Juiceboxers, p.9
Juiceboxers, page 9
“Can someone punch Krug in the penis?” Abdi said. Lefthand, who had been hit by the Timbit, leaned over the aisle and emphatically obliged. Krug yelped and nearly decapitated his head in the window with the sudden dick flinch.
“What the fuck?” Krug said.
“Serves you right,” Warrant Berman said.
“Numbnuts,” Abdi said.
“Literally,” Plinko said.
They arrived at City Hall and offloaded under the front awning, bodies still glowing from the bus. Plinko knew the drill from previous years. Form up in ranks, march to the front of the square like the Israelites around Jericho, a moment of silence surrounded by the crowd, march away with all the people cheering, fainting hordes of admiring Canadians falling down before them. The honour guard was already standing vigil at the cenotaph, looking frigid and immobile. They had arrived early to create the illusion that they’d always been there. The ecstasy of the bus ride shifted into a forced lugubriousness. Plinko didn’t recall ever really feeling sad on Remembrance Day but also did not feel as patriotic as he was supposed to. He was feeling cold. The soldiers gathered themselves. Chests out, chins down, feet forward.
March!
They strode ahead, arms swinging, feet in step with the soldier behind, beside, and before. The cadence became an unspoken song and Plinko’s brain merged with the motion. The cadence was bigger than any one soldier; it moved through them like a mighty wind. The crowd stood on the periphery of sight and clapped.
Halt!
Leeeft turn.
They swivelled to the left as one organism. The frozen glass triangles of City Hall rose before them and they were surrounded by a crowd and thousands of red poppies, a field of red winter flowers. Standing at attention, Plinko never recalled much of what was being said. He was an intransigent object next to other intransigent objects and the buzzing calm between words was electric. The laying of the wreaths felt like a lifetime. Vague shapes in dark wool moving up and down and the nubs of his toes beginning to freeze. A leg itch, an arm twitch, the feeling of ants circumnavigating his body, and when Plinko felt like he could stand still no longer, they were marching again. The crowd cheered and festivities were officially underway.
* * *
The Junior Ranks Mess was empty and church quiet. The air smelled of pepperoni grease and old beer. The door slammed open and the first troops entered. More soldiers entered and voices began careening off the walls like agitated crows. The waitress poured the first golden pints with a familiar flick of the wrist. The eager troops downed them at the bar with slick, reptilian convulsions.
Plinko and Walsh sat down at one of the last empty tables and started downing pints, while Abdi went up to the bar and returned with a Coke. Empty pint glasses at the table were magically replaced by full glasses that glowed with a yellow light that felt like wisdom. Riding the golden wave, Plinko was just so fucking happy. He loved Abdi and he loved Walsh and he loved beer and he loved Yoo (who was taking people’s money at pool) and he loved the people of Afghanistan and maybe even Krug.
Across the room, Zolski sat with a woman on his lap. With his left hand he fondled a breast and with his right, he clutched a Bible. A corporal with a big chin who claimed to have shot a man in Croatia was holding court over a table of empty beer bottles and young, untrained privates. Walsh’s parents entered the room and stood with Walsh and Abdi. Plinko had met Walsh’s parents a few times and liked them a lot. They were the kind of people who showed up for things and made everyone feel good. He’d once asked Walsh if they would consider adopting him, mostly as a joke, but Walsh was confused by the question and didn’t answer. And if he was being honest, Plinko didn’t want Walsh’s parents to be his parents: he wanted his own parents to be his parents. He pushed the thought aside as Walsh’s dad deposited a fresh round of pints on the table. Walsh’s dad wore two poppies — an old one with a green centre and a new one with black — and a brown leather jacket that smelled trustworthy as an old couch. Plinko grabbed a pint and chugged. The room was hot and humid, seemingly composed of sweat and alcohol.
In the distance, the lights of the city rose like sparks from a disturbed fire. Pool balls cracked. A pint glass of chew crashed to the floor in a crescendo of saliva and tobacco. Zolski was still holding the Bible and vigorously massaging the woman’s breasts and people were starting to stare. Plinko drank a dark liquor that tasted like the underside of a tongue. More glowing pints.
