A version of this essay originally published in Belletrist Magazine in 2020.
Private First Class Parry and I were best friends until I told him I wanted nothing more to do with his wrecking crew. I was the only guy in our ragtag group of wannabe goons who could call him out on his shit and not get my face chewed off for it. The other guys were all yes men. Bobbleheads. A habit well-engrained in us by the Army. How many times had I heard an NCO tell me to quit thinking and start doing? PFC Parry was like so many of these leaders. We respected him because we feared him. All of us felt lucky to be on his good side. But I was over it. And I had been for a while.
Back home in Tulsa, Parry was some kind of tough guy. People steered clear of him, at least that was his claim. I’d heard him mention his past affiliation with the infamous Tulsa Skins but I always figured he was blowing smoke. I’d been in my share of bar scraps with him and there was no denying he could go body. German club boys with their muffin tops and acid washed jeans were no contest. And those three, thirty-something Turks who got in his face after he hollered at one of their girlfriends saw, first hand, a big fat dose of his Oklahoman kung-fu boo-billa. That was some crazy ass shit. In a fit of redneck wildness, Parry scattered those dudes like a tripped Claymore. Watching him fight was like watching Herr Lang do card tricks. Everybody thinking, how the in the mother fuck did he do that?
In 1991, any soldier stationed in Germany felt the strain of the new war in the Gulf. In the previous summer, Iraq had invaded Kuwait—a country most of us never even heard of. Units were shipping to the desert left and right, getting replaced by reserve companies filled with puffy, peach-faced soldiers from BFE who rocked non-regulation sideburns and carried chips on their shoulders. Admin made us write wills then send copies to our people back in the world. I choose my older sister Lisa to be my executor. But I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want her freaking out.
Captain Duvall told me not to even bother putting in for any leave because she’d round file it. I tried to go around her, but First Sergeant seconded things. Told us he wanted everyone right here on base, safe and sound, just in case we got the call. Said he was doing me a favor not having to steal me from Christmas dinner with ham on my fork. I sucked it up. Made it work.
Münster Kaserne, originally a Nazi training facility, was now a small base where guys either loaded ordnance at the downrange railhead or, like me, pushed paper around in a crumbling building where doorways were all narrow and weird. Everyone was uneasy. It didn’t take more than a sideways glance to start a scuffle at the mess or a full-blown bench-clearer during a pickup game in the cold gym. We all coped in different ways. Pipsqueak Lamb started shooting ‘roids, Stehlar banged anything that moved, and I got good at knocking off blue bull tall boys on the regular as I scribbled in my journal. We all lived in the red. Was only a matter of time before some real shit hit the fan.
When I told Parry I was out of the crew he flat-out said it ain’t possible. Once I’m in, I’m in for life. I goofed on him for playing like the crew was some kind of gang. Told him we ain’t the fucking Crips or Bloods, man. He said go ahead and stop coming around, see what happens. His eyes all squinty. So I called his bluff and did stop, which wasn’t an easy thing to do on our tiny ass base. And sure enough, I was right, Parry was full of shit. I never heard a peep.
One day a couple guys pulled me aside to give me secret props. Shit, they said, they wanted out, too. And they would follow my lead if it wasn’t so damn risky. I told them to just do it. That they had Parry all wrong. Motherfucker was all bark, no bite—I was proof. I assured them he was saving all his bullshit for the desert. But they said I was wrong. I wasn’t seeing what they saw. They insisted he was losing it. Breaking apart. They said he had something in store for me. Some kind of plan. He told the crew I was off limits. To not even talk to me. He was gonna fuck me up, they said. Big time.
Lamb found me one day and said I had giant balls for standing up to Parry. I was like, give me a break, man, it’s not balls, it’s brains. I was already a sucker for being in this Army and I wasn’t about to be one in the stupid wrecking crew, too. Told him he ought to consider the same. I also told him, hey, on a different note, why don’t you stop shooting that shit in your veins, too? That juice is gonna mess you up more than Parry ever could. I told him I read something about it making your dick limp. Lamb shook his head and insisted that the dick thing was bullshit. His new muscles had gotten his sorry ass laid for the first time, and now he was in non-stop hump mode. There was no turning back. I shrugged because really, why should I care anyhow?
When Parry and I arrived in-country together, we opted to share one of the empty suites in the barracks rather than be separated and roomed up with the veteran soldiers. Our bedrooms were connected by a shared walk-through bathroom with orange walls. After I quit the crew, I stopped using our common commode and began hitting the head in the rec area down the hall. No more relaxing morning dumps in the privacy of my own space. But I thought whatever, I didn’t have much time before my orders were due. And with my obsolete MOS, I’d probably be headed stateside. Which gave me something to look forward to.
When I turned the lock on my bathroom door for the first time, officially barring Parry from popping into my suite whenever he wanted as he’d always done, he must have heard it—because I immediately heard his lock turn, too. Like a hammer. There was no mistaking the sound of the brass bolt sliding into the cavernous notch. It resembled cocking the charging handle on an M16. And you never pull that thing back unless you’re ready to take aim, hold your breath, and squeeze squeeze squeeze the trigger. Do it right and the explosion comes as a surprise. May even leave a bruise on your shoulder. And if you’re looking too close into the sights, the kick might gash your face. I’ve got a small scar under my right eye from just that.
One night, after too many pilsners at Club Fantasy followed by a successful stumble back to my room, I passed out drunk, dead asleep on my bunk. Hours later, I got up with a full bladder. And since I was too full to walk all the way to the common area, I took a leak in our shared latrine for the first time in weeks. I must have forgotten to relock my door, which is how, I assume, Parry was able to sneak in. He woke me up with a shove to my chest. Get up bitch, he said. Wake the fuck up, Griffen.
