Life During Wartime: Stories

Freedom Bird

Yard’s not gonna rake itself, Marty’s old man announced from the recliner, Rheingold in hand. He watched the paneling like it was a television, crumpled the steel can and tossed it into the trash to rattle among its brothers.

Marty shambled outside. The naked oak mocked him with its outstretched limbs. The yard was mounded in leaves. He dragged the rake from the garage and paused to lust over his father’s Starlite Black ’77 Firebird Trans Am. A golden phoenix flared across the hood, angry and free.

One month until he turned sixteen. Driving to school in the T/A might take the sting off the boys who said they’d pissed on the floor of the john knowing Marty’s father had to clean it up.

Marty gathered a pile of leaves and dumped them into a steel drum. When Mom got back from teaching shut-ins at the VA hospital how to paint watercolors, they’d burn the leaves. Cinders weaving through the air like drunken fireflies.

The screen door slapped shut and his father sauntered to the car, carrying a fistful of rags and a tub of Turtle Wax. Marty’s hands throbbed, spotted with puffy white blisters. He wanted a break, but knew Harve Chundak’s attitude when there was work left to be done.

Sympathy’s in the dictionary between shit and syphilis.

Lean and shirtless, his son looked like the scared Vietnamese boys lit up by the muzzle flash of rifles they could barely carry. Harve buffed the paint until his younger self stared back from the abyss of the ClearCoat, deep and dark as jungle night.

He’d signed up in ’67, ink on his degree still wet, his father’s Korean War medals bright in his mind. When he returned, he visited the family of Pfc. Oscar Martins before his own. Cried over photographs. Told lies. Then shuffled home to marry his girl, Andrea, who’d become the art teacher at their old school.

The principal said he’d love to take Harve on, but they already had a coach. What they did need was a maintenance man. That was okay with Harve. The young men on the football field looked like corn for the thresher.

I’m done, Marty said.

Harve shook off the memory. He held up a beer. Cool off those hands, he said to his son’s back.

Marty was already through the door. I’m going to the Cort’s, he hollered.

The Cort boys sprawled on pillows covering the cellar floor. Sweet weed didn’t hide the dank smell. Jerry Cort was in Marty’s class. Rob, two years older, had dropped out.

Rob stretched a veiny arm toward the bong. Give it.

It was Marty’s turn, but he gave it up. Rob had newfound muscle from months of heaving crates of cheap dago red for the spaghetti and meatball joints, and whiskey for the potato eater bars, as he called his tenure at the liquor depot, before being fired for theft. Muscle he enjoyed using.

Your old man has a sweet ride for a janitor, Rob croaked. He rested his chin on the glass bong. Smoke curled above the water inside. You think he’s gonna let you drive it, the way he shits all over you? No fuckin’ way. You want that ride, you gotta take it. He’ll respect your ambition.

Marty looked at his shoes. The purple blossoms down Jerry’s back seized his mouth like glue.

Harve fired up the Trans Am. Reached under the seat to release the gas cutoff switch.

Admired the lawn, not a leaf in sight.

The boy had finally begun living up to his namesake. Bitched a lot, but got it done. There wasn’t a leaf left in the grass. You just needed to ride him a bit hard.

The engine rumbled and Harve thought about driving to Alaska with Pfc. Martins. A bullshit dream they used to keep sane on the endless jungle nights when fear gripped their balls like the icy hand of death.

They met in Basic on Parris Island. Nothing was easy for Martins, but he never quit and always had a wisecrack.

Harve flew up an obstacle ahead of him.

Sarge is right, Chundak! The sun does shine out of your ass!

Martins had missed the freedom bird by a cunt hair.

Can’t drive with no legs, Big O.

The boy would be driving soon. First he’d teach him to wax it, tame it, maintain it. Harve killed the engine, reset the switch. Snagged another Rheingold on the way to the La-Z-Boy.

Your old man’ll be passed out drunk, Jerry said, as they tiptoed onto the porch. He’ll never even know.

