Names on a Map

  “ You’re crazy, Jack. What’s wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with me, Gustavo? What’s wrong with me? Nothing’s fucking wrong with me. We’re fighting a war.”

  “Is that what we’re doing? I thought it was a conflict. Isn’t that what your father said, that it was a conflict?”

  “Conflict, War. What fucking difference does it make? We’re in this thing and—”

  “We?”

  “It’s our fucking duty.”

  “Why? Just tell me fucking why.”

  “ You know why.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “ You’re playing games.”

  “Which of us is playing?”

  “Gustavo, people are dying so you can fuckin’ wear an armband and wear your hair as a long as a girl’s.”

  “Is that right? Is that fuckin’ right? That’s why people are dying?

  Really? A whole fucking war just so Gustavo Espejo can live his life the way he wants? And you’re such a good fuckin’ soul and love me so fucking much that you’ll pick up a gun and kill some poor bastard who was raised in a village whose name you and I can’t even pronounce just so I can have a few fuckin’ rights? Wow, fuckin’ wow. Tell me something, Jack, because I just don’t fuckin’ get it. I just don’t get how this thing we’re doing in Vietnam is going to make the world a better place. Explain it to me because I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

  “Or maybe just a goddamned Communist.”

  “Fuck you. I don’t even know two fucking dimes’ worth about Communism. You think I’ve read Mao? Marx? Engels? You don’t even know who they fucking are, do you? I do. Big fucking deal. Just

  234 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p because I know who they are doesn’t mean I know what they wrote. You think I’ve read the fucking the Communist Manifesto ? You think I want to fucking start a revolution? Me, Gustavo Espejo? You’re full of shit, buddy. I’ll tell you one thing, the only person I know who knows anything bout Communism is my sister, Xochil. You know her, don’t you? The girl you like so much. But not me, bro. I wouldn’t know a Communist from a cockroach.”

  “They’re the same thing as far as I can tell.”

  “Is that right?”

  “ Yes, that’s fucking right.”

  “ You’re not a soldier, Jack. You’re just a fucking parrot. You just repeat the things everybody around you says, what your father says, what your mother says, what your uncles say. Repeating words isn’t the same thing as thinking.”

  “I’m smart enough to know whose side I’m on.”

  “Well, you’re one up on me there, bro.”

  “Don’t call me bro, you motherfucker. You’re a fucking stranger, Gustavo. I just can’t respect a man who doesn’t love his own country.

  Or maybe you’re just an ordinary, average coward. I don’t fucking respect that either.”

  “Respect. That’s funny. That’s real funny. I’m gonna tell you two things, Jack. The first thing is calling a man a name isn’t an goddamned argument. Any high school kid who took Mr. Holland’s senior English class could tell you that. You can call me a Communist and you can call me a coward, and you can call me an asshole, a spick, a prick, a smelly long-haired Mexican, a pot-smoking grifo, you can call me anything you fucking want—but it’s just name calling, Jack. That’s all it is. And the thing is, Jack, just because you join the army—”

  “I joined the fuckin’ Marines.”

  “Wow. The Marines. Fucking wow. Just because you joined the fuckin’ Marines doesn’t make you brave. It doesn’t make you better. It doesn’t make you smarter. It doesn’t even make you more American.”

  “Fuck you, Gus!”

  g us t avo l 235

  “Don’t ever call me Gus. My name’s Gustavo, Jack. And if I ever catch you touching my sister, I swear I’ll cut your balls off.”

  “Sounds like a threat. Some pacifist you fuckin’ are.”

  “Pacifist, Jack? Pacifists are angels, baby. All I know is that if I’m gonna kill a man, I need a good reason to do it.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Sure you do, Jack.”

  He wondered why they hadn’t gone at each other. Maybe it was

  because of Xochil or maybe it was because they’d been friends

  since seventh grade—though now it seemed that their old friendship was dead and buried and neither one of them was moved by

  any kind of nostalgia for their boyhoods. Maybe, despite their words and their anger, neither one of them had the stomach for a fight. Just because they were no longer friends didn’t mean they wanted to be enemies.