A few minutes later, Plinko walked into the bathroom and there Zolski stood, thrusting at the women beneath him. “Fuck me, soldier,” she said. “Fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me.” Plinko left and returned to the table. He chugged another beer and tried not to remember Zolski’s bare ass and then they were stumbling down the stairs and into a cab and soon they were crossing the river. Plinko stuck his head out of the window and lapped air and the driver was laughing and the air tasted like snow and gravel.
Time grew fuzzy. They were singing “Auld Lang Syne” at a Whyte Avenue bar that smelled of perfume and old sweat. Krug was peeing in a pint glass under the table and shouting at the bartenders and pointing at random people. “Fuck you and you and you.” Plinko was now walking on the street and snow was falling from a dead sky. Bockel and Krug were trying to climb the light posts. Walsh pulled out a pen from his pocket and was blasting spells at passing cars.
A group of young women in heels surrounded Walsh and Abdi.
“Hey soldier boys,” they said.
“I’ll take you home like right now,” one said, reaching over and slapping Walsh’s ass. Her friends laughed and cheered.
Walsh shook his head no.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I’m sorry,” Walsh said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here, girls.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Krug spat, running after the group. “What about me?”
“Fuck off, prick,” the ringleader said.
“Do you have any sisters?” Krug yelled, running in the direction of the women, who were already far down the sidewalk.
Getting slapped on the ass uncorked Walsh’s mouth. He leaned over the side of the metal bench and emptied his stomach. Plinko saw Walsh’s vomit and threw up too. The yellow slush beside them was steaming. Abdi was waving his arms frantically, trying to flag down a cab. Walsh was crying.
“They’re going to hate me,” Walsh whispered.
“Who’s going to hate you, buddy?” Plinko said. “We all fucking love you.”
Walsh just stared at him with blank eyes. “My parents are going to hate me. What would you do if you had a son —”
“If I had a son?” Plinko interrupted.
“If you had a son and he was — like — didn’t like —”
“What the frick are you talking about? I’m never gonna be a parent, I swear to God. You know what my dad’s like. Why are you asking me these questions right now?”
Walsh dropped his head, but Plinko assumed he was just drunk. He, himself, was certainly drunk. A cab came and Abdi helped Walsh inside, then sat down too.
“Are you coming?” Abdi said.
“You go,” Plinko shouted. “I’m gonna find Krug and make sure he doesn’t shoot someone.” Abdi shook his head and closed the door and Plinko stumbled down the street and found himself waiting in line for donairs with a random soldier whose name he didn’t know. His head was spinning. A teenager with pierced eyebrows and green hair asked the soldier if he’d ever killed anyone. The man behind the counter saw their uniforms and looked at them with sad eyes.
Plinko and the random soldier ate their food on a snow-covered bench. The onions and garlic sauce and tomatoes and meat churned with the beer and everything else and Plinko threw up again. His mouth was sour and his throat was burning and he turned into a bar and asked for a glass of water and his head cleared long enough for a guy with a big beard to buy him a pint and a shot of Jägermeister and the man led the people at the bar in a chant. “Canada! Canada! Canada!” The lights above the bar blinked and burned and the bartender was twirling a bottle and Plinko’s new friend had his arms around his shoulder and drinks were everywhere and people were shouting and the people loved him and he felt the top of his head and realized he had lost his beret. Everyone was laughing and he couldn’t find his beret. The squeaking of ice cubes in a glass of water. His beret was probably on the wooden floor and the floor was greasy with alcohol. He bent down to pick it up and fell over.
Twelve
The final weeks before deployment passed in a haze of combat first aid and cultural-sensitivity training. Plinko still felt hungover from Remembrance Day and was finding it hard to stay awake during the classroom sessions, though gear nuts like Bockel and Zolski were quickly becoming engorged with the new medical gear — Gucci swag, as the troops put it. A selfapplying tourniquet you could torque with one hand. QuikClot if someone got shot. It was the season of Christmas and one of the instructors walked into the classroom wearing a Santa hat instead of a beret. Most of the soldiers thought it was so fucking funny, but Plinko thought it was stupid as hell.