Marty walked heavy. His father could sense him goofing off three rooms away. Rob flicked his ear, hard. Quiet, needle dick.

Snores rattled off the living room walls.

See? I told you. Dead drunk.

Harve sprawled on the recliner like a sandstone Frankenstein’s monster on the slab. Man like that, who Marty had seen smash his thumb with a ball-peen hammer and not even curse, woke up crying at night. Mopped up piss for a living.

Marty wanted to tell Rob to go fuck himself, but every time he made to speak, cold skeletal fingers played up his ribs and seized his throat.

They found the car keys on the dresser, next to the box Marty wasn’t allowed to touch. Rob snagged the keys and flipped the box open.

A bronze star, purple heart.

Jerry plucked the Bronze Star from its case.

Don’t touch that, Marty mumbled.

Or what? Rob said. Yanked away the star, pinned it to his denim jacket. He swept the papers away, revealing the dull brown patina of worn gunmetal.

Whoa, Jerry said.

Jackpot, Rob said, and hefted the .45 Colt M1911. Holding it put a curl to his smile, spread wrinkles around his eyes.

C’mon, we’ll shoot some cans. Maybe a cat or a squirrel.

Awesome, Jerry said, jaw open.

Harve felt the knot tighten from throat to asshole as his squad returned fire. Land mines in the road, ambush from the hooches. Some on fire, blown apart. Two VC took potshots and ran for the jungle. Corpsman tied off Martins’ stumps. Squad leader hollered in the radio for evac.

The mine took Martins apart like ripe fruit.

One untouched hooch, dead center. Muzzle flashes from the doorway. Rifle up. Sight acquire, fire. Short controlled burst. Harve popped a grenade off his flak jacket and underhanded it in.

Thatch flew apart. Last of the panic fire cooked off. The empty silence after battle.

Inside the hut, a bloody octopus tangle of too-small limbs and a swollen belly. He drew the Colt and put a round into each howling face.

Andrea’s and Marty’s faces rose from the mess.

He woke up gasping to the exhaust note of the Trans Am. From too far off.

Damn it, boy.

Rob drove with the Colt stuck between his legs. Fishtailed up the two-lane highway, the boys hooting as the posi-traction rear righted the car.

The thrill eased Marty’s fear. You said you’d let me drive.

Quit whining, Rob said. This is awesome.

Let me up front, Jerry said.

Marty called shotgun, dickwad. Rules is rules. Next rule is cash, grass or ass. Nobody rides for free. I’m splitting this town in style. Rob laughed. You faggots wanna come along, you’d better grow some tits.

This is my father’s car, Rob.

Well it’s mine now, dickless. Rob laughed, pumped a fist to Marty’s ribs. This car’s too good for a fucking janitor.

Marty fought back tears and the urge to puke.

Move it, road hog, Rob howled at a green wagon ahead, and veered into the oncoming lane to pass. A lumber truck leaned on the horn.

The car stalled out and the wheel went stiff.

Rob gaped at the oncoming truck. Stomped the useless pedal. Twisted the key, panicked at the starter’s fruitless groans. No no no no!

The ice in Marty’s belly turned to fire. He slammed into Rob and fought the wheel one-handed. The truck roared by as they rolled to a stop in the weeds of the shoulder.

Shit, his father’s coming! Jerry pointed.

Get out of the car, Rob! Marty raised his fist.

Rob sneered and ground the Colt’s cold muzzle into Marty’s throat.

Harve walked slow to let the boy stew over his foolishness. The dumb shit forgot about the gas cut-off switch.

He’d make the boy break the whole car down and put it back together, before he could even think of driving it. These kids didn’t know what they had. No draft card to give them cold sweats at night. No staring at missing chunks of yourself fit to wrap in butcher’s paper.

The boy got out of the car with the shitbird from next door.

Hey, janitor. Rob jabbed the Colt into Marty’s neck. Fix this piece of shit.

Dad, I’m sorry— A twist of the muzzle choked out the rest.

Harve raised his hands. Aim it at me.

Fuck you, old man. Start the car.

