Dan Murphy
Zzyzx
A sign next to the door says Warriors Club, and inside it sounds like Friday even though it’s Wednesday. The air is warm like a damp towel, more like the Carolina nights Piot hated in boot camp the year prior. The California desert is colder, its nights whipping and more like home than he expected. The room is big and swollen with the racket of scraping chairs and shouting. Another battalion is celebrating the end of their training package. They rattle the long, heavy tables with their bloated talk and readiness. Staff pour beer at one counter, while a long line of bodies queues for food at another. Piot obediently takes his spot at the end of the food line, squints towards the menu at the other end. Sergeant Clausse shoves him from behind.
“Gangway, boot. I’m thirsty.” Clausse carries his fists like suitcases. Piot thought they came to eat.
Bravo Company had been way up north in the sticks of Twentynine Palms for two weeks. Half-a-million acres of rock, sand and prehistoric lakebed blasted to hell, the fossilizing dust and gunpowder of America coating the folds of Piot’s ears, between his toes and his ass crack. He hears the words JDAM and Abrams and 120mm get thrown around but doesn’t need or worry much about details like that. He’s having too much fun. The days are like guided tours through supercharged war flicks. Just chow and fighting and then sitting around to catch their breath. His little brother Sam eats it up whenever he calls home. Sam listens quietly to Piot’s stories, how on clear, exhausted nights, from high ground you can see the frizzy blonde glow of semi-real California towns like Barstow and Harvard and Bagdad. A place called Zzyzx. One night, he’d been gently shivering while on firewatch when the LT crept up and pointed vaguely. “Careful, stud,” the LT said. “Out there’s where the Manson Family lived.” He flashed his eyes under his headlamp and squeezed Piot’s bicep. “Crazy Town.”
The company slept out in the open. It was February, and the desert slid like ice over his forehead as he smoked his first cigarette through the small opening in his sleeping bag. Then he’d hop out, stuff his gear and be ready to step in ninety seconds.
They ran complex ranges, multi-phase assaults. Clausse calls everything “Lotta moving parts” and that time it made sense to Piot. The ranges started with a squad and leveled up to platoon, company, battalion. Each had more officers and NCOs shouting than the last one. Them pointing, Piot going. Just this mad dash every which way. Piot’s lungs burned and he lapped it up. Kept his mouth shut. Listened to the commands and tasted the smoke and the dirt, watched it spasm and mushroom in the distance as it shook against his belly. They fired and maneuvered through the dead spaces, dropped into defilade. They shouted, Moving. They answered, Reloading.
On the very last range, he’d watched the engineers set a Bangalore torpedo—it became Bangarang in his head—and he’s woken up every day since thinking about how he’ll describe it to Sam. How the live fire exercises remind him of the carnival at St. Mary’s every summer, the smoke and cracks like a victory cry for having escaped Elmira.
The chow hall is closed, so they’ve come to the Warriors Club for dinner. Bravo was only at Camp Wilson for a shower and a reveille. They’d be up and back in the field before morning chow. The LT specifically said no booze, so Clausse looked pretty clever about bringing a round of beers to the table.
“Just to tide us over till the chow line dies down,” he says.
Jigsaw says, “Thanks.”
Piot looks at his beer. “I thought we’re not supposed to?”
“Try not to think so much, devil dog,” Clausse said.
Piot looks at Jigsaw, who never calls him devil dog and is looking at Clausse. Piot sips his beer. It’s cold and skunky. He’s heard that You’re not really a Marine till you’ve been NJP’ed but that saying always confuses him. Why would anyone want to get in trouble? Non-judicial punishment. Makes him think of the state prison walls that loomed over the drive to school every morning and home every afternoon. He nudges the cup away from him. Wipes his hands on his trousers.
