Journeyman Page 12

  —It’s about these two brothers who rob banks. The one brother’s wife drives the getaway car. She’s hot. They both want her. A love triangle ensues. It’s one long, male-gaze-reinforcing chase scene. No way in hell it’ll pass the Bechdel test.

  —First part sounded like a good movie.

  —It’s a two-hour car commercial, Nolan.

  Nolan takes a long drag on the joint and shrugs. He holds the smoke in his lungs until he coughs it up, and then he thrusts the joint back to Cosmo and takes a sip of his beer.

  —That’s all you want?

  —All I need, Nolan says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand to muffle his cough.

  Relaxing in his chair, Cosmo smiles, satisfied. Then, he says:

  —You remember when movies used to have generic products in them?

  —No.

  —Guy used to hold this white and blue can with BEER written on the side of it instead of some actual brand-name product.

  —Can’t say that I do.

  —It’s a shame they got rid of those. Fucking product placement ruined movies.

  —There any product placements in that thing you’re typing?

  —Yeah, but I work my way around them.

  Nolan wants to ask Cosmo about the bleach, but he feels the need to build to it. He hopes the weed doesn’t make him forget.

  —There really no story to it? he asks Cosmo.

  —Of course there’s a story to it.

  —Let’s hear it.

  Cosmo sucks at his teeth and cracks his neck.

  —I don’t know.

  —Come on. What else are we going to talk about?

  —You’re funny drunk.

  —I’m funny, period.

  —No.

  —Says the Master of Comedy.

  —Case in point.

  —You’re just pretentious.

  —And you’re not?

  —How am I pretentious?

  —Arugula and brie? Fresh pasta with buttered vegetables purchased from the farmers’ market?

  —That’s just eating healthy.

  —Healthily.

  —See. Pretension.

  —That’s not pretension, Nolan. That’s accuracy.

  —Get to the story already.

  Cosmo looks at the end of the joint, glowing faintly.

  —In 1904, Russia and Japan were at war over trade routes, resources, and influence in Manchuria.

  —OK, Nolan says, settling in.

  —Czar Nicholas II ordered his entire Baltic Fleet to the Sea of Japan after the defeat of his Pacific Fleet at the hands of the Japanese navy. That’s halfway around the world, mind you.

  Using the end of the joint, Cosmo punctuates his points in the space before them.

  —It took the Baltic Fleet eight months to travel 18,000 nautical miles, and when they arrived in the Strait of Tsushima, they were weary. Morale was low. Their ships were slowed considerably by a year’s accumulation of barnacles. Long story short, the Japanese annihilate the czar’s entire Baltic Fleet in less than two days.

  Cosmo holds up two fingers.

  —Two.

  He runs his free hand through his hair.

  —The war between Russia and Japan ends several months later. Japan is established as a modern world power and, according to many historians, the Russian defeat was a primary cause of the Russian Revolution, brainchild of that wonderful slogan, “Don’t be a slave to material things,” which, it turns out, is the perfect banner for a consumerist society. It encourages disposability.

  —You throw bleach on the neighbors’ lawn, Chance?

  —No.

  —You swear.

  —I didn’t throw it.

  Then, under his breath:

  —I wrote with it. In order to leave them a message.

  —You can’t do shit like that, Chance.

  —Don’t foist your morals on me.

  —My morals? You’re the one writing a manifesto.

  —This transcends the manifesto.

  —Knock on their door.

  —Nah.

  —Scared?

  —Of what?

  Cosmo looks at Nolan.

  —Confrontation.

  —Have you ever known me to shy from confrontation?

  —Then knock on the door.

  —Have you not been listening? They do not process information in that way, Nolan. Now is the time to fight fire with fire.

  Nolan looks down at his beer.

  —You ain’t the one starting those fires, are you, Chance?

  —No, but I’m flattered you’d ask.

  —Chance?

  —No, Nolan. But even if I was, I wouldn’t tell you.