All right. Harve slipped into the bucket seat and reached under to twist the valve blocking the gas line. Finessed the pedal and twisted the ignition until the Firebird coughed to life. Revved until she rumbled true.

Now get the fuck out. Rob laughed. Poked the weapon at Harve’s bullet head, peppered high and tight.

Harve saw himself twist the gun, snap the Cort boy’s finger, and chop his throat with the heel of his hand until thick dark blood poured from his mouth.

He also saw a half-inch of GI hardball punch a hole through Marty’s face.

Harve got out of the car, hands raised.

Rob smiled and slid into the doeskin vinyl seat. Pulled the door shut, gunned the engine. Get in, little brother.

Jerry crawled up front.

Dad, no! Marty lunged for Rob’s sneering face.

Martin, his father barked, and gripped his wrist.

I used to shit in the tank of the teacher’s crapper, Rob smiled. Hope you liked cleaning it up, old man.

Marty roared and swung. His father yanked him back, and Marty’s fist whiffed whiffed past Rob’s face.

You fuckin’ pussy, Rob flipped them the finger and floored it, leaving them acrid smoke and twin black scars on the asphalt as he peeled away.

Why, Dad, why?

He squeezed the back of Marty’s neck. It’s just a car, son.

Marty’s lip quivered as the Firebird flew away.

Freedom Bird © 2011; first appeared in Off the Record, edited by Luca Veste, 2011.

Back to TOC

The Big Snip

When the new girl got into the van, all Sharon saw was a sunbaked skinny-ass white girl with chicken legs, and she wasn’t sure how long she’d last. Probably couldn’t lift more than fifty pounds, at least without complaining. She wore long sleeves and kept her nails trimmed to the quick, her dishwater hair tied back, tucked down the back of her shirt. Smelled like she’d just sneaked a cigarette.

Sharon gave her a week.

But she had lasted three, long enough for Sharon to call her by name.

Good morning, Christina, she said, and climbed into the passenger side. She placed two boxes of syringes and vials of Telazol on the floor between her feet. First stop’s on Dyckman.

Christina had a driver’s license, and wasn’t afraid to bully her way through traffic with the Neuter Scooter. They usually sent her fresh-faced white girls from Queens or Long Island, who couldn’t parallel park worth a damn. All pink and scrubbed and so full of love for animals that they’d eagerly serve three months spaying feral cats and snipping pit-bull balls on the street before they were allowed to intern at the veterinary hospital.

True, in the operating rooms you had a sense of urgency, like on a medical TV show. Except instead of second-string Broadway actors playing the patients, you got pampered pets who probably ate better than you did.

The Neuter Scooter was the front lines, where you earned your bones at People Who Love Animals. Every morning, they drove the modified Econoline van to pet owners who’d signed up for an appointment to alter their dog or cat at the PWLA (pronounced Poola) subsidized rate. You had to work quick and follow procedure, handle dogs that the owners often barely knew, plenty of outdoor pets and friendly strays, and cats who’d nuzzle your hand then flay your arm a moment later.

Sharon had just lost Lynndie, a plump powder-white Minnesota girl she’d trained into an op-table warrior, to the hospital staff. Even though she’d known all along that her protégé wanted to work inside—she was on her way to a vet degree—it stung of betrayal. They’d been a good team, had some laughs. It always hurt when the techs left. The unspoken words lingered like the stink of smoke on the new kid: if you worked in the van, it meant you were the B team.

When Fort Tryon Park loomed, Sharon pointed for Christina to cut right.

I got it, she said.

Sharon didn’t care for her driving. She hung in the far lane too long before a turn and was a little too liberal with her use of the horn. But she couldn’t complain, since she was a lifelong New Yorker and had avoided getting her license, first, because there was no need, then out of stubbornness, and finally out of a strange sense of pride. She’d been born on Convent Avenue, a block downtown from City College, in what was now called Hamilton Heights. The street crested a ridge on land once owned by Alexander Hamilton, whose house, now a museum, had been moved three times that Sharon knew about. Nearby St. Nicholas Park had a fine dog run, and she’d inherited her parents’ building, living in one half and leasing the other to three white girls who’d been chased out of Williamsburg by hipster-inflated rents. Girls who reminded her of Christina.

