Haiku (22 page)

“But why were you even—?”

“Just backing you up, brother. That’s what I told myself, anyway. Ranger, playing his role. I was on fixed post, across the street. That’s why I swiped that pea-shooter from Lamont, just in case. When I saw you guys had it handled, I was going to fade. But when I saw them lying there, I just went …”

“Ah.”

“Every night, I come by here.”

I could think of nothing to say to that.

“I called Gloria,” Ranger said. “She told me I have to come in. I know she’s right. But I can’t do it. I can’t play that game anymore.”

“Gloria is waiting for you, Ranger. She has not called the police. She has shown her trust.”

“I know. But I’m not like that kid Brewster. That other
world of his, it’s not such a bad place. It never … takes over, you know? He’s still in touch. If you told him he could spend his whole life in that library of his if he wanted, he’d turn down the offer. Just like he wouldn’t stay with his sister. He’s some kind of crazy—that’s the only way they take you where Gloria works—but he don’t need to be locked up or anything.”

“Brewster is not dangerous,” I agreed.

“But if he had lost that damn library … who knows, right?”

“Hai.”

“And now he won’t. He’s got a lot of worlds he lives in, but they’re all home, see?”

“We all have a—”

“Remember when I told you that’s what
we
used to call home, Ho. The World. Like, if we could just make it back here …”

“Ranger,” I said, still with my back to him, “you did make it back. And you are here.”

“But I’m not home, Ho. See, I’m not crazy. Maybe I was, once. But not for a long time now. Every time something … happens, the shrinks say, ‘Ranger lost it,’ like they’re on my side. Like they understand. But they got it backwards. When they say I lost it, that’s when I
found
it. Gloria, she’s good people, but she doesn’t get it. But you do, don’t you, Ho? You always knew. I could tell.”

“Brewster visits his sister—”

“When he
wants
to, Ho. Those people over there, they’ve got his back. They can … I don’t know, help him deal. That’s what they do, see? They don’t try and fucking
‘fix’ you, like they do at the VA. They just give you … tools, like. And now you’ve even got Target hooked up, huh?”

“It was not I who—”

“Sure it was, Ho. You came to save us.”

“No, no, Ranger. Please. I came to save myself.”

“Sure, I got it,” he said, as if placating a foolish child. “Where’s Michael?”

“I do not—”

“Come on, Ho. This is me, Ranger. You think the door don’t swing both ways? You know me. Inside me. The real me. It doesn’t matter where Michael is, am I right?” he said.

“Yes,” I said, wondering if Ranger’s use of Michael’s “closer” was unconscious mimicry … or showing me something I had failed to see before. Not in Michael; in Ranger.

“Michael, he went home. Just like you wanted. I saw Lamont before I came here. You know what he was doing?”

“Writing.”

“He’s home, too,” Ranger said. “You came to save us all. Bring us home.”

“Please,” I begged the presence behind me. “I have no such—”

“Sure you do, bro. Like I said, I
know
. Where’s
your
home, Ho?”

“I have no—”

“Yeah, you do. And you’re already there.”

I felt the shame of Ranger’s truth. But before I could—I do not know the words—he spoke again:

“I go home, Ho. Then I come back. That’s when I’m with you and the guys. Back to The World. That’s not
my
home.
Every time I come back, I’m not coming home, I’m just … waiting.”

“I, too, am—”

“No. Listen! I
like
doing it, Ho. Up close, with my knife. They probably got some special name for that, but I know what it really is. It’s me. It wasn’t me before—when I was psycho for real—but it is now.”

“Ranger …”

“Don’t even say it, Ho. It doesn’t matter now. I wasn’t born to be … whatever I am. And there’s enough of my true self—remember how you’re always saying?—there’s enough of that left so I know what’s right. It’s slipping away from me, that part. I have to go before it’s all gone.”

“Can we not—?”

A soft
pop!
behind me was his answer. I spun around. Ranger was lying on the ground, that little pimp pistol in his hand, a small droplet of blood forming between his eyebrows.

I knelt, searching for what I knew I would not find. Ranger had returned to himself.

I bowed before the warrior who had chosen seppuku. Not for the selfishness of his own “honor,” but to protect others from the beast within himself.

Winter has come.

We still have our dugouts, but most nights they are shared only by Lamont and myself. Target and Brewster still come and stay with us occasionally, but it is not the same.

Nor shall it ever be again. Brewster has a part-time job in
a used-book store. When he speaks of finding a place to live, he does not mean shelter for the night. Each passing day, he becomes less of our world.

Target has actually found a place to live—some sort of residential facility. He is not incarcerated, but free to come and go as he wishes. There are obviously some requirements attached to the food and housing provided him—whatever they might be, they do not frighten him. He continues to communicate in outbursts, but they are more muted, almost conversational.

At first, Lamont was pleased when either would appear. Now he is barely cordial. “They’re not with us anymore, Ho. They found themselves a new crew.”

“They found themselves,” I said.

“Spare me, bro. That place they go, it’s only for people who ain’t right in the head. ’Specially that kid Brewster. He’s always trying to sell me on the joint, like he’s working on fucking commission. What would I want with a bunch of head doctors? I know how I got here. And it’s where
I
want to be.
My
choice, okay?”

Michael never comes at all. Perhaps he found his white Rolls-Royce.

I cannot follow the man who finally freed me of those self-worshiping shackles I had forged and fastened around my own soul.

I had not truly known Ranger. But he had truly known me.

Finally, I know myself. Ranger said I had been sent to save our band. He believed this in his soul. His last act had been
to remove my final burden, thus allowing the savior to complete his mission.

No wonder “mission” had always held such sacred meaning to my horribly wounded friend.

I found a proper resting place for Ranger’s medal.

The warrior had gone to the only place where he might find peace.

Ranger’s sacrifice was also his gift of truth.

I have learned that a man who counts himself a shepherd is not worthy to be a member of a flock.

This shall be my last night in the dugout. Tomorrow, I will bid farewell to my friend Lamont.

He has been anticipating this for some time, I know. Showing me how he had filled his notebook to the brim was his way of telling me he wanted to return to the field of battle and reclaim his heart.

Tomorrow, I begin again. I will walk, alone, until I come to where Chica waits.

May I be worthy when I kneel before her, and offer my final haiku.