  It was Gustavo who had finally walked away. Walk just walk, he heard that voice in his head and turned away even when he

  heard Jack yelling, Come back here you goddamned motherfucker.

  Let’s just fucking settle this right now. Jack’s rage didn’t seem real to him, far and hollow, and he wondered why he felt as if his whole body had gone to sleep, and anyway, he thought, if Jack wanted to take a swing at him, well, he was more than welcome to come after him.

  So, Jack, baby, you think I’m a Communist and you think I’m a coward. You sure as shit like to throw words around. He sipped on his Tecate, then lit another cigarette, then scanned the room with his eyes. He concentrated on a gringo couple who was sitting

  in one of the booths. They seemed to be having a war of their

  own, their loud, angry whispers not quite lost in the noise. But there at the bar, there was nothing but a row of stools occupied by men who seemed to have settled in for the evening, most of

  them much older than himself, all of them with a look of exhaus-

  236 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p tion from their own tired lives, the not-enough-money days and too-much-sad-damned-work days and wives and children and

  whatever hell their lives brought them, leaving them exhausted or just plain beaten down, rocks pulverized to dust.

  He wondered why his father and his uncles had never found

  themselves in bars. It was, he thought, as good a place as any to find yourself. Or lose yourself. Or both. Perhaps they found themselves in other ways. He wondered where Charlie would find his place in the world—though he doubted Charlie would suffer

  about such things. He would be more original than the rest of

  them. He would escape the violence, would find a way of escaping being a cheap copy of the men who’d come before him. But not me, Charlie. I’m like every other guy in the goddamned world—just like the rest of them. He often whispered things to his younger brother.

  It made it appear as if he weren’t talking to himself.

  He shook his head. Too serious. Xochil always said that. Hiding your good mind in a bar. That’s what his mother would say. But if he’d have had as decent a mind as his mother thought, then

  what the fuck was he doing sitting in a Juárez bar with nothing to keep him company but a beer, a pack of cigarettes, and the

  voices of a bunch of guys who were mostly talking about how

  the world was beating the shit out of them. Yeah, Mom, hiding my good mind. He took a drag from his cigarette and laughed.

  Well, everyone had to find a place to take a vacation—especially people who didn’t have the money to take one. Everyone had to

  find their own Kentucky Club, a place where you didn’t have to be responsible for a damned thing. A place where you could feel alive, free, and it didn’t matter a damn that it wasn’t true. It was true enough for those few moments. A bar. A cigarette. A beer.

  It didn’t surprise him at all that some men spent hours in a bar just sitting there. Drinking. Talking. Retreating from whatever it was that kept them down, escaping from their homes that offered them—offered them what?

  g us t avo l 237

  He finished his beer, and took out the letter, read it, brief, clear, inelegant, as if it were a machine that was sending you to war and not a country. Nuance, irony, subtlety held no sway
. His mother would have hated the lack of attention to aesthetics. But Octavio would have approved. What did you expect, a work of lit-erature?

  He folded the notice so it was as small as a pack of cigarettes.

  He stuffed it in his shirt pocket.

  Two weeks to report. Maybe he would sit here at the Ken-

  tucky Club for two weeks. Maybe he would sit here for the rest of his life. Yeah, yeah, sure. He ordered another beer. He pictured Charlie pointing to a place on the globe with his long, steady finger: Look, Vietnam. It’s right here, Gus. Right here. Look.

  adam

  Da Nang, Vietnam, Saturday,

  September 17, 1967, 7:00 a.m.

  They’re coming for us.”

  “I thought we had another couple days of this.”

  “Change of plan.”

  “Because Bill was hit.”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “So it’s back to the base?”

  “The bird’s comin’, that’s all I fucking know.”

  “Well, thank God—that’s all I fucking gotta say.”