Their first patient was a gray bully mix named Tuco, a rambunctious boy whose ears and tail were intact. Christina double-parked and left the engine running. The Scooter had twin tanks to fuel the equipment.

Tuke’s not dog aggressive, but he humps just about anything in sight, his owner said. The sun lit up her natural puff of burnt-orange hair. He’s gonna break his lead and get himself killed one day, I know it.

He’ll settle down when we’re done, Sharon told her. She ran the woman’s credit card on a little gadget attached to an iPhone while Christina squatted down to play with the dog.

Who’s a good boy?

He mounted her knee like it was the southbound end of a northbound Shih Tzu.

Not you, Christina laughed. Not you.

They carried him into the back and closed the doors. The van had an extended roof so they didn’t have to hunch over. Tuco stood on the steel operating table, wagging his tail, breathing in the smells of hundreds of other dogs and cats who’d been there before him.

Gimme your paw, Sharon said. When Tuco obliged, she stuck him with a syringe of Telazol. He yipped and looked up like he’d done something wrong. Sharon rubbed his foreleg, easing the drug up the artery. That’s all, sweetie. That’s all.

The wooziness hit his eyes, and Christina rolled him onto his back and strapped him to the table. Sharon checked his pulse, then gave Christina a nod.

You’re gonna end up doing it anyway, Christina said.

If you don’t practice, that’s what we call a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Christina turned her head, but Sharon caught the eye roll. No one liked intubating when they first started. It was simple empathy, jamming a tube down a living creature’s throat. They’d gag when they heard the slick and crunchy noises, and felt the flesh resist. She held the dog’s head as Christina unfurled the hoses hooked to the gas, and watched her angle of entry. There it is. Ease it on in. You got it.

Christina bit her lip. Sharon gave her another try, then saw the confidence leave her hands. She took over. Prep him, she said. It’s all right.

The tube went right in for Sharon; she’d done enough of them. It was like anything else: you needed the confidence to not be overly gentle, but also to not be so cocky you didn’t listen to your hands, and wind up hurting the animal. She got the isoflurane flowing, and watched him breathe until she was satisfied.

Christina sighed and pulled a surgical drape over the dog. She took out a Bic razor and shaved a square of fur just above the testicles. If I knew I’d be shaving balls when I made it to New York, I would’ve stayed home.

Sharon shook her head, then inflated the cuff on the endotracheal tube to hold it in place so Tuco wouldn’t vomit and aspirate during the procedure. Least it’s just dogs, she said. Do they do men at those Brazilian places?

Christina wet a gauze pad atop a blue gallon jug of chlorhexidine and scrubbed the square of pink-gray skin she’d shaved on Tuco’s belly. No, she said. Far as I know, guys have to do that themselves.

I don’t know how you let someone down there, Sharon said. She could sign up for Social Security next year, but the flow of young vet techs kept her in the know. They talked about everything, including shaving their business.

I don’t, Christina said. Couldn’t afford to have someone else do it, even if I wanted them to. She squinted at the now-shiny patch of skin, and lifted up Tuco’s genitals. Fully descended. Ought to be a breeze.

When only one dropped, they called it a cryptorchid. The day Sharon told Christina that, she’d snorted like a wild hog. You know a guy came up with that. Like they’re a friggin’ bouquet or something. Hello, honey! Wanna put your tulips on my orchids?

Sharon ran a gloved finger over the prepped area then quickly made an inch-long cut. She held one orchid with thumb and two fingers, like a tiny bowling ball, and squeezed it up its roomy sac until it popped out the incision she’d made. Then she closed the forceps around the vesicle so it wouldn’t disappear back inside like a fleeing bait worm.

Come on, do the snip, she told Christina.

Christina took the scalpel and leaned in.

Just slice and go. On her granddad’s farm, the animals hadn’t even been given anesthesia. Just cut and cauterize.

