Dog Soldiers (59 page)

“
Nobody calls me a liar.
”

“
Yes, they do. All the time they do. You wait till you grow up, you
’
ll have all the guns you want, all the dope and all the women.
”

“
I could go for that, I guess. I
’
m gonna join the Marines.
”

“
You better believe it. That
’
s the Training School tradi
tion, you join the fucking Marines whether you want to or not. The social worker
’
ll
shame you into it. When you get down to Paris Island you
’
ll recognize the other kids from the Training School because they steal.
”

“
I
’
m a good stealer.
”

“
No, no,
”
Hicks said,
“
you cut that out, that
’
s for punks. You
’
ll wash the punk off you when you
’
re out in the fleet. Just keep your mouth shut and watch how people do. Watch how the Japs do, they
’
re the coolest people in the world.
”

Just as he had feared, he began to feel cold. His side began to hurt as though for the first time.

“
I know you,
”
Hicks said.
“
I wish I didn
’
t but I do. You better do something about the way you cringe and whine. I don
’
t want to see you do it. That
’
s why I don
’
t want you around here now.
”

He stared down at the tracks as he walked, the crossties one after another kept him going.

“
For one thing it makes you weaker. For another nobody gives a shit. Who are you whining to? People? They don
’
t care.

“
Look where we are kid, we
’
re walking on salt, nobody gets us out of here but me. The people are over on the other side of those goofy and we don
’
t need a single one of the son of a bitches.
”

He stopped and watched the mountains vibrate.

“
You know what
’
s out there? Every goddamn race of shit jerking each other off. Mom and Dad and Buddy and Sis, two hundred million rat-hearted cocksuckers in enormous cars. Rabbits and fish. They
’
re mean and stupid and greedy, they
’
ll fuck you for
laughs, they want you dead. If
you
’
re no better than them you might as well take gas. If you can
’
t get your own off them then don
’
t stand there and let them spit on you, don
’
t give them the satisfaction.
”

Careless of the pain, he unslung the rifle and propped the stock against his hip.
“
Knuckle me, you fucking pig, I
’
ll kill you. Go up on a bridge and let them have it, watch the motherfuckers die.
”

“
I
’
ll kill you,
”
Hicks screamed.

“
Ray,
”
the old lady said,
“
don
’
t get so mad. You
’
ll just throw up on the tracks again.
”

“
It wasn
’
t me that did, Ma Ma. It was another kid I seen him.
”

Oh man, don
’
t cringe. It
’
s a terrible thing to cringe.

At the Training School, he was still pissing his pants at thirteen. He
’
d carry the underwear around with him, hid den, afraid to put it in th
e laundry bag because it was la
beled. Hid it under the bed and then did the same with the next pair. Oh my God, two pairs of them all pissed on, they
’
ll beat shit out of me.

Terrible thing.

Like the nigger who shined shoes in the basement of the enormous roadhouse they had near the Jacksonville stock-car track. Old man who went back to oughty ought. Whenever a drunk staggered down the stairs, he
’
d grin. Grin for all he was worth. The meaner the old boy who came in down to piss, the wider that grin got, big horse teeth straining under the lip meat.

Smiling through. Shit, maybe he was amused.

What
’
s funny, boy?

No — there
’
s no forgiveness for that, nobody can forgive anybody for making them that scared. No man forgives another man for scaring him like that.

There was a bullet-head priest in the German Catholic church on the Northside and one day he and his mother went there to beg. The s
quarehead slammed a fifty-cent
piece down on a table so they went to North Avenue and had sundaes and saw The Crusades. Taking Jerusalem. Thanks for the flick, you Kraut bastard, I wish I had your fat ass out here now.

God, Hicks thought, it just makes it hurt.

Dieter. Got him back on the mountain. Friendly fire. You couldn
’
t hear him, you could only watch the way he was acting. He was asking for it. Cringing.

All those people. Marge.

Remember what this is for. Remember what it is you want or it won
’
t make any difference. Sometimes it
’
s work remembering. Indifference to the ends of action — that
’
s Zen. That
’
s for old men.

It
’
s worse. It
’
s getting away.

Triangle.

It
’
s distorted in the heat, it can
’
t hold its shape.

Get up there you devil.

Gate gate paragate parasam gate bodhi swaha.

Again.

Gate gate paragate parasam gate bodhi swaha.

No not that one. You
’
ll go out on that one.

