Marceau made coffee so thick and strong you could stand your spoon up in it. Said he learned to make coffee down in the basement of the Cedar Rapids First Methodist. His parents would bring him along when they set up for meetings and have him make the coffee. Something to do, I guess. Something to keep him busy.
Addicts like it strong, but little Marceau didn’t know that. Just grew up thinking this was, like, normal. That coffee any thinner than tar wasn’t worth shit.
The other Marines in the platoon hated it at first. Banned him from the coffee mess. But after a while, when those days without sleep started piling on? Sergeant Gomez put Marceau back on coffee detail. And naturally she chewed his ass a little bit. Like it was his idea in the first place to stop making coffee. Marceau didn’t mind. Just smiled. Never seemed to get to him, that sort of thing.
Real coffee, like the kind Marceau used to make? It’s the only reason I keep coming to these meetings. Sure, I haven’t got much else going on these days. But real coffee? A goddamn good reason to come to meetings even if I did.
I take a three-swallow sip as a bearded roughneck goes up to get his one-month chip. Just came in from the Gulf, this guy. An hour off the crew boat, still wearing a blue jumpsuit smeared with muck from the bottom of the ocean. Didn’t even stop at home to change his clothes or get a hot shower. We give the guy a round of applause, and he smiles like he just won something.
He wanted that chip so bad. Wanted it in his pocket before driving home past those highway bars. Places that would cash his check, no problem. I picture him jumping off that crew boat in a panic, throwing gravel as he peels away from the docks, running red lights all the way to the Houma First Baptist. A classic white-knuckle. Keeping a death grip on that chip, like it’s a lifeline. Like it’s real. But sooner or later, when he realizes that it’s just a goddamn poker chip, he’ll let go. Walk down to the bar, feel himself falling, and enjoy it.
The applause fades and the meeting ends.
The Baptists stand in a circle to say the Lord’s Prayer.
The atheists gather over by the coffee to ask the universe, or whatever, for serenity.
I walk between them, out through the double glass doors and into the quiet parking lot.
Night turned cold since the meeting started. First cold night this winter. I jog to the truck with my hands down my pockets. The heater’s been broke for years, and the window on the driver’s side won’t roll up all the way. I tore out the carpet so it won’t stink when rain pools up on the floorboards. I never lock the door, just do a quick walk around before getting behind the wheel. Habit, I guess.
My trauma bag sits on the passenger seat. Another old habit. I got my scissors and gauze in there. A few rolls of tape. I got a real compression bandage, and a combat tourniquet, too. Made it myself. Tied a length of webbing around a wooden spoon handle and sewed on some Velcro. Works pretty good.
I got splints cut from old beadboard and a twelve-foot length of rope. I even got a packet of QuikClot. I stole that from the field hospital in Bahraia and smuggled it out through Kuwait when they sent me home. Reacts with the iron in your blood, this stuff. Cauterizes everything. Sprinkle it on a bad wound, then watch it catch fire. Smell it burning up.
I got it all stuffed in my old backpack from high school. One of those green JanSports. Fits okay. Wish I had more room, though. Wish I could organize it just right. I need a few more compartments. All I got is the big one for books and the little one for pens.
It’s all covered in black marker. Things I scribbled on there back in the day. Band names, mostly. Dumb ones, too. Bands even Dodge liked. I even got Judas Priest on there. When I look at that now, I’m like, Fuck Judas Priest. And anyway, they’re like cave paintings to me. Scribbled by some prehistoric dude with a torch, a charcoal nub, and some time on his hands.
Got almost everything I need in there, though. And tactically rigged, too. Straps and slides all secured with electrical tape. Nothing dangles. Nothing makes noise. But I still wish I had more compartments.
I leave the parking lot and turn south on the levee road. It’s late and cold, but Dad’s still out in the shed, probably. My blood gets up just thinking about it, and now I’ll stew about it the whole ride home. Stupid.