  “You’re always thanking God for things. Thank God for

  what?”

  “I’m fucking drenched down to the bone. And I need to get

  dry. That’s what I need.”

  “You’re a good Catholic boy, you fucking know that?”

  “Well, maybe Catholic, but maybe not so fucking good. How

  many saints you know picked up a rifle?”

  adam l 239

  “Maybe more than you think, cracker.”

  “Cracker?” Camera laughed. “Thank God for fucking crackers.”

  “Back where I come from, that’s not what we thank God for.”

  “Guess not.”

  “We thank God for the beauty of a woman’s legs.”

  “Maybe I should switch religions.”

  “You got that right. So what you gonna do when they take us

  back to the base?”

  “Take a fucking shower. Sleep.”

  “Shower, shit, man, me too, I’m fucking gonna take me a good

  long hot fuckin’ shower. Maybe we’ll get us a fine evening at the beach. Toke up. Dream of Chi-town. And you can fuckin’ dream

  of El Paso.”

  “Toke up, toke up—that’s all you think of.”

  “Never seen you turn it down—and you’re not even fuckin’

  payin’ for it.”

  “Never turn down what’s free.”

  Whit laughed. “Fuck you. And I bet you’re gonna write a

  letter.”

  “Bet you are too.”

  “Who you gonna write to?”

  “My mom.”

  “Good fuckin’ choice. You lay off writin’ to those women who

  badger your ass. Especially that Evelyn.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Just write to your mother. Tell her a black-assed Methodist

  who don’t like to pray sends regards.”

  “Regards?”

  “Ain’t that what white people say?”

  They heard the sound of the helicopter. They laughed. It was

  raining again.

  xo ch i l . ch a r l ie .

  He could have gone over to Conrad’s. Oh God, he called I forgot to tell— Yes, he might be at Conrad’s. Conrad, who loved Eugene McCarthy and politics and philosophy and the Rolling Stones and Joan Baez, Conrad who could talk for hours, Conrad who was always trying to convert someone to a different way of thinking, who should have been born a Buddhist or a Quaker instead of a Catholic. Yes, Gustavo could be there. Be there. She hoped. She pictured them talking, her brother listening intently, Conrad waving his arms as he spoke with those gigantic hands and the way he enun-ciated his words as if he were always in front of a large audience, his thick lips constantly in motion, and his eyes looking straight at you, his dark, droopy, beautiful eyes—and why wasn’t she interested in Conrad instead of Jack? Yes, that’s where he was, Conrad’s—or he could be at Josie’s. God, no, not Josie’s. If he was there, they wouldn’t be talking—especially if they went riding around in her new Mustang, the date car, the bribe car, God, she was desper-

  xo ch i l . charl ie . l 241

  ate and she tried not to picture them together, but, no, he wouldn’t be at Josie’s, Gustavo didn’t like her, not really—even though she was always throwing herself at him and even though she was pretty and smarter than most people gave her credit for. Gustavo never liked girls who were too needy, no, he wasn’t at Josie’s, absolutely not. Maybe he was just taking some Gustavo time—or maybe he

  went over to Jorge’s, God she hoped not, all they ever did was light up a joint, and listen to Procul Harum and Frank Zappa over and over until you thought your head would come flying off. God, if he came home stoned tonight, Dad would—

  “Hi.”

  She smiled at Charlie and waved him in.

  “Everyone’s gone home.”

  “I know.”

  Charlie looked around his sister’s room. She knew what he

  was thinking, too neat, everything in its place. She watched him.

  She knew he was studying her desk, the only messy thing in the room, the pile of books, the papers, a piece of white paper in the typewriter with words on it.

  She smiled at him. “You always do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Search my room.”

  “I’m not searching.

  “Your eyes, they search.”

  “You working on a paper for school?”

  “See what I mean.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “I know.”

  “Dad’s angry.”

  “He’s going to kill Gustavo when he gets in.”