The razor severed the vesicle like overcooked spaghetti. Now ligate. Christina tied it off and tucked it back inside.

Sharon tossed the freed testicle into the gut bucket. Now number two. Come on, we got a long list.

The farm was one reason Sharon had headed for vet school. Seeing horses suffer from impaction colic, billy goats castrated with nothing but a clasp knife and a pair of pliers, and how the farmhands dealt with an explosion in the barn cat population. No, sweating in the back of an old van giving feral cats the Big Snip wasn’t menial. For her it was a kind of penance.

She watched Christina perform the second removal, then closed the incision with a single stitch and a thin line of surgical glue. Christina cut the iso gas and removed the tube, and after the sleepy pup came to, they brought him, sans testicles, back to his owner.

Plenty of water, keep him inside. He can go for a walk tomorrow, but no running for a couple of days. If he opens it up somehow, bring him in and we’ll stitch him up.

They followed their clipboard nearly all the way up to Inwood. They snipped two toms, spayed a momma cat who’d littered twelve adoptees two weeks prior, then a yappy Chihuahua and a fat black Lab mix.

Cryptorchid! Christina called. She treated them like four leaf clovers.

On the ride back toward the clinic, a big bald man in a cardigan waved them down from the crosswalk.

Pull over, Sharon said. It was Timothy, an actor who walked dogs down in Morningside Heights on his off time. He had two Afghans on leashes.

Hey, girl. Timothy was built like a football player, with a smile almost too big for his face. How’s the nut-cutting biz?

You know, Sharon said. Our job’s never done. How about you? Who you got there?

Timothy lifted one leash, then the other. This is Tazi, and this is Karzai. They’re dolls, but so prissy. Tazi put her paws on the side of the van and stuck her long nose in the window to lick Sharon’s hand. Oh, that thing you did? Worked like a charm. They never even noticed.

Sharon nodded, Told you they wouldn’t.

"Oh, and I have an audition for Jersey Boys!"

A cab honked behind them. We’ll see you later. You can give me those tickets you owe me.

Christina pulled back into traffic, and cut crosstown. She squeezed the van into a spot in front of a Jimbo’s Hamburger Palace, and they washed up in back before breaking for a late lunch.

Jimbo’s cooked their patties on the griddle, and finished them under a steel cup made for ice cream sundaes. It steamed them, and kept them tender. There were few things Sharon was nostalgic about, but her father taking her to the first Jimbo’s to open in Harlem was one of them, and their burger was the only one she’d eat.

They sat on duct-taped red vinyl stools and waited for their burgers. Christina with a Diet Coke, Sharon with black coffee.

How’s Alex doing, Sharon said.

Alexie’s good. Getting ready for pre-K already. I can’t believe it.

And Hester?

Kyle doesn’t like her, but Alexie just adores her. He even flushes her poops down the toilet. She thumbed through her phone, and showed a photo of little tow-headed Alexie hugging a plump tortoiseshell cat. Cute little thing. The cat hung limp with a tolerant mother’s grin.

They ate their burgers, the kaiser rolls soaked with grease and onions. A man ordering to-go swept Sharon with his eyes. His hair and beard were trimmed close, shot through with gray. She frowned at her burger and cut it in half with a wood-handled steak knife.

What was your friend talking about?

Oh, just another snip.

Christina ducked and lowered her voice. Remember what you said about guys shaving their junk? Kyle asked me to shave his, because he heard it would make him look bigger.

Honey, no.

One little nick, and that was the end of that, Christina said, with a snort. I didn’t have all this practice then.

Sharon shook her head. She’d heard on NPR that the popularity of shaved genitals had put the existence of crab lice in jeopardy. No big loss, that.

The snip job for Timothy was on the sly, she said. This couple he knew, theater patrons. You’d know their name. Big dog they brought home from Italy, where they were married. He was a Neapolitan mastiff named Otto, the size of a large black panther or a small bear, and the owners kept him intact. The woman wanted him neutered, but the husband wouldn’t allow it. He was a good dog, but they couldn’t control him, and he got dog aggressive. Timothy got his hand cut up, trying to break him off another dog.