It wasn’t a coincidence, him starting in with that tractor nonsense right when I got home. Needed a distraction from my bullshit, and I don’t blame him. But it’s years now, and he’s still trying to fix that thing. He’s clumsy, too. He’ll knock over a jack stand one night, grabbing for a wrench or something. He’ll kick it, not watching where he puts his feet. You have to watch where you put your feet.
He ran away to that shed, and I went to my room and put my trauma bag together. Two boxers in their corners, waiting years for the bell. And this whole time I’ve been thinking about the fastest way out to that shed. Organizing my trauma bag, too. Making it perfect.
It helped me gather my thoughts, at first. Helped calm me down. I even took the trauma bag with me to my first job interview. An ambulance job. Thought I’d just walk in the front door and tell the receptionist, “Hey, I’m a corpsman just home from Iraq. Was a combat medic for the Marines over there. Seen everything. Gunshot wounds. Traumatic amputations. Everything. So should I just jump in the next ambulance going out and get started, or what?”
It wasn’t so simple, of course. Besides the application, they wanted to see things. Military documents and whatnot. I went all hot and red, lied and told the lady I had all that stuff out in my truck. She looked at me, with this heavy backpack on my shoulder, and raised her eyebrows. Like, “What you got in there, then?”
I went out to my truck and punched the ceiling. Over and over, until my knuckles bled. Fucking idiot. Did I think they wouldn’t ask?
So, I sat around for a few more months, until I ran out of money. Then I went back to work at the oil-change place. Same place I worked at in high school, same stuff I was doing before. All my high school friends are gone, years now. Finishing up college at Nicholls or working offshore. Some, like Landry and Paul, are just fucking around in New Orleans.
I’ve been up there to see them a few times, Landry and Paul. They still message me once in a while saying I should come for the weekend. Still trying to convince me to move out my dad’s house. Landry messaged me just a few days ago. He and Paul are starting a new band, and he wants me to come see them play. Just the two of them, trying something new. There’ll be girls at the gig, he says. College girls.
I get home a little faster than I should, driving too fast, turning off the highway and throwing gravel. Lights are on in the shed. Just like I knew they would be. Stupid.
I park my truck and carry my trauma bag up the front steps. The door squeals on its hinges and I think about the rusted jack stands holding that damn tractor up. Those threads are gonna give out one day, and that tractor is gonna fall over. I imagine Dad pinned under the axle with his leg all crushed and bleeding out. All that thick, red blood. Thick with oxygen not going where it’s supposed to. Oxygen just soaking into the dirt.
Those spots where blood soaks in? Right into the dirt? Plants always grow there. I never knew that before. We’d convoy by the same places all the time, and all those places where I knew there’d been a lot of blood? Sure enough: green, healthy plants.
But Dad . . . he’s always been clumsy. Knocked out my top-left incisor when I was twelve. We were working on my truck, the one that became mine anyway, and he spun around without looking and clocked me with an eight-pound wrench. Put a nice, big gap in the side of my smile. When I enlisted, it was like wearing a sign: LESTER PLEASANT: JOINED THE NAVY TO ESCAPE SOUTHERN POVERTY. I never thought of myself that way. Didn’t even know my missing tooth was all that obvious. Navy sure keyed in on it, though.
The other sailors up at corpsman school—all those junior achievers?—they talked all about how the Navy would set them up for swank paramedic jobs back home. How they were only in it for the college money.
“College money,” they’d say. “I’ll do four years at the pharmacy handing out pills, then go to nursing school with that college money.”
Then they’d look at me, like four years of my company was the price they’d have to pay. But goddamn if I didn’t show them the minute I got my hands on a trauma kit. It was like I was born for it. They could see it, too. All those achievers. So could the instructors. None of them could lay a chest tube like me, rig a splint, or do a field tracheotomy. I aced all the written tests, too. A natural.
I made first in the class. So, at graduation they gave me my choice of duty station. I picked corpsman, First Marine Expeditionary Force. This one sailor, this girl from Ohio, actually laughed out loud during the ceremony. Like, “Why the hell would he choose the Marines?”