He scans the room. There are tilted pool tables, pinball machines, Asteroids, faint knocking and pinging amid the din of voices. Everything seems sticky. He follows Clausse’s gaze and notes the odd WM. As a reservist in an infantry unit, he’s been in uniform for eleven months. He’s spoken to a female in uniform twice and twice called them Sir, apologized and blushed.
One walks by their table, a lance corporal, eyes front. Clausse smiles, says, “Hey, how’s it going?” and Piot worries what Clausse’ll do when she ignores him, a sergeant. Jigsaw seems wound tight, his gaze perched and unspeaking, and it occurs to Piot that his team leader despises their squad leader. And he can understand why but at the same time the how troubles him. The only thing Piot’s really scared of is being promoted.
He doesn’t mind being new. Doesn’t really even think about it. He’s too busy looking at everything directly ahead of him. He likes watching the guys from the other unit. Their rubbery smiles and easy ways. It’s obvious they’re done at Twentynine Palms—Two-Nine, he reminds himself—and probably headed to the Sandbox soon, with Bravo close behind them. He needs a haircut, a shower. He feels the stiffness of sand and dried sweat in his cammies, same as theirs, he thinks, and the smell and the grit of it whenever the body shifts.
“Any word on where we’re gonna be yet, S’r’nt?”
Clausse says, “You’ll know when you need to know, okay, Piot?”
“I hope we’re right in the middle of shit.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Aye, S’r’nt.”
Jigsaw leans toward him. “Just drop it, alright, man?” Jigsaw wears the straightest face Piot’s ever seen, but he’s always friendly with Piot, treating him like a little brother.
“Aye, Corporal.”
“Listen, it doesn’t matter,” Clausse says. “Wherever they send us, you’ll be right here in third squad, okay?” Clausse has less hair than Piot’s father, and the fluorescent lights smack his pate.
Clausse just got his third stripe and talks about six inches taller ever since. On the long drive back to Wilson, he preached over the diesel motor about the graces of rank. Encouraged Jigsaw and Piot to just weather the bullshit because that third chevron is worth it.
“Everybody treats you different. Like, overnight, okay? Telling you. It’s like, just a whole different job all of the sudden.” He pinched his collar chevrons as if it wasn’t clear what he was talking about. “Green Weenie’s not so bad from this side.”
Clausse puckers long drags of his beer, and makes a sound that reminds Piot of his father chewing. Piot winces. Clausse sighs. Jigsaw looks away, neither alertness nor boredom in his face.
Clausse and Jigsaw have already been to the Sandbox. Piot’s heard a hundred stories a thousand times and never gets tired of it. How they rode in on the tail of the invasion and held Nasiriyah tight after the smoke cleared. When no one else is around, Jigsaw calls it “The ass end of the spear,” and Piot laughs because he hopes he’s kidding. The war is different now, they say. Bravo didn’t know yet if they’ll be on one of the big bases—phone centers and Burger King, R&R in Kuwait or Qatar—like Al Taqqadum or Al Asad. Piot hopes the company will get a real mission, that it will be like ’03, living out of their packs, MREs and iodine tablets and burning their own shit. Thinks of almost nothing else.
Clausse says, “Looks like we’re not the only ones having a cold one,” and points at a Marine tottering through the crowd in their direction like a bowling pin. “Maybe more than one.”
Piot recognizes Corporal Brescia immediately. He’s never spoken to him, but guys that know him call him Brassy. Either a joke or a god depending on who’s talking. Piot heard a clipped version of the ambush story: Brassy in the turret of an AAV when a roadside bomb tipped them off the Canal Road. The track slid down the bank and lay burning, belly up in four feet of water and taking small arms fire. Brassy was tossed away in the blast, ran back, and pulled every Marine to safety. No KIAs. A genuine miracle. They’ve never met, but Piot’s been in love ever since he heard it.
Clausse reads Piot’s face. Before Brassy’s close enough to hear, Clausse says, “Jesus. This fucking guy.”
Brassy’s top-heavy. Face red and open, waving a beer, wet smile splitting his face.
