I'd Walk with My Friends If I Could Find Them

6. Tattoo

DAX FLIES TO Salt Lake City, rents a car, and drives past the salt flats, Bonneville, the state border, past Wendover and Wells, to Elko, Nevada. Alston, as lean as he was in high school but now sporting a shaved head and a Janelle tattoo on his left forearm, greets Dax in front of his mobile home on half an acre on the south side of town.

“First off,” he says, “you’re still a big son of a bitch. Second, Janelle stayed up in Idaho, and there’s nothing more to say about that. Third, I’m gonna let you talk about the war. Get it all out. No one’s listening out here. Let’s go inside and get to the tough shit first.”

Framed prints of large bucks and antelope hang on the walls inside. A dusty but clean smell hangs in the room, as if it’s been recently vacuumed.

“Elko’s got water and gold,” Alston says over beers. “You don’t need anything else. Listen, a lot of people are going to freak the fuck out about losing their homes, losing their jobs, all that bullshit. Just wait. I don’t feel sorry for them one bit. What do you expect, living in San Francisco or L.A.? You gonna spend a million bucks on a two-bedroom fixer? Big cities, they’re not taking anything out of the ground that people want. Of course you gonna eventually be screwed. We got water and gold. Other places have one or the other. We got both. I’m never leaving. I paid one-fifty for this house. It’s worth three hundred, easy. Okay, that was the icebreaker. Talk to me, man. Are you fucked up in the head? Are the movies true? You got all of your limbs, right?”

Alston pauses long enough for a sip.

“Talk to me, man. Look at your fucking forearms. What’d you do? I’m not joking, Dax. I want you to talk. All these guys and gals come back and they all say that they got no one to talk to, no one’s gonna listen. I believe them. No one wants to hear the stories. Who has happy stories? You don’t even have to go to war. No one has happy stories. Good jobs here, but where’s the gold going? You’d think we’d keep a couple chunks for ourselves, but trucks leave every night at 2 A.M.headed for somewhere that’s not here, digging the gold, killing the mountains, dumping it in the trucks and hauling it away. Listen, I don’t ask too many questions, but why is gold so damn important? Who’s wearing gold these days? It’s all platinum. Janelle wore gold. She loved that shit, but only with the turquoise in it. So fucking weird. No one makes the gold with the turquoise in it, it’s all silver and turquoise, everyone knows that, but she loved the fucking gold and turquoise, which you can never find. Why? Because it looks like shit, that’s why. And this thing on my arm? Best idea I ever had. Do you know how many girls I meet that see that tat but no wedding ring? It’s amazing. They’ll come up and say, ‘Was Janelle your mom?’ And you know what I say? ‘Hell yes she was my mom, bless her goddamned soul.’ They see that loyalty and it’s pants-off time. Afterward we’ll be laying there and they’ll be stroking the fucking tattoo, and I know what they’re thinking—‘This guy loves his mama. This guy’s a keeper.’ And what do I say? Nothing. That’s what I say. You’re in Elko, Dax.”

Another sip.

“Shit, it’s good to see you, man. I want you to talk. I’m gonna sit here and listen. You don’t want to say shit, fine, just tell me, but this is your chance, my friend. You can’t go on no documentary and say no one wanted to listen. I’m listening. Please. I’ll listen.”

“I don’t know, A,” Dax says. “I feel good. Weird to be out, though.”

“Sure.”

“I hate having to decide what to wear every day. Don’t have to think about that while you’re in. I thought I’d love it, but it’s a pain in the ass.”

“Freedom,” Alston says. “Fucking overrated.”

“I’m good,” Dax says. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You a smoker now. I smell it on you. You ever have to stick the cigs in your nose like those dudes in Nam?”

“I don’t know,” Dax says.

Silence while Alston leans back in his chair, eyes wide, then leans forward.

“Come on, man. Give me something. Give me the best and worst. We’ll clear that shit out and go lose some money.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Nowhere to be. Think, but not too much. You don’t get to the stuff I’m talking about by thinking.”

“Boring shit,” Dax says. “There’s no best or worst.”

“Give them to me. I’ll take them. Make it up. You got to talk about it.”

“That’s not true.”

“That is true. It’ll eat you, man.”

Dax exhales and glances at the wall.

“You a deer hunter or something now?” he says. “What’s up with the bucks?”

