legendary ginger sex appeal?”
“That's what I kept telling her!” Sully lowered his head in resignation and shook it back and forth. “But she wasn't buyin' my brand of shit tonight.” His freckled face perked up and he broke out into a broad grin. “I bet she'd looove hearing you tawk about that philosophy and literature bullshit you are always goin' awn about, Brainy!”
Sully was the only one who still called Dan “Brainy,” his first nickname at the unit—sometimes he abbreviated it to “BS.” When the platoon sergeant learned Dan had attended Tulane for two years before enlisting, he called him “Brainy” to mock him for not getting a direct commission at Officer Candidate School. The other privates figured that two years of college made Dan a genius, even though they had no idea where or what Tulane was—to them, Harvard, Tulane, and community college were equally unattainable and therefore worthy of awe. One of the mechanics actually asked him how much it cost, thinking that it was a vocational school named “Tool Lane.”
Despite his friend's encouragement, he didn't immediately take his friend's place in the chair next to Rita. He wasn't in the mood for bar banter, consumed by worry over Sully's self-destructiveness and pondering his own long-term psychological prospects. Try as he might, Dan couldn't disconnect the emotions felt by his brain and the hormonal rumblings of his genitals. So he remained at his corner table, watching Sully get shot down again and again, nursing a glass of Guinness and Bass and half-watching the TV as his Orioles got pummeled by the despised Yankees. His sullen reverie was broken when Rita came over to him and, her bar knowledge showing, asked “Drinking black and tans, soldier boy?”
Dan nodded yes and, a reflex from years spent haunting bars, asked what she was having. “I'll have the same, but hold the tan. Make mine monochromatic.”
Dan gestured to Hopper to bring her a Guinness and him another round. The old man knew the proper, deliberate way to pour the heavy stout over a spoon so it wouldn't mix with the lighter Bass; it took him three minutes to bring the beers over, barely concealing a leer that said “if I was 40 years younger. . .” By then, Dan and Rita were already on to their third topic, the irony of people of Irish descent liking the drink, despite the brutal actions of the British paramilitary Black and Tans in Ireland that shared its name with the beverage.
A few minutes into their conversation, Rita said, “I want to thank you for not making some dumb reference to either the Beatles song or the drink.” She confessed, “I hate stereotyping people based on a single comment, but a single 'lovely Rita' or 'I'll take you with salt' fatally ruins a person for me.”
Dan smiled and pointed at her wrap-around sunglasses. “I did start humming 'I Wear My Sunglasses at Night,” but it sort of segued into 'Never Surrender' – I can never tell those two apart.” He bragged, “I was a charter member of the Corey Hart fan club.” Rita's blank stare confirmed that she hadn't caught his cultural reference to the Eighties two-hit-wonder, a look of bewilderment that Dan was familiar with.
Rita defended her fashion statement: “I hate to carry a purse as much as losing a great pair of shades, so I've found that keeping them tucked in hair is both practical and alluring,” and she pushed the shades atop her head like a plastic 60s headband. She smirked, “Plus, it gives me that Jackie O look without having to fuck a dried up Greek billionaire.” Dan laughed at her historical reference, surprised that someone her age would know that JFK's widow married Aristotle Onassis, much less the First Lady's sartorial habits. Rita might not know cheese pop from the 1980s, but she knew history.
“I skipped the chow hall this evening—it was meatloaf night.” Glancing at the file-card-sized menu, he said “I'm going to get a burger. You hungry?”
“I'm always hungry. But if I ate every time I wanted to, I'd look like Hopper—mind if I steal a few bites of yours? Didn't Plato or Aristotle say something like 'hunger is the greatest spice'? I guess I'm trying to stay spicy.”
Dan laughed, “again with the dead Greek guys. Shall I order some hummus and some Ouzo instead?”
“It won't be the first time I've had that nasty licorice juice,” she answered. “But let's make it Sambuca—I prefer Roman realism over Greek idealism.”
“You do seem rather pragmatic,” noted Dan. “Don't you ever just do something out of visceral impulse?” he asked, hoping she'd get his point.
She shook her head from side to side. “I find lust to be an unsophisticated emotion. It's basically an adult version of a baby's tantrum or a teenager's desire to dry hump. I prefer to savor my cravings.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “Like any other fine indulgence, desire must be enjoyed slowly, relished, even toyed with . . . prolonged until it builds to maximum gratification. Lust is a chugging a beer; craving is sipping a glass of 20-year-old Macallan single malt—served neat.”
The bartender brought two shotglasses filled to the rim with Sambuca. Rita reached over and took a piece of ice out of Dan's water glass. Rubbing it between her fingers, she held it over the shot glass until a few drops of water melted from it. She stirred the mixture with her pinky, and Dan watched as it transformed from clear liquor into a milky white solution. She slowed her stirring then stopped, placing her still-dripping finger between her ruby red lips. She slowly pulled it out, grabbed the shot, and downed the anise-flavored liquid as quickly as swatting a fly.
Dan noticed that his breathing had slowed and his muscles were taut. Overcoming his momentary disorientation, he continued to make small talk for a few minutes, equal parts flirtation and audition. Each of them was making sure the other was up to the verbal thrust-and-parry they required, a prelude to more traditional thrusts and parries. Assured that he met her standard, she issued her verdict, “I've got to head out of here pretty soon, would you like to chaperone me to my apartment?”
Despite Dan's concern for his friend, the desire for Rita instantly pushed Sully's welfare from the forefront of his thoughts. Yet despite his dry spell and carnal pull, Dan's sense of duty bitch-slapped his libido as he told Rita, likely as astonished he was as, “I'd love to but can't. I'm keeping an eye on my friend over there who's going through a rough time.” He nodded toward Sully, who was engaged in a heated debate over the designated hitter rule. Dan realized that he was chaperoning the wrong person home tonight.
Rita seemed more impressed than offended. “That's OK, I respect loyalty. Another time, then.” She got up from the chair, grabbed her black leather coat, and sauntered gracefully out of the bar as lithe as a ballerina exiting stage left after finishing her solo. Her movements reminded him a little of the way those 'ghosts' in Iraq moved without really moving, but Rita was much taller, elegant, and truth be told, more haunting.