Jigsaw stands to shake hands, introduces Piot. Clausse sips his beer and looks elsewhere.
Brassy calls Piot “dude” and says, “Howya doin?”
Piot says, “I’m good to go, Corporal.”
“Well, how ‘bout that?” Brassy says, and laughs a bald laugh, a crowing that makes Piot jump back. Jigsaw grins. Piot beams.
Brassy puts a hand on Clausse’s shoulder.
“And how ’bout this guy? Fucking Ser-geant Santa Clausse. Haven’t had a chance to say congrats yet, brother.”
Clausse stays square to the table when he reaches up to meet Brassy’s hand, says, “Thanks, man. They pinned me about a month ago.”
“Right on, right on.”
“You were there.”
“No doubt.”
“Trust you’re enjoying yourself?”
“Not as much as yourself, Claussy boy.”
Piot watches Clausse. Reaches for his beer but doesn’t pick it up. It’s getting late. He’s hungry and worried.
Brassy says, “Some fucking speech out there, huh?”
They look at him.
“The BC.”
“We must’ve missed it,” says Clausse.
Brassy puts his beer down and straddles it heavily with his hands as if the table might rise off the floor. He’s making a shocked face. “You didn’t fucking hear that shit?” His eyes are wild, scanning the three of them for the truth.
“Nope.”
“Seriously?”
“Jesus.”
“Holy fuck. It’s good I found you. Not gonna believe this shit.”
Piot asks if the BC said anything about where they’re going and Jigsaw says, “Hey, man, what the hell?” Piot feels bad but really wants to know.
Brassy exhales with a whoosh and a smile. Shakes his head like a wet dog. He tells them how the Battalion Commander called a big school-circle a couple of hours ago. The whole battalion gathered round in the dark so he could pass the word directly.
“So the Colonel says he’s got our mission order from the general and this and that. And then he says, ‘I’ll get to that in a second though.’ I’m way in the back yelling ‘Demobe’ like a fucking jackass,” he pauses to crow again. “That’s why I'm here, hiding out from First Sergeant.”
“Come on, Brassy,” Jigsaw says.
“I’m getting there, I’m getting there. This fucking guy. The Colonel gets in with the pep talking, right? Like he does. Says something like—he starts, says,” and Brassy sort of shakes himself loose for the impression, chops the air slowly with a flat hand like that’s where he keeps the battalion commander’s voice. “He says, ‘Now, I hear a lotta talk about reservists being part-time Marines, like it makes us not so good as full-time Marines. But I’ll betcha my next paycheck, that a part-time burger flipper at McDonald's flips a burger just as good as a full-time burger flipper at McDonalds.’” Brassy’s knees buckle and he doubles over, laughing with his cheek on the table, mouth red and drooping.
Clausse says, “He said that?”
His cheek still down, Brassy raises his arm, says, “Hand to God. Motherfucker said ‘burger flippers.’”
Brassy’s hair holds sweat in slender thorns on his temples. Piot watches and thinks the room is not that warm. His father would sweat the same way, cheeks beading, casting a damp shadow on their kitchen table.
“What about the mission, Brassy,” Jigsaw says.
“Burger flippers?” says Clausse.
“Burger flippers, Santa. Fucking wish I coulda made that up.”
“He called us part-time burger flippers?”
“Motherfucking burger flipping motherfuckers.” Brassy’s screaming now, attracting attention.
“Brassy.” Jigsaw slaps the table. “Brassy. What did he say about our mission?”
“TQ, dude. Base security. Flipping burgers safe and sound. Snug as a bug in a Jacksonville rub n’ tug.” He did a little dance.
Piot’s concerned and Jigsaw looks at him.
“Hey. Semper Gumby, right?”
Brassy laughs at that, and they all watch him. Piot braces again for Clausse to react, but Brassy sees something he likes and says, “Be right back.”
