Rev (23 page)

“Bed’s ready.”

I followed him back through the dining room and kitchen, into the bedroom. A simple bed with dark navy sheets split the room in half. On one side was a wooden desk and chair. On the other side was a closet overflowed with clothes and odds-and-ends that Dean had clearly thrown in there during his hasty cleanup.

“Let me just grab this,” he said, picking up a tattered old cardboard box. “No more room in the closet.”

He picked up the box and walked towards the door, but suddenly staggered and clutched his left shin with his left hand, clearly in pain. The box dropped to the floor and the contents spilled out. He immediately began to throw them back in, hurriedly, as if he was embarrassed. 

“Fucking leg. That guy got me with the kick. Always acts up after a solid block.”

I stooped down to help him. “What is all this?” I asked, lifting what looked like a medal to my eyes for closer inspection. It was gold with an eagle like the one tattooed on Dean’s neck. There were about a dozen of them on the ground and in the box, some shaped like crosses and more with eagles. I reached for a sheet of paper that had ended up all the way back towards the bed.

“Dean, what is this?” I asked, reading over a list of medals under the heading “Second Tour: 2009-2013.”

He grabbed the paper and scooped up the remaining medals. “Nothing! None of your business!”

“I don’t get it,” I began. “Anyone else I know would have those up on some plaques all over the walls.”

Dean rushed out of the room and pushed the box into some cabinet in the kitchen. I saw him grab a bottle out of his bag by the door and take a long swig. Finally, he came back towards the bedroom and stared at me with those dark, impenetrable eyes.

“Goodnight.”

“Dean—”

“Goodnight,” he snapped, cutting me off. “In the morning, we’ll figure out where you’re going.”

“Alright, but—”

“Get some sleep,” he said abruptly, taking another swig of the dark brown liquid before he turned and shut the door behind him.

Chapter 5

Ten Years Ago…

It was about 100 degrees and I was sweating like a fat man at a buffet. Fayetteville was like that in the summer. The good news was that I got my old job back at the end of the school year. So I was on break, sprawled out in the sun with a good book, looking forward to taking a quick dip in the pool to cool off.

Being a lifeguard was a great gig when you were about to turn 18 and go to college. I mean, fuck, this summer had been one wild party after another. And next year, I guess I’d be heading to Wake Forest, with all the rich kids and their well-funded keggers.

Life could be worse.

Well, in truth, the loan forms were sitting unsigned on my desk back home. I had reservations, even if everyone told me I was crazy for so much as thinking twice about an opportunity like that. It was a chance to rise above the shithole life my dad had given my mom and me—at least until she’d passed away five years ago. He was miserable, his life was miserable, and almost everyone I knew in Fayetteville was miserable.

Now, the well off people up in The Triangle—shit, that’s where it was at. What the fuck did they have to worry about? Remodeling the kitchen in their vacation home or some shit? Sounded good to me. I’d buckle down at Wake Forest and figure my life out. I’d be playing golf or some crap in no time.

Still, something felt wrong. I dismissed it as jitters and nervousness. It was par for the course that the son of a retired trucker would feel a little apprehensive about studying with the sons and daughters of the 1% in the suburbs of Charlotte and all. I mean, fuck me, there were towns out there where half the people made $150,000 or more a year!

But it might be something else, something deeper.

I had to admit: it felt wrong somehow. Was I really that shallow? Was that all I really wanted out of my life? I’d spend my life kissing the asses of my so-called betters so I could hit the greens with them someday; so I could move out to a pretentious place with an even more pretentious name; so I could buy a lot of crap I didn’t need and keep track of my life in terms of dollars earned and dollars spent.

Better than sitting around with the fan pointed at your balls, watching daytime television reruns.

That’s what my dad did.

“Hey Dean, you gonna stop tanning your abs and actually do some work?!” Ryan’s commanding voice cut through the heavy, humid air. “Those girls over there just went into the middle section. Someone goes over to that section, your ass is standing at attention over there, eyes like a hawk, you got it!”

“Sir yes sir,” I replied, jolting to attention. Ryan was starting training over at Fort Bragg after the summer when he turned 18. Joke was he’d make sergeant in no time.

“And what are you reading over there anyway,” Ryan asked as I passed by the head lifeguard’s desk to grab a rescue buoy. 

“
Les Misérables
.”

“What the hell? You reading that for fun? Why?” Ryan scrunched his face, utterly baffled.

“So I can think about bigger things,” I mumbled. “Things that are way bigger than this place.”