  —Why not?

  —Because that’s a felony offense, and if I’m going to commit a well-planned felony, I wouldn’t utter word one about it to anyone but the voices in my own head.

  —Thanks for putting me at ease.

  —That’s not the reason I’m on this planet.

  —What are you on this planet for?

  Cosmo offers Nolan the joint, but Nolan raises his hand.

  —Lightweight, Cosmo says.

  —Everything in moderation.

  —Except beer.

  —Except beer.

  Then, Nolan asks:

  —So how’s this Russian story of yours connected to the movie?

  —It’s not.

  —I thought everything’s connected.

  —Well, yes, in that sense, I guess it is.

  —How, then?

  —I’d have to consider the ways some before responding.

  —Stumped the boy genius.

  —Don’t call me that. I hated when he called me that.

  Nolan takes a sip of his beer and then lowers it into his lap. Fingering the label, he asks:

  —Dawn know you tried joining the Marines?

  Cosmo tips his head back and blows a geyser of smoke at the sky. Bringing his head back down, he nods.

  —Yep.

  —And?

  —When we invaded Iraq, she said, “Just think, that could’ve been you.”

  Nolan scratches at his cheek and says:

  —You wished it was you, though, didn’t you?

  —Part of me. At the time. Yeah, I did.

  —I thought about it, too, when we went into Afghanistan. Not about Iraq, but I did for Afghanistan.

  —The Good War.

  —Yeah.

  —You would’ve made a good soldier. You’re a good shot.

  —Better than you.

  —We both know that’s not true, Nolan.

  —Remember the time Dad took us out to that salt flat, out in Nevada?

  —I do.

  —He brought that smallboy of helium so we could sit around shooting red balloons all day.

  —I remember you missing.

  —“Who knew the boy genius would be such a good shot?”

  —He only called me that because I was better with words than you all were. Better shot, too.

  —Yes, you were.

  —A better shot?

  —With words. Than me or him.

  —Better builder, too.

  —Where’s that coming from?

  —Remember the cow-man I built?

  —No.

  —You don’t?

  —No.

  —I took all those cow bones we found on the flat and arranged them to resemble a dead man with a cow’s head and huge schlong.

  —Of course you did.

  —There’s a picture of that somewhere. I think I’m lying down next to him.

  —Strange bedfellows.

  The brothers sit quietly for a second or two before Cosmo says:

  —You ever look at those boys coming back and wish it were you, knowing what we know now, how most of it went over there?

  —No.

  —I wish I could have s
een it, though.

  —That sounds mighty naïve coming from someone smart as you.

  —You wouldn’t even want to see it? Just a glimpse?

  —Why would you want to see that?

  —Because that’s how all this works. Everything around us. You think all this plastic just materialized out of thin air? Motherfucker, we suck this shit out of the earth.

  —Language, Nolan mutters.

  —I mean, you wake up, you make coffee, you shower, skip breakfast, go to work, eat a sandwich, the bread’s soggy, you go home, you drink a beer and play video games, order take out, drink three more beers, and you fall asleep.

  —You do.

  —Yes, that’s my routine, my habit, so you can see why I might be interested in a change of scenery, in a chance to see what all runs the machine.

  —That’d be a change of scenery all right.

  —For a while there, I didn’t care if it was a just war or not, I just wanted to see it. I mean every fucking Sunday a bunch of slobbering drunks dress up like drag queens for football games, hands on their glittery puffed out chests, everybody up for the anthem, a song I love, by the way, while boys in Najaf are engaged in hand-to-hand combat in a cemetery. Did you know Muqtada al-Sadr’s got, like, two, three years on you? Imagine all he’s done, what he’s seen.

  —I’d like to see him cut a roof.

  —He’s better at bringing them down.

  —That’s my point.

  Then:

  —Are you in contact with Dawn?

  —No.

  —None?