They watch him saunter up to a trio of WMs at a pinball machine.
Clausse says, “Fucking clown.”
“Is it true? The story about him?”
Clausse says, “He’s no big deal. We were all there. Fucking clown. ”
“You saw contact in Nasiriyah?” Jigsaw says. To Piot it sounds like an honest question until he sees Jigsaw’s face. Clausse looks away.
They drink their beers.
“Just stay away from that guy, okay?” Clausse says to Piot. “He saved a couple guys, sure. He was just in the right place at the wrong time. Or vice versa. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t make it okay to act like a jackass. Makes it worse, if anything. Gives boots like you the wrong idea. The CO ought to bust him down. Kick his ass out. Whatever.”
Jigsaw eyes Clausse. “Why don’t you tell us some more about getting yourself promoted?”
Clausse pounds the last of his beer and goes for another.
When he’s gone, Jigsaw leans over to Piot and says, “It was more like a dozen guys.” Jigsaw nods toward Clausse. “He’s full of shit.”
Piot has no answer so he nods. His face feels warm. He thinks about Sam. Whenever Piot calls home, he waits until it’s late. Cell phones aren’t allowed in the field, but Piot snuck a call or two, just to make sure Sam was OK. He’d let the phone ring once and hung up and waited for Sam to call back. When they talk, Piot tries to ask about Sam’s honors classes and his plant terrarium, but Sam always cuts straight to demanding what Piot’s been training on. He knows all the weapons’ names and specs, wants to know what they feel like. Asks about the other guys. During his last call, Piot told Sam about how every Marine had only been allowed nine rounds each to fire from an automatic grenade-launcher—“the Mark 19,” Sam says—and how it was hard to get anything on target or even hear the impacts 1500 meters away, but Sam was ecstatic, whispered into the phone with an urgency that stung. “Was it cool?”
Piot needed sleep. Sam could go all night, he knew. “Crazy town,” Piot tells him, because what else could he do. Sam deserved the half-hour of sleep Piot couldn’t spare. Sitting with Jigsaw now, he hopes for the first time that Sam has a better plan than enlisting.
Clausse returns with a beer and nobody says anything.
Eventually, Clausse says, “Guess the BC missed chow, too,” and points.
The Colonel and the battalion Sergeant Major stand in line, looking stern and almost anonymous in the line of tan cammies. The BC's hair is cropped, like a graying skull cap, and he has his arms crossed and stares straight ahead. Next to him, the Sergeant Major’s eyes scan the room, hands on his hips, until the Colonel leans over and says something to which the Sergeant Major nods quickly, replies, and they both allow a staid laugh.
Piot wants to get in line, too, but can’t bring himself to speak up again.
Brassy returns, says the WMs he’s been talking to are going to join them.
Clausse leans back in his chair with his shoulders flung wide and watches the girls. “Well done, Brassy, well done.” He claps him on the shoulder. “They all set on drinks or are you grabbing a round?”
“Hold your reindeer, Santa.” Brassy’s looking at the Colonel. “The Grill Master himself.”
“Brassy.” Jigsaw puts a hand on his arm.
“What, me?” Brassy smiles, like he’s being dared.
Jigsaw just looks at him. Piot’s terrified. Clausse doesn’t hear, still making his chest big and watching the WMs.
The Sergeant Major steps abruptly from the line and heads for a far, loud corner of the room. Brassy sees the opening. Piot’s impressed with how steady he moves—in a straight line, beer balanced at his chest.
It’s too loud to hear what Brassy says. The Colonel tips his head, listens.
“Jesus Christ,” Jigsaw says. “We oughta to get out of here.”
“What?” Clausse follows their gaze. “Oh. Fuck.”
Piot understands vaguely that minor infractions, like unauthorized drinking, are amplified by proximity to larger ones, like gaffing off colonels, but he can’t look away either. Brassy is swaying again. He mimes flipping burgers as the Colonel watches. Then Brassy thumbs at the food counter with the wet smile that makes Piot want to get up and run.