“You forget how smart I am. You’re not changing the subject.”

“You got all these deer on the walls, A. You’re from Rutherford. Where’s the mounted head? In the bedroom?”

“Stop that shit. Nobody’s from anywhere. And you’ll talk. I got too much beer for you not to talk.”

“You’re a gold miner now,” Dax says. “You got one of those lights on your helmet?”

“Those are for coal miners, you dumbass. And I sure as shit ain’t no gold miner. Bail bonds, man. Easy money. Dumbest fucks in forever.”

“You haven’t been in the army.”

“Who do you think my customers are, Mormons?”

“Buddy of mine is one,” Dax says. “Loved it when he said fuck. He got out too.”

“Where?”

“Colorado.”

“Same as here. All about gold. When it dries up, no more Colorado. We got gambling and water. That’ll keep some folks around.”

“Where we going?” asks Dax. “I saw the casino lights coming in.”

“Good tables or girls?”

“Both.”

“Where do you think you are?”

“Pick a place where we can win you a stuffed buck.”

Four hundred up after a three-hour session at the poker table, Dax waits in the casino bar’s corner booth for Alston to return with drinks. Alston promised him something “old school,” and Dax senses a root root in his future.

The Eagles play from a hidden speaker and Dax stares at a woman sitting in profile at the center of the bar. Her blond hair is cut shoulder length and her legs could reach the floor if she extended them, but she has her heels on the low rung of the stool. She’s kept her jacket on, giving the impression that she could leave at any moment, but she’s only two sips into her latest drink.

Near drunk, Dax wants another gulp in him before he walks over to her. He pictures his smooth approach, her eyes rising to meet his, her instant attraction. He’s never gained a woman’s interest with just a look, but his roll on the poker table, the drinks, the “just home from war” angle, and “Take It Easy” have him feeling good. He fantasizes that she has a place nearby, that he won’t have to take her back to Alston’s.

When Alston returns with the drinks, he says, “Guess what this is,” but Dax grabs the tumbler and hammers his drink.

“Shit,” Alston says. “You’re not that big.”

“Work to do,” Dax says, and points at the woman.

“One-armer,” Alston says.

“What?”

“See how she sits. That’s on purpose. Listen, I got no issues with it, but I know you.”

“What?”

“That girl has one arm. Go check her out. Can’t tell from here.”

Dax stays seated and examines his empty glass.

“Hey, no problem, big boy,” Alston says. “Go do your thing. I’ve had one-armers, one-leggers.”

“Shut the hell up,” Dax says. “You’re so full of shit.”

“You kidding me? What do you want to know?”

“Nothing. Please.”

“One-armers are great, because you don’t have to adjust anything, but the one-leggers fuck you all up. She was cut to the hip. The whole angle in there — I don’t know, man. And you don’t want to stand ’em up. Jesus.”

“Only you,” Dax says.

“Hell no, some people like that crap. I don’t like it and I don’t dislike it. Doesn’t matter to me. Decent face, green light.”

“Got a feeling you’d take them without a head.”

“I got my limits, man. No tits, no way. I’ve been down that road. Sad as fuck. You get the shirt off and one is missing and she’s all fucked up emotional about it so you can’t say anything, but I say something. Can’t get past it. Happened twice. Cancer or some shit. These gals come in from the hills where they practiced the nukes back when. Beautiful chicks, but I can’t touch ’em after I’ve seen that.”

“You’re cheering me up,” Dax says.

“I should be. That one’s got one arm. What you need two for? You got one dick, unless the war’s changed you.”

“Yep.”

“And I’ve never seen her before, which is a good sign. Legs on her too. You might like it.”

“Sure.”

“What? The thrill gone? The root root will kick here in two seconds. Fix everything.”

“It’s horrible,” Dax says.

“Childhood.”

“Yours.”

“I guess. I wouldn’t go back. You better not be going. Nothing good in Rutherford. It’s all gone.”

“I don’t know,” Dax says.

“You know. There’s nothing there. I can tell you’re going. You’re already there. It’s a mistake. You don’t need the city, Dax. There’s nothing worth knowing. Not good for you. Don’t go. You’ll screw yourself.”

“I’m not sixteen, A. I know what I’m doing.”

“No, you think you do, but you’ve been away. It’s not your fault. You go back, it’s over. Start new.”

“You’re not listening.”