  —I forward all of her mail to her parents. No one calls here for her anymore.

  —What went wrong?

  —I don’t want to talk about that, Nolan.

  —You’ll talk about war but not your ex-wife?

  —Not all stories need to be told.

  Cosmo belches.

  —You still planting daffodils at Dad’s grave?

  —I am.

  —Mom likes that.

  —She does.

  Then:

  —When Dad gave you his lighter, did he say anything to you?

  —What do you mean?

  —When he gave me my .38, he said don’t be an idiot.

  —He didn’t say that.

  —Not exactly, but he said don’t hurt anyone who doesn’t have it coming.

  —OK.

  —He say anything to you when he gave you that lighter?

  —Yeah, he did.

  —What’d he say?

  —Don’t be an idiot.

  Nolan smiles.

  —Not going to tell me, are you?

  —He didn’t say it to you, did he?

  —No.

  —That’s because he said it to me. That’s mine, not yours.

  —I’m glad you weren’t there, Cosmo. In Afghanistan or Iraq.

  Cosmo doesn’t respond.

  —I remember sitting in a bar in San Francisco, listening to all the arguments for and against—

  —People in San Francisco against the war? Shocking.

  —There’s good people in San Francisco, Cos—

  —They should spend more of their weekends there. Buy their second homes there, too.

  —Like them buying here isn’t driving your property value up.

  —We’ll see how long it’s my property.

  Nolan doesn’t respond. He hears the voices in the backyard down the way, but he can’t discern any meaning from them. He checks the level in his beer, lets his eyes linger there for a moment before saying:

  —I can remember thinking about how much you wanted to be there, in that TV, part of something historic, like Dad was.

  Cosmo shakes his head.

  —You need to remind me not to share my good stuff with you anymore.

  —Because you think keeping advertisements out of movies is going to make the world a better place?

  —Because I think it’s a start.

  A scream comes from the house down the way. A scream followed by swearing. Nolan looks to Cosmo.

  —You dumped that entire bottle out, didn’t you? Nolan asks.

  —This is my battle, Cosmo says. This is where my war is waged.

  Nolan looks away from his brother as Cosmo says:

  —The thing is, though, I’m losing.

  8

  Iridescent strands of fiberglass insulation sift down on Manny and Nolan as they pull the last of the sheetrock from a second-story bedroom ceiling. Tiny black mouse droppings rain down the fronts of their work shirts. They take turns packing the insulation into the contractor-grade sacks and hauling the sacks into the master bedroom, where the empty window spaces overlook the trash pile in the driveway below. Nolan stares down into the jumbled mass of black bags, sheetrock, wallpaper, and old wood and glass they’ve amassed. Downstairs, Guillermo is pounding new fir sticks into walls that may very well lie heaped in some future pile, destined for some future landfill, for some future ocean.

  When Nolan re-enters the bedroom, he finds Manny standing on the ladder, crowbar in hand, quietly inspecting the bottom cord of a truss.

  —¿Qué pasa? Nolan asks.

  —No good.

  —Por qué no good?

  —Termitas.

  —Termites?

  —Sí, termitas. Mira.

  Manny jumps down, and Nolan climbs the ladder and begins tracing the tunnels with the claw of his hammer, as if using it to decipher some hieroglyphs there.

  —No good. Nolan shakes his head.

  —Ching-ching. Manny smiles, rubbing his index finger along the underside of his thumb. Ching-ching for Joe.

  —Sí, Nolan says. Ching-ching. We better tell your brother.

  Manny calls to Guillermo, who lumbers up the stairs and into the room with a carpenter’s pencil in one hand and a carpenter’s square and tape measure in the other. He is the only accomplished carpenter Nolan has ever met who doesn’t wear pouches. At first he discounted this in Guillermo, but during his time on the farmhouse remodel, he’s come to see how it works for the Mexican, who stays light and fast and doesn’t waste movements and is always thinking several steps ahead. Once, when Manny and Nolan were carrying a stack of redwood boards from the house to the salvage stack, Manny stopped and moved Guillermo’s hammer across the room and on their way back through Guillermo said something to him in Spanish that Nolan didn’t understand but that made the younger brother lower his head sheepishly.