“See what I mean? A fucking clown.”
“Maybe his beer is at least blocking his nametape.”
The Colonel turns square to him now, unfolds his arms, points at Brassy’s chest, and Brassy snaps to parade rest, spilling beer down the back of his trousers. The Colonel’s voice rises over the din of the club, “…after you get my deck swabbed.”
Brassy snaps to the position of attention and nods, smartly, then starts moving towards the front of the club where there’s a mop caddy. As he passes the front door, he looks back at the Colonel once—Jigsaw and Clausse and Piot all curse—and runs out into the night.
–
Back in the hooch, the rest of the platoon is racked out. Still three hours until reveille. He digs through his gear for a packet of cheese spread.
Outside he kneads it open and calls Sam. His father answers before he can hang up.
“Who the fuck is this?”
Piot’s too scared to say anything. Pictures his father waiting in ambush over the phone.
“I said who in the hell’s calling my house at three in the fucking morning?”
With the cheese packet in his teeth, Piot closes his phone as quietly as possible.
He lights a cigarette as a dark figure stumbles toward him and asks for one.
Piot stares up at him, holds the pack up.
Brassy says thanks and drops down beside him, pulling a lighter from his pocket. In the dim glow cupped in his hand, he almost looks sober.
“What time is it?”
“0024, Corporal.”
“Bangarang.”
Piot can’t help smiling.
“Did the Colonel catch up with you?”
“Hmm?” In the dark, Brassy is still for a moment. “Oh, nah. Probably hear more ‘bout that in the morning, though.” He shrugs. “I dunno.”
“So we’re gonna be on TQ the whole time?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“You’re sure?”
Something occurs to Brassy, and he pauses to look at Piot, sizing him up. Piot pretends not to notice, just sits looking straight ahead.
“You’re Jigsaw’s kid, huh?”
“Yes, Corporal.”
“Cut that shit out.”
“Aye, Corporal.”
Brassy takes a drag and exhales. “Jigsaw’s good shit. You’re lucky. Listen to him. Clausse, too.”
Piot looks at him.
Brassy grins. His teeth are black-light blue in the moonlight.
“I know Clausse thinks his shit don’t stink, but—fuck, man. I’m just saying don’t listen to me.”
Piot doesn’t know what to say.
Brassy grins again. “Clausse don’t like me much, huh?”
Piot says, “But aren’t you like, proud? Of what you did over there?”
Brassy laughs. He looks around. His eyes settle on Piot’s collar.
“You saved those guys, though, right? You got a medal?”
“Got lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“It was easier than you think.”
“You coulda got killed.”
Brassy smokes and nods.
A minute passes. Brassy says thanks and leaves Piot sitting alone in the dark, twisting the cigarette filter between his fingers.
His phone rings.
“Is Dad still awake?”
“I’m not sure.” Sam lowers his voice to a whisper. “I think so.”
Piot could picture Sam’s eyes on his closed bedroom door.
“Sorry it’s so late.”
“Think you’ll get time to come home before you leave?” Sam offers to fly out there but they both know that won’t happen.
“He’ll never let you.”
A beat passes. Piot feels his brother tearing up, feels the long winter’s heavy air outside the house. Another beat passes.
“I don’t care.” Sam’s voice is thick and quiet.
“Yeah,” Piot says. “I know you don’t.”
“This story started while I was reading ‘Night Before Battle’ by Hemingway. The scene anyway. I took that one—soldiers, strangers to each other, at a bar in a town adjacent to an ongoing battle—and tried to modernize it, put it in the context of today, borrowed here and there from stories I’d heard. Then it just sort of ran. Camaraderie’s real, but it’s messy. The mess doesn’t always get enough play.” —Dan Murphy
Dan Murphy is a former Marine who lives and works in New York City with his wife and son. He’s writing his first novel.