  “He’s not.”

  Xochil sat up on her bed, patted it, and motioned for Charlie

  to sit down. She reached over and kissed him softly on the top of

  242 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p his head. “You know, it’s sweet that you think the best of other people, Charlie. But I swear, Dad’s going to kill him.”

  Charlie rubbed his head. “How come you like to kiss me there?”

  “Where?”

  “On the top of my head.”

  “Because you’re so short.”

  “I’m going to grow.”

  “And then what? Are you going to beat me up?”

  “Don’t be crazy.”

  “Do you want me to stop kissing you?”

  “Not ever.” He looked around the room. Nervous. “I’m wor-

  ried about Gus.”

  “You always worry about him. You’re like Mom. You worry

  about everything.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “So tell me why you play that map game? The one where you

  keep track of where everyone is on your map?”

  “It’s just a game.”

  “It’s a sign.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of being a worrier. Hate to break it you.”

  “Maybe it just means—”

  “You’re a worrier.”

  “So what? Wish I had a cigarette.”

  “What?”

  “Wish I had a cigarette.”

  “What would you do with it?”

  “Don’t be a wiseass. I’d smoke the thing.”

  “You’re too young.”

  “Yeah, okay. When did Gus start?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Bet he was my age.”

  “Maybe. He’s not a good role model, you know?”

  g us t avo

  I wasn’t drunk. Not exactly drunk. For sure I wasn’t sober. I was in between two states of mind. I had always lived there.

  I could see the thunder in the distance. I loved the thunder

  and the sky and the smell in the air. And it was funny because that’s what I felt right then. Love. For the world I lived in. It was strong and beautiful and overwhelming and it
didn’t matter a damn that the world was so imperfect and mean and a fucking

  mess. I was in love, if only for a second.

  And then the second was gone.

  I just kept walking.

  I wasn’t in a hurry.

  When I reached the top of the arch of the Santa Fe Bridge, I

  looked toward Sunset Heights. Nineteen Ten Prospect, the only

  house I had ever known.

  I stood there. Still. I closed my eyes. Well, okay, I was a little drunk. I took a breath. And then another. And there, with my eyes

  244 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p closed, standing in between two countries, all I could see were small fragments of the things that had happened in that house: Xochil staring down Octavio. Xochil coming into our bedroom

  late at night when she couldn’t sleep, whispering Gustavo? Charlie? And me and Charlie waking up immediately to the sound of her voice, and then all of us taking our places in that room, me on my bed, Charlie giving his bed over to Xochil, and him lying on the floor in between us, listening to us, mostly listening, and I knew how much he loved us, how much he loved us both, and

  I wondered if I had that kind of love inside me, and I wished I were like her, like Xochil, who would come into our room to talk and talk. Okay, okay, what are you most afraid of ? And the answers flying around the room like paper airplanes. Mom dying dad dying me dying you dying me being buried alive you being shot by a gun.

  Shot by a gun? Where do you get these things? What gun? Buried alive? Too many Vincent Price movies, baby? Mom—she’ll never ever die. Dad, he’s dead already. Not funny. That’s not funny. And then I felt an ache as I picture Charlie falling asleep between me and Xochil. Why did that hurt?

  And then the rain. The thunder. The lightning.

  I don’t know why, but I just had to go back and look for An-

  gel. I think a part of me didn’t believe I’d met him. I just didn’t believe it. And the more beer I drank, the more I began to believe I’d made him up. Completely invented him. Isn’t it strange, how we don’t believe the things that happen to us? If we don’t believe our own lives, what can we believe?

  I didn’t mind walking in the torrents of rain. It was like taking a shower, and I fought the urge to find a place that would protect me. I didn’t feel like being protected, didn’t deserve it. I just wanted to let the rain pelt me. Let the rain beat the holy shit out of me. I just didn’t care. And just like that, the rain stopped, though there was thunder and lightning all around the city and I knew the rain would come and go all night.