They paid him and the other dog’s owner off, to keep Otto off the vicious list. I met Timothy walking him in St. Nicholas, where the big dog run is. I had Caesar with me, and he put that Otto in his place with one look, no balls or not.

Caesar was her boy, a big white whale of a boxer mix with one brown eye and one ice blue.

He told me about the disagreement between Otto’s owners, and I suggested a solution.

What did you do?

Neuticles, Sharon said. You know. Those prosthetics. Some owners preferred their dogs to look intact. They’d crop the ears and the tail, but wanted two balls swinging around back there. So we didn’t shave him, I did the incisions, kept it real clean. Squeezed those fake nuts in there, like I was putting pits back inside a plum.

No way?

Yup. Glued him up and you couldn’t tell the difference, not even up close. And he settled down soon enough. He’s still a spoiled, hyperactive dog, just like his owners. Hell, Timothy brings him to the dog park by car service. That dog gets a cab faster than he does.

The gray-bearded man stopped by Sharon’s shoulder. I could put a smile on that face.

Sharon set her burger down. You know what’d make me smile? Not getting told to smile all the time.

His grin twisted into a sneer. Well you don’t got to be a bitch.

Go on, now. Sharon wagged her steak knife, the teeth gristly with red. I worked all day in back of a hot van snipping off dog balls, I can cut one more pair.

Christina covered her mouth not to laugh. She looked over her shoulder as the man slammed the door.

Can’t even eat my lunch, Sharon said, and wiped the shreds of meat off her knife with a napkin.

Tuesday was TNR day at the shelter uptown. Trap Neuter Release. They drove up to assist with the cats the shelter had caught. Feral things with matted coats and crusted eyes. Interns gave them shots and shaved the snarls from their fur. One tom yowled in protest, his voice roughened like a seasoned smoker’s. It took three interns to hold him down and inject the sedative.

Sharon put Christina on prep and intubation.

I don’t know, she said. You always end up doing it.

This assembly line’s just what you need to get over that hump.

The shelter was an old building with a lean to it, and no air conditioning, except a few overworked window units. Sharon peeled off her lab coat and worked in a tank top. Christina wore her long sleeves and wiped her brow between the motions.

Why don’t you take that off?

Don’t want to get scratched.

Sharon shrugged. The cats were already sedated. She was a firm believer that once an adult, a person had already decided whether they were going to be happy or miserable. She’d found happiness early in life, then lost it to her own pigheadedness; in the years that followed, happiness seemed difficult to find and harder to hold onto, and she slowly embraced the adage that if you wanted devotion, a dog was a sure bet, while people of either sex could only be counted on until they saw the next-best thing.

So she didn’t care whether Christina was comfortable, but she did mind if she learned to intubate. Sharon kept on her back until she worked through her hesitation. It took a few tries and some guidance, but five cats later she was doing it. Maybe not like a machine, but with enough confidence to keep things running. She had one slip with the cuff, and a pink and gray female regurgitated. The vomit smelled like fermented fish heads.

Christina gagged. It smells like garbage bags in Chinatown!

To her credit, she fixed the cuff before running for the sink.

A goateed intern brought her a pair of clean scrubs to change into.

Nice ink, he said, eyeing her lean forearms.

Sharon looked over while she glued up a scrawny female’s belly. Christina’s arms were covered in tattoos. The artwork showed talent, and her pale skin made for a good canvas. Swirls and autumn leaves and symbols. Over the inside of one elbow, a sailor’s heart tattoo with her boy Alexie’s name and birthdate in engraver script. Sharon didn’t understand why anyone would want one tattoo, much less that many, but it wasn’t the art that bothered her.

She put it aside and got back to work. There were always more ferals than they could snip in one shift, and today was no exception.

The shelter provided lunch in the form of cheap greasy pizza from the dollar a slice joint around the corner. They washed up and ate outside, where it was