The days passed quickly. Lots of bandages. Lots of touching one another in first-aid scenarios. Lots of pretend boners and giggling. The cultural-sensitivity training consisted of lessons like don’t give the Afghans the thumbs-up because it means up your ass, don’t point your rifle at anyone unless you intend to shoot them, only shoot if you’ve consulted the laminated rules of engagement sheet that must be kept in your breast pocket at all times. The soldiers learned a few phrases: stop or I will shoot and thank you. Lieutenant Glandy tried to teach the difference between the Haqqani network, the Taliban, other hostiles, and everyday Afghans. Lieutenant Glandy didn’t seem perfectly certain himself.
Plinko looked over and Walsh’s face was red. He seemed bothered by something. Sure enough, Walsh raised his hand.
“Go ahead, soldier,” Lieutenant Glandy said.
“How do you know who is Taliban and who isn’t?”
“How do you know who is Taliban?” Lieutenant Glandy repeated rhetorically, looking around the classroom. “The Taliban are the ones shooting at you.”
Everyone laughed.
“Better to assume everyone is fucking Taliban,” Apfel said. “The hajjis in Afghanistan all look the same.”
“Shoot first,” Krug said. “Let God sort the fuckers out.”
“I’m making that into a T-shirt,” Bockel said.
“It’s already a T-shirt,” Krug said. “I ordered one yesterday.”
“Your mouth looks like my cat’s butthole,” Abdi whispered. “Make that into a T-shirt.”
“Fuck you and your Taliban friends,” Apfel said.
“What was that?” Abdi said.
“All Muslims are fucking Taliban,” Apfel said.
“Hoy.” Lieutenant Glandy looked over. “You two troops having a private conversation?”
“Corporal Apfel says all Muslims are Taliban.”
“Did you say that?” Lieutenant Glandy asked, turning to Apfel.
“I did not.” He motioned at Abdi. “This one is hearing things.”
“Do not under any circumstances say things like that in Afghanistan,” Lieutenant Glandy said. “Hearts and minds, soldiers. We’re trying to win the hearts and the minds.”
Apfel grunted.
“Let’s talk about the rules of engagement again,” Glandy said.
Plinko looked back. Apfel was staring at Abdi.
* * *
Holiday season at the House of Guns started with a party. Walsh was staying with his folks over Christmas, and Krug invited all the lone wolves from Afghanistan Platoon for a bender. Plinko’s mom had called and said she would be in Calgary for Christmas, if he wanted to come down, but Plinko still disliked Ken and didn’t return the call. He drank a lot of beer and some vodka and woke up in the bathtub the next morning. Someone had shit on the floor. When he finally pulled himself out of the tub, he drove to the liquor store with Krug for more beer and accidentally left the front door open. When they returned, the house had been robbed. The VHS player and television were stolen and a pair of Krug’s shoes too.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Krug said. “Motherfuck.” He punched the fridge and left a small dent.
“Why the fuck did you leave the door open, you dumb motherfuckin’ Plinko.”
“You were the last one out. And it’s your house, thus the responsibility is primarily yours.”
“Fuck you. And if I find the scum-fucked excuse of a human shitlicker who’s wearing my shoes, that scumbag is going to get it.” Krug made the pronouncement with a large wad of peach Skoal tucked into his mouth, forcing his lower lip to jut. Plinko was having a hard time taking him seriously. The stolen shoes were unremarkable — old Puma sneakers of the sort that had been popular years earlier. Krug didn’t even wear those shoes anymore.
“The scumbags didn’t even touch the safe.” Krug sounded almost offended. “Bunch of assfuck idiots.” The safe had been open when the burglary took place because Krug always left the safe open. The 5.56 and larger calibre ammo was stored alongside the illegally pinned magazines and the legal, illegally stored rifles. There were probably thirty thousand bucks of guns and gear in that safe. Why the thieves hadn’t taken anything other than Krug’s smelly-ass shoes and a VHS player was a mystery on the level of God’s virgin birth. Why Krug insisted upon leaving the safe open was an equally formidable question. Life is a mystery.