Parry stood above my bed wearing only his brown, basic training-issued briefs. His pink, hairless chest. His elbows bent at his waist and hands balled in ready fists. His voice became louder. Come on bitch, get up. I mirrored his tone, asked him what he was doing. Shut up, he said. You messed up, man. Like, for real this time. He asked me if I’d finally come to my senses. Had I changed my mind. I glared at him as he said, come on, Griffen, do the right thing now, I’m giving you one last chance. What’s it gonna be? You coming back to the crew or what? Moonlight edged in through the heavy canvas drapes and created shadows across his pockmarked shoulders. His skin was like a moonscape. I told him no way. There’s no fucking way, man. Then I added, fuck you. Get out of my room you crazy motherfucker. That’s when he unleashed.
He pounced on my mattress and straddled me. Pinned me beneath my sheets. His big hands coiled around my neck and all I saw was teeth. I broke his hold then blocked my face as he began pounding me with rocky knuckles. I twisted this way and that as I tried to unwrap myself from the bedding. He was screaming, I was screaming. His punch after punch landed on the backs of my hands, my neck, my chin. A few solid shots on my ears and mouth made me feel like a speed bag. My splattered blood grew brighter on his flailing hands. Everything was happening so quickly.
Parry’s barrage increased. He trounced me with short, powerful jabs. I lay trapped beneath him, an easy target, until I managed to pull one of my legs free, which gave me just enough leverage to lean upward and wrap my arms around his mid-section. Adrenaline muscled me into his flesh, and I somehow used momentum to tackle him out of the bed and onto the waxy linoleum. We wrestled like animals, knocking over a bookcase and scattering tins of Kiwi and my favorite horsehair brush. I broke free, then leaped up and blasted out the door into the hallway. I sprinted to the stairwell, up a flight to the NCO’s level, and started banging on doors. All the doors. My face burned. My breathing was phlegmy. A taste of metal greased my tongue.
Sergeant Vines was the first to open his door. He rubbed his eyes and whisper-yelled, what the fuck is your problem, Griffen? I could barely get words out, but managed to say that Parry just attacked me. Vines asked if I was drunk, and I said I had been but that was hours ago and had nothing to do with this. This was bigger. Parry had sneaked into my room through the bathroom. Woke me up by punching my face. Vines told me, OK then, relax. We’ll handle it. Just wait one, he said, and closed his door. The hallway screamed with silence. I watched the stairwell, fully expecting Parry to burst from it.
A minute later Vines came back out wearing a black bathrobe and matching slippers. He said come on, Specialist, let’s go. He led the way down the stairs, pointed to random drops of blood on the floor and said I need to clean that shit up. When we got to my room he gave me a look like, can I go in? I nodded. He peeked first, then gave an all clear thumb’s up. I followed him inside. My room smelled like Parry. Like musty sweat and Eternity. I pointed to the sheets and mess on the floor and said, see Sergeant, see? Vines asked where Parry was. Shit man, I don’t know. Probably next door. Vines turned the bathroom latch and went in. I followed. He tried Parry’s adjoining door, which was unlocked, and entered his suite. I stayed in the john. When Vines returned, he motioned with his finger saying, Griffen, get in here. I said no way, man. He whispered, goddammit Griffen, get your ass over here. I asked if Parry was there. Vines said yes, but he’s passed out. Come on, Griff, he said. You’re good.
For the first time in months, I entered Parry’s side. The air in his suite was stale and musty. The room buzzed from the fluorescent ceiling lights. Parry was conked out in the center of the floor. Two empty bottles of Amaretto, his favorite drink, lay prone near his head, and a pair of open scissors in his hand. Paper was strewn everywhere. Scraps of trash covering the area around his limp body.
Vines stepped towards Parry. Motioned for me to look closer. I crept in until I could hear Parry’s breath. Vines pointed to the bits of garbage and mouthed, look at it. I bent down, scanned the mess, trying to make sense of it all. When I looked back at Vines, he gave me a face like, what the fuck? I gave it back. I picked up a photograph from the trash—it was of me and Parry sitting at a booth in the Hard Rock Café in Berlin. I was making a stupid face while wearing an East German officer’s hat I’d just bought off a street vendor. Where Parry should have been next to me making a similar face and wearing a Russian fur cap was an empty space. A cutout shape where he should have been.
Before the lockdown we’d taken a bunch of weekend bus tours. Besides Berlin, we’d been all over Europe. I always brought along a camera to take token snapshots to prove we’d been all over the world. That we’d made our mark on strange, far away places. I put the photos on display in my albums. They were like bragging rights.
Parry had stolen my books, removed every photo containing his image, meticulously snipped himself out, then returned the altered photo to the album. Vines said, Jesus Griffen, is this about you quitting his little crew or whatever he fucking calls it? I stared down at Parry, sprawled on the floor and surrounded by hundreds of paper dolls of himself. Vines told me that I’d better square this all away, and do it with a quickness. This is some crazy bullshit, Griffen. You and Parry might be going to war together.
Seeing Parry on the floor reminded me of one of my favorite books as a kid, a illustrated hardcover copy of Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. My favorite page had an etching of Gulliver after he’d been shipwrecked and washed ashore on the island of Lilliput. Gulliver’s muscular arms and legs strained under the knotted and fraying cables that miraculously held him immobile, flat on his back. His face was pained by shock and desperation. As if he couldn’t believe he’d been taken prisoner by the local population of miniature warriors clad in comical body armor. Often I’d move my face closer to the page to better see the detail of the Liliputians chainmail. To see the expressions of Gulliver’s victorious captors. Especially their faces—red, brave, and menacing. Teeth bared and spittle flying as they handily wielded an assault of sharpened steel. Overjoyed by the chance to see how much damage their shiny little swords could do.