“What’s wrong with this place?” Ryan asked.

I looked out over the pool and watched as one of the two girls plopped into the water. Her beautifully rounded ass and breasts tensed against the thin material of her bikini.

Not so shabby…

“You know what, Ryan,” I acknowledged, making my way over to the edge of the pool, “you make a good point.”

One of the girls, a tasty looking brunette with big, brown eyes, invited me to a party later that evening. I was home to change and get my things. My dad was in front of the television in his underwear, scraping up the last bits of his microwaved dinner, so I quietly rushed upstairs to avoid him.

I stacked my copy of
Les Misérables
on top of
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
—my reading was always eclectic, but I was fascinated by the way several common themes played across all of it. Then I took a shower. A long one. Maybe too long, because I was interrupted by the unmistakable clamor of my dad throwing my room into disarray.

I should have hurried. When I exited, towel around my waist, he was standing over my backpack. I’d just cashed my check earlier that day, and he was helping himself to the contents of my wallet.

“What the hell!” I shouted.

“It’s my god damned right, boy!” he spat back, still in his underwear, the unmistakable smell of cheap liquor wafting across the room with every labored breath he took.

“The hell it is!”

“This is my house and you live in it. You’ll pay your fair share or you’ll get the fuck out!”

“I’ll be out of here soon enough,” I said, grabbing the cash from his clutches and throwing a threatening look his way.

“Oh, look at you!” my dad taunted. “Big guy, going to a fancy school… What are you going to beat up an old man?”

I almost did. Angrily, I shot back, “You mean like you used to beat up mom?” I immediately regretted it.

My dad’s eyes glazed over with rage. “You piece of shit. Get the fuck out of here. Your mom and me never wanted you. You’re what tore us apart.”

“Yeah, right.” I stepped into the bathroom to pull on my underwear and jeans.

He screamed outside the door. “I was going to kick you out on your 18
th
birthday anyway. What’s another two weeks?!”

I stepped out past where he was standing at the door and grabbed my t-shirt and backpack from the bed. “You know what dad, fuck you.”

“Get the fuck out of here!”

“I’m leaving. I’m packing some things and I’m not coming back.”

He smirked. “And where the hell are you going, just out of curiosity?”

“Fort Bragg.”

My dad laughed mockingly. “You were always so damn stupid. The only good thing that ever happened to you, and you’re just going to throw that away?”

“I want to get as far away as I can, from you and everyone in this life.”

He staggered back out of the room, his legs heavy with thrombosis brought on by a diseased and dying liver. “You know, it says on TV that the Army, Navy, even the National Guard for Christ’s sake, they’re all missing recruiting targets. Everyone’s catching on. They’re just shipping boys out to that unholy desert.”

“I’m counting on it.” I packed my duffel bag, shoving in random articles of clothing—I didn’t even care.  I’d made up my mind.

I rushed out of the house and past that beautiful silver ’79 Pontiac Firebird that my dad kept hidden under a tarp and never drove. When I was a little kid, I’d secretly hoped we’d spend time together on that car; that he’d teach me how to maintain it, fix it, and drive it; and that one day it would be mine. Now that beautiful Formula 400 WS6 was sitting there collecting dust, the last of a now extinct breed of large displacement engines before ever-increasing emissions restrictions forced Pontiac to drop the displacement on all their V8’s.

I strapped my duffel and pack to the back of my bike—an old Honda Rebel I’d bought from a friend. Then, I took one last look at that car. It was like everything my dad could have been but never was, and I was done waiting. I was done being the little kid waiting quietly with my head in the books while my parents argued and fought. I was done being the son who walked the five miles to the gym and back when my dad and I argued and he kicked me out, blaming me for my mom’s illness. And most of all, I was done waiting for my life to start, anticipating another four years of bullshit.

I kick started the bike and the tires screamed as I peeled out of that driveway in what felt like a great act of freedom. Finally, I was done waiting. And I knew just where to go.

Chapter 6

When I woke up, he was still passed out on the couch. His muscular calves stuck out from under the single thin blanket thrown across his heaving torso and the outline of his perfectly formed thighs. With his eyes closed and the tranquil look of deep sleep on his face, Dean looked approachable, even friendly. Of course, right there next to his left arm, which drooped down off the side of the couch and to the floor, was the liquor bottle from last night—now empty.

I was hungry and needed to get a hold of some food. Though, I did worry about what I could possibly find in Dean’s apartment.