  Nolan wonders how it must be for the brothers so far from home, from the comforts of a native language, and here not completely by choice, but by necessity. Nolan has little idea what they endure.

  At the landfill one morning during his first or second week, he and Manny were unloading the back of Joe’s Ram, taking turns launching pieces of wood and sailing flats of sheetrock. Heaps of appliances and recyclable metals were stacked off to the side. They had the place to themselves except for two yellow dozers crushing trash and the gulls flying through dust stirred by the tractors. Nolan and Manny both wore masks.

  —Your brother married? Nolan asked.

  —No, Manny answered.

  —He want to be?

  —No lo sé.

  —You never asked him?

  —Maybe I ask him he no want a wife, and he think I ask, you joto?

  —Is he?

  —No. He is tímido. You know this word? Tímido?

  —I wouldn’t call Guillermo timid.

  —What is it?

  —Timid.

  —Timid.

  —Yeah. But what he is, is shy.

  —Shy.

  —Shy. Timid is different.

  —In Spanish is tímido.

  —Funny how that works.

  —¿Cómo?

  —Nothing.

  A few seconds later, Nolan said:

  —He’s a good carpenter.

  —Yes, but is not only thing.

  —Y
ou try telling him that?

  Manny smiled behind his mask.

  —You tell.

  —He really lift a burro off the ground?

  —Sí. Two times.

  —Yeah, I’ll stay out of it.

  At that point, a flatbed with plywood sides rolled up and parked right next to them. Three Mexicans jumped out of the bench seat and walked around to the back of the truck and while one opened the doors to the sides, the other two climbed over and began unloading their own load of sheetrock and two-by-fours. Nolan looked over now and then, impressed by how quickly they worked. They had the truck empty just as he and Manny were emptying the Ram. Not one of the Mexicans wore gloves or protective eyewear or a mask. At the end of the workday, Nolan would stand at the back spigot at the farmhouse and wash sheetrock and wood dust off his face and neck and when he got home his eyes were bloodshot from the fiberglass insulation. Despite wearing masks, his hankies would be streaked with black snot. When he turned to mention to Manny that the Mexicans weren’t wearing masks, he noticed that Manny had removed his and it was tucked in his back pocket. Nolan didn’t say anything at all, not even after they were gone and Manny put his mask on again.

  Back in the upstairs bedroom, Guillermo climbs the ladder and after a moment he climbs down and moves it down the way and climbs it again to inspect a second and third cord. When he comes down from the ladder he places his tools on the treads and takes his cell phone from his back pocket and after pushing several buttons with his thumb he holds the phone out to Nolan.

  —What? Nolan says.

  —You tell, Manny says for his brother.

  Nolan looks at Guillermo, and the Mexican nods down at his phone.

  —You, is all he says.

  —All right, Nolan says, turning to Manny, but you tell your brother he owes me a six-pack for this.

  *

  He dreams one night he’s standing on the bank of the river watching the farmhouse burn on the other side. The light from the flames plays on the dark surface of the water, slender tongues lapping at the reflection of the full moon. At first he’s alone, listening to the crackles and hisses of the fire, of walls and floors collapsing inside, sending sparks through the windows that turn into stars in the night sky. But then he’s with Cosmo. They’re boys, standing across the river from the house fire. Nolan grabs his brother by the arm, pulls on him to leave, but Cosmo doesn’t budge.

  —No, he says to Nolan. Don’t.

  Joe shows up late for work on Monday with his hammer arm in a dishtowel sling and a rattlesnake’s rattle sealed in a clear plastic sandwich bag, beaded white on the inside from the humidity of its decomposition.