“Guess the scumbags didn’t want to fuck with no gun owners,” Krug said. Plinko had moved from the living room to the kitchen and was making Kraft Dinner. This was the third time Krug used the word scumbag in the last half hour and Plinko was growing tired of his presence.
“Guess not,” Plinko said.
“I want my damn shoes back,” Krug said. His voice carried an angry, petulant hitch. Krug walked into the kitchen in his army helmet. The scrim was hanging long at the back of the helmet and made it look like he had a faded green mullet. He lifted his shirt, revealing the 9mm Browning tucked into his sweatpants. He pointed his gun at Plinko’s boiling noodles.
“I’m going to the Drake for food. You going to eat that shit?”
“I’m virtually broke,” Plinko said.
“Dinner’s on me,” Krug said. “If we get into our uniforms, maybe they’ll give us a discount or some shit.”
The Drake was a few blocks away. They put on their uniforms and walked out into the snow. Hardly anyone was on the streets, just a young mother whisking kids from a van into a house and the glow from windows where folks were watching the hockey game. The wind pulled snow up from the ground and into the air. The domed glow of the refinery on the other side of the river pushed against the grey sky like a tongue against the roof of a mouth. It was Live Music Friday at the bar and the metal band was doing loud shots of Jägermeister between sets. The drummer sat at his drums, picking at his fingers and looking unhappy. Plinko and Krug grabbed two pints and started to drink. After finishing a first pint, Krug started spitting gobs of peach Skoal into the first empty glass. The man at the table next to them was wearing a white cowboy hat and laughing loudly. The waitress was laughing too and placed a giant cow-patty of a burger in front of the man and walked away with a collegial pat on his back.
“Can I have what he’s having?” Krug said, motioning the waitress over.
“It’s not on the menu.” She was tall with bright eyes and grey hair that fell long down her back.
“What do you mean, not on the menu?”
“Read it.” She dropped a menu on the table. “Find Jim’s burger.”
Krug scanned, front and back. “I can’t find it.”
“That’s ’cause it’s Jim’s burger and not on the menu, like I said. If you’d been listening.” She started walking away but slowed and turned back. “When you’ve been coming here twenty years —” She stopped mid-sentence. “What’s your name?”
“Andrew Krug.”
“Andy, my friend, listen here. After twenty years starting today — if you keep coming in and acting like a decent fellow and fix the plumbing on your day off ’cause some trucker’s ass broke the toilet with shit all over the place, even on the walls, there will be an Andy’s burger. And it won’t be on the menu. Billy Bumpkin, walking in here with his uniform on, thinking he’s an ice cream war sundae, about to go off and fight some new BS-bullshit somewhere far off, won’t be able to order Andrew’s burger, even if he wants it, ’cause it won’t be on the menu. Now what do you want,” and it wasn’t a question.
Plinko watched the foulness wash all over Krug’s skinny face. When he was in that belligerent place, he either didn’t talk much or whatever he said was nasty. Plinko ended up ordering cheeseburgers and fries for both himself and Krug. The waitress left with their order and Krug continued to sulk. Not even the arrival of piping hot French fries cheered him up.
“Plinko, you’re getting fuckin’ fat,” he said, as he picked at the fries. I am not getting fat, Plinko thought. I am in excellent cardiovascular health. He had long reconciled himself to his natural thickness. They finished. Krug paid for the food.
“If you don’t pay me back, I’m jacking up your rent, motherfucker.”
“You said it was your treat.”
“That was then,” Krug said. “And this is now. And you’re paying me back. We’re gonna stop at the fuckin’ bank on the way home just to make sure.”
The bank was closed for the day, but the ATM vestibule was open. In the corner a man had propped himself against the glass partition separating the ATM from the rest of the bank. The man didn’t look up. The top half of his face glowed green in the ATM light. He was wrapped in a blanket. On the man’s feet, Plinko saw a pair of well-used Puma shoes. Plinko felt like throwing up. The man ignored Krug; Krug ignored him. Krug didn’t always interact with homeless people. They were just landscape to him. Plinko glanced over at Krug, who had suddenly stopped moving. Krug was staring at the man’s feet. Plinko really felt like throwing up now.