If I met her today? I’d tell her that in all my time with the Marines I never once heard the words “college money.”
When I first got home, though, it felt like I’d gone back in time. Starting at the welcome-home party. So, are you going to college, now? Gonna use that college money?
Dad put that party together for me even after I asked him not to. I don’t think he ever understood what “sent home” meant. He was just proud, I guess. Real proud.
Uncle Chuck and Aunt Linda let him have the party out at their camp on Bayou Teche. Hung a banner that said GOD BLESS AMERICA. You know that banner you get at Walmart? With the block letters and the flag? Uncle Chuck and Aunt Linda paid for everything. Invited a lot of people I didn’t know. Everyone brought kids. All night, they jumped in and out of the pool, screaming. My god, they would not stop screaming.
My cousins all drove in from Baton Rouge, too. They were just starting college, then. They all gathered around and asked me the questions.
Kill anyone? What’s it like to shoot a machine gun? Must’ve been hot in the desert, huh?
Then they started telling stories to each other, mostly about bars. Not even stories, really. Just who was there, how drunk they were. After a while, they started talking about what they’d do in Baton Rouge that night, so I wandered over to the ice chest to grab a Coke.
On the way, I heard Uncle Chuck say to my dad, “I don’t understand what he means by ‘general discharge.’ I tell you what, if it ain’t honorable, it’s the other kind. Hell, in the Air Force, I got an honorable discharge just for three years sitting around Germany. Ain’t hard.”
And I can’t say that I went blind, exactly. Because I saw things. But for a few minutes I was outside the world. I heard it, though. Like I had sat down at the kitchen table to listen while a couple of grown men in the living room beat the shit out of each other.
The world came back to me as we were grappling across the patio, each of us with the other in a headlock. I tasted my own blood and felt Uncle Chuck’s blood smearing across my cheek from his busted lip. I heard the kids screaming again, but no splashing in the pool. My cousins, Uncle Chuck’s sons, pulled us apart with him screaming at me and calling me a fucking psychopath, and both of us trying hard to break free and keep throwing punches.
I felt another hand, all rough and calloused, pressed against my forehead. It was my father.
“Please, Les,” he whispered in my ear. “Okay? Please.”
So I gave in. Went limp until my cousins let go of me. All the while, my dad kept a gentle pressure on my forehead. He walked me back away from the crowded patio, then tried to hug me. But I shrugged him off. As I walked away, I heard him apologizing to Uncle Chuck and Aunt Linda. They were lecturing him about how much they’d spent on putting the party together and how ungrateful I’d been acting even before the fight.
That was the end of the hero talk. The end of family holidays, too. I drove my truck down the levee and found a spot under some cypress trees by the river with no noise but the bugs, nothing on the ground but branches, and all the leaves exactly where the trees had put them.
After a few hours calming myself down, I went home and apologized to my dad. That’s when I decided to stay in Houma with him. Ditched the idea of moving out and getting my own place.
Dad. He’s gonna freeze out there in that shed. I walk to my bedroom window and feel cold air trickling in. Am I gonna have to drag him out of that shed by his collar?
I shake it off, all this frustration, and go back to my computer, where the message from Paul and Landry is still open on the screen. It’s a Facebook invite from a new metal band they’re calling Vermin Uprising. They have a show in New Orleans. Some bar called Siberia. Maybe they’re just inviting everyone they know to this thing. But what the hell? I’ll just drive up for the night and say hello. I click on the accept button, then drift around Facebook awhile. Looking at people I used to know from high school, all married with kids.
On a whim, I decide to look for Dodge. I use his real name at first—Kateb. But nothing comes back. So I do a search on Google for “Iraqi interpreter Dodge.” Again, I get nothing.
He might have changed his name, which wouldn’t have been a bad idea. Or maybe he’s dead. I give up, close the laptop, and go back to the window to watch the lights in the shed, wondering when he’ll finish up out there so I can go to sleep.