Absolutely nothing out here, he thought, but me and the mountains and the salt. Nothing to manipulate, nothing to work with but the tracks. What a waste of awareness and coordination.

He worked on the triangle, honing its edges, cleansing it of salt, blotting out the image of the tracks. It was hard, but for a while the pain was contained. When it stopped him again, he took a drink of water and looked at his arm.

His arm was enormous, so swollen within his sleeve that he could not take hold of the doth between his fingers.

It occurred to him that he might try making the triangle larger.

It worked. With what seemed to him extraordinary ease, the triangle
’
s dimensions expanded, the red circle within it swelled and vibrated to the beating of his heart. He could make it as large as he chose, there was no limit.

The containment of pain, he realized suddenly, was the most marvelous and subtle of the martial arts, a spiritual discipline of the highest refinement. As his own pain eased, he came to understand that now he might carry within his mind and soul immense amo
unts of it. A master of the dis
cipline, such as he was now becoming, might carry infinite amounts of pain. Far more than his own.

A lesser man, he thought, might consider making money out of this. He grew excited and his excitement almost caused him to fall and upset the infinite triangle.

He could do it for other people, for those not acquainted with the martial arts. If there was a way for all the people on the far side of the goofy mountains to let him have their pain, he could take it up and bear it across the salt.

Happy as he was, he began to cry because Dieter had not lived to hear of it.

A
l
l that cringing, all those crying women, whining kids — I don
’
t want to see that, I don
’
t like it. Give it here.

I don
’
t want to see all you people so scared, it drives me nuts, it makes me mad. I
’
ll take it.

That kid — some joker shot him off his water buffalo — I
’
ll take care of that for you, junior.

Napalm burns, no problem —just put it on here.

Straighten up, pops. That
’
s O.K., brother. Well I can
’
t explain it to you but it
’
s easy for me.

“
All you people,
”
Hicks shouted,
“
Let it go! Let it go, you hear! I
’
m out here now. I got it.
”

They must know I
’
m out here now, he thought, they must be feeling it.

“
Everybody! Everywhere! Close your eyes and let it go. You can
’
t take it — you don
’
t have to take it anymore. I
’
ll do it all.

“
You see me walking? You see me stepping out here? No — it doesn
’
t bother me a bit.
”

No I don
’
t require any assistance, beautiful, I do it all myself. That
’
s what I
’
m here for.

Got it. Got it all now.

So there was always a reason, he thought. There had always been a reason. You never know until the moment comes and there it is. He walked along and the triangle dissolved. There w
as no need for it.

In the course of things Marge would be there; he was pleased that he had not forgotten her. He wanted Con verse too, Converse had always sold him short, always put him down a little. But he would understand it.

He loved them both — they would understand it and as lonely a business as it ha
d to be, you wanted people some
times, people who would understand it.

I don
’
t know how it works, he told them, I do it because I can do it — it
’
s as simple as that.

What are you carrying? someone asked.

“
Pain, man. Everybody
’
s. Yours too, if you only knew it.
”
What
’
s the weapon for? What
’
s in the bag? The bag.
“
It
’
s mine,
”
Hicks said.
“
I carry that too.
”
It
’
s not necessary now. It
’
s not necessary but it
’
s mine. All right then. Maybe it
’
s not so simple. He reached behind his right shoulder and felt for the strap.

Can
’
t get it off. Doesn
’
t matter. Let
’
s just say I carry what I carry and leave it at that.

It
’
s not so simple because there are as many illusions as there are grains of sand in the goofy mountains and every one of them is lovable. The mind is a monkey.

The bastards, he thought, now they
’
ll take it back.

Let them take it back then. Let them have all the illusion back. Strip it down, we
’
ll have it whole. The answer is the thing itself.

So much for the pain carrier.

So much for the lover, the samurai, the Zen walker. The Nietzschean. Take it all back. Look, he told them, I can love those birds up there as much as anything in life. I don
’
t need your charity.

After a while, he could no longer see the birds and he began to be frightened again. I am not my five senses, he thought. I am not this thought. Though I walk throu
gh the valley of the shadow…

Belay that. In the end, there was only the tracks. That
’
s enough, he said, to himself, I can dig tracks.

Out of spite, out of pride, he counted the crossties aloud. He counted hundreds and hundreds of them. When he had to stop, he leaned his head on his rifle and held to the blazing rail with his strong right hand.