“Far away from Rutherford.”

“Travel agent now? Where’s the place for me, O great one? Tell me.”

“It’s not home.”

“I’m not you. Don’t want to be you.”

“Don’t stall. Go talk to her.”

“No, you’re a travel agent and a gold miner,” Dax says. “You hunt deer. You take shit from the ground.”

“The drink feels good, huh?”

“I want to be as smart as you,” Dax says.

“You don’t want to be me.”

“Smart as you,” Dax says.

“You started too late.”

“I should go down south, maybe?” Dax says. “The sun will be good for me.”

“You’re chicken shit. She’s at this bar for a reason.”

“She’s looking for deer hunters.”

“You won’t go, but I will.”

Alston stands and takes a step away.

“Oh, I know,” says Dax. “Key fucking West.”

Alston stops and turns back. He steps to the booth, grabs Dax’s empty glass, lifts it a few inches off the table, and slams it down.

“Fuck, I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and turns and walks to the bar.

From Alston’s front steps Dax stares south beyond the ridge line at the white glow in the otherwise black sky. Digging the gold, killing the mountains. Five minutes since his last cigarette; he leans his head back on the front door. He’s always liked the black, early-morning calmness and thinks he might look for something where he can work at night and sleep during the day-lit morning.

The faintest sound of crushing rock arrives from the distant white glow, then Alston’s footsteps inside the home. Dax guesses he’ll have another couple minutes on his own before Alston joins him outside. He didn’t expect these fifteen minutes alone, especially after they left the casino empty-handed and Alston pleaded with him on the drive home to move out west. He told Alston he’d think about it, but Dax already knows there’s nothing here to connect to, nothing that excites him. There’s too much space to feel close to anything. Up to this trip, Fort Carson was as far west as he’d ever been, and that was far enough. Colorado, Nevada — these were places to escape to after you’d lived a life. You could sleepwalk here and get by. There weren’t enough people, wasn’t enough buzz to get you to wake up.

Alston is wrong about Rutherford. Dax knows he’s not returning to just his hometown. It’s Rutherford and Newark, the traffic, exhaust smell; the local Pancake House, nearby skyscrapers, Madison Square Garden; taxis and cops with attitude, Connecticut pricks; airplanes everywhere, back-yard pools, everything familiar and foreign and kinetic. There, you’re always awake.

But Alston’s words have tweaked him enough that he questions accepting his well-intentioned stepmother’s offer to crash at their place while he figures things out. His childhood bedroom might kill him at twenty-seven. She’s told him the jobs are waiting for him, which he believes is shit, but even so, where to start? He knows tons of ex-army security guards, but he’s done with uniforms and guns, save for the pistol he’ll keep for home protection, but that one will be locked up.

Torres called him a couple days ago to let him know about a possible speaking gig for veterans and that Ellis had hurt his foot and was coming back to Carson early. Torres had few details on Ellis. As for the job, Dax would have to travel, which seemed to suit Torres fine, but Dax isn’t sure he could pull it off. He can’t think of a single wartime story he’d want to tell, no matter how motivational, funny, or gut-wrenching. Besides, he struggles with the details: his memory of war is the girl in the road. Already all else blurs beside her. He knows about the patrols, laughter, showering, sweat, and boredom that filled his two tours in Afghanistan, but none of it feels real — there’s no focus or faces or sounds. His war is his rifle in his hands, gunpowder in his nose, a girl in the road. How could he tell that story? Why would he want to?

The doorknob turns and Dax leans forward.

“Big guy like you,” Alston says, stepping past Dax, “you’d make sixty a year collecting bonds out here. Sixty, easy. I’ll wake the boss up right now. We start tomorrow. Send the rest of your shit whenever. We only have to get like a quarter of the money back to break even. You think business will ever slow down? You think this place is gonna turn into Disneyland? We’ll get you a.357 or something. You’ll never use it, man. Don’t worry. Just shave your head and get yourself a killer tattoo. Show ’em your forearms. They’ll give us more money than they owe.”

“I got a tat on my back.”

“You gonna walk backwards without a shirt all day?”

“I could get one of those Mike Tyson jobs on my face.”

“You do whatever the hell you want.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re goddamn brothers. You know that?”

“Yeah,” Dax says.

“Hey, talk when you’re ready, okay? When you’re ready, let it fly.”