Ethan P. Swann

Nick Ostdick

Can't Go Back

Sitting on the couch, dozens of people all over my house. Noisy. It's late and my head's full of smoke and booze. At this point I hardly know who's who anymore. My best friend and fraternity brother Russell is home on leave for two weeks. We're welcoming him back with a shit-show of a party. It's so out of control I can't even pay attention to the hordes of people walking by my spot in the living room. I'm just stuck to the brown leather cushions, trying to absorb the energy swarming around me. Friends I haven't seen in months. People I see all the time. People I don't know. Loud music. A raging, out of control party that I want nothing to do with. I close my eyes and sink into my huge couch, hiding with my own thoughts.

It's October of my senior year and I'm living in a house with two of my fraternity brothers, desperately trying to enjoy myself. Last year was no good. Russell left for Iraq. My girlfriend of two years left me for the guy she'd been banging the past few months. All in all, life's been shitty and I'm glad to have my brother back. Russell's home on leave, two weeks of freedom to bask in chilly New Hampshire before heading back to the hot desert.

I'm brought back to the party by the loud cough and wet slap of someone vomiting on my kitchen floor. As I make my way towards finding the one responsible for the mess, a red-haired girl I've never seen before grabs my arm.

"Hey, are you Grouse?" she asks.

"Sure am."

"Russell's outside. He's asking for you."

"Okay. Thanks."

He must be wasted by now.

Russell used to be able to drink a 30-pack of Keystone in a matter of hours. Since his time slinging around the desert in a Muslim country, his tolerance has noticeably decreased. If Russell's still drinking like he was this afternoon, his fucked up alert level must be on orange by now. I grab a grey hooded sweatshirt and walk outside. The night is cool and dry.

I find Russell sitting in his green Dodge Ram pickup. His short, stocky frame is hunched over the wheel, curled up like a baby, his forehead dead center of the steering column. He glances over at me as I open the passenger side door. Eyes glazed drunk. Looking faraway. He squishes his face like he's biting down in pain, like he's getting jabbed in the gut or being tattooed. He flexes his fists in a slow, steady rhythm, squeezing them so tight his knuckles are white and his untrimmed fingernails leave deep blood red marks in his palms when he opens them.

Open.

Closed.

Open.

Real fucked up.

"Hi, Pickler." I say, not knowing what else would work here.

"Hi Grouse," says Russell.

We call each other by our pledge names. It's a force of habit amongst fraternity brothers.

I climb into the truck and sit next to him on the cold seat, staring at the beer can I left on the hood. I don’t want to look at him. The war is sitting right next to me and I don't like it. Part of Russell is still very far away, sweating through a sandy hell.

He's killed people over there.

Russell is wrapped up in a red Columbia ski jacket that he bought today. He’s not so much wearing the coat as he is hiding under it, the arms hanging empty and lifeless at his sides. His normally bright blue eyes are blurry, wide open, and staring at his lap. He has a gaping, blank expression now, like he's about to vomit. The floor of the truck is littered with trash. Russell's been traveling so much to visit everyone that he's pretty much been living out of his truck. There's an assortment of fast food wrappers from across New England. Candy bars. Coffee cups. Remnants of disgusting Little Debbie snacks. Everything is coated in a pale dust that highlights the beams of light coming from the bare bulb on the front porch.

Russell's old man has been using this truck for his painting business while he's been gone. He's left an assortment of scrapers and brushes that, piled up, make it difficult for me to find a place to put my feet.

For some reason I think about the gun that his father is famous for keeping under the driver's seat. I wonder if there's one in this truck.

I look at the floor and gradually focus on the battered combat boots below me. Laces untied, their tongues hang out like they're still panting from heat. The dusty tan leather is stained with faded splatters of rusty brown blood.

In about a week Russell will leave us again. To hide. Run. Shoot. Kill. Live.

I will stay here.

Ten months ago, on New Year’s Eve, days before Russell was leaving, I toasted to my brother's departure. Barely into 2005, I held up a glass of whiskey, slurring something like, "No matter how you feel about this whole situation, ya gotta respect what these guys are doing for us."

Now I'm sitting in a cold green Dodge and I wonder if I really meant what I said. Do I really respect this warrior, this killer, my brother? How can I respect this man when all I have is contempt for what he's doing? What do I believe? Suddenly I'm very angry and scared. I take a long pull from my beer.

Russell's dull, red eyes work their gaze across the floor and towards me. He looks at me but he's not focused on me, but focused through me, through the walls of the truck, across a hemisphere, into the desert.

"I miss you Grouse."

"I miss you too, brother."

Russell gives a satisfied sigh then returns his head to the steering wheel. I shift my weight on the bench seat. After a while he speaks.

"Remember that time we drove to pick up Amy at White River Junction and I convinced you to call her and tell her you couldn't get a ride so she was stuck in the bus station?" he says.

"Yea, I think she had mono then."

"That was hilarious."

"Yea it was."

"We showed up like ten minutes after you called and she was sitting there with a blanket on her lap like some old lady," Russell says with a laugh.

"She’s a whore," I say, smiling.

"Huge whore."

Nothing like ranking on the ex-girlfriend to help you feel better.

Russell continues. "When I was over there I asked her to email me pictures in lingerie."

"Did she?" I ask.

"No, but I thought I should tell you anyway."

"You should've asked me, I have tons on my computer."

Russell raises his head again. His eyes show a sign of mischief. He's beginning to look more like himself. We shoot the shit about our past escapades together—three year's worth of funny stories we consider epic. We talk about pranks we've pulled, girls we've mated, girls we have in common.

"Remember that time I was trying to call Steph for a booty call but I was too drunk to see my phone, so I had you call for me?" He's actually laughing now.

"Yea, I never told you this, but you passed out, and I banged her on the couch."

"Yes, Grouse!"

We're both a coupla scumbags. But in a good way.

"Nothing was funnier than that time you were making out with that fat chick on the trampoline and Buzzard and I snuck around and laid underneath it," says Russell.

"She wasn't that fat," I respond, indignant.

"Yea she was. There was barely room under the trampoline for the two of us the thing was saggin' so bad."

"Okay, maybe she was a little hefty, but the fact of the matter is that I hooked up on a trampoline, and you didn't."

"Do it for the story, Grouse."

Russell and I both know that when we're gone, our stuff doesn't matter, our money doesn't matter, but our stories will live on forever.

As long as someone listens.

Suddenly we're out of stories.

Russell's trying to smile, but something won't let him.

"I have to go back, man."

All I can think of to reply with is, "I know. That sucks."

"This whole place is so surreal. I walked into the house and the same posters were hanging on the walls. All the same people were here, and they were all the same as they used to be."

I think of the posters hanging on the walls of our tiny, dumpy house. I don't even remember what they look like.

"We still are the same people, same as you."

"I'm not the same."

"Yes you are. Don't give me that bullshit. You're the same person—with new experiences and new stories. Do it for the story, even if it's not a happy story. And there's a lot of us here who will be here to hear those stories when you're back for good."

Russell never asks what we'll do if he doesn't come back. I wouldn't have an answer if he did.

I see a tear slide through the stubble on his cheek. His military haircut looks damp with sweat despite the chill. His gritty chin shows a trace of a quiver.

"I saw a guy get shot in the face with a .50-cal. His whole head blew up."

"Shit, dude . . . ."

"Yea, his buddy got one that just grazed the corner of his forehead. There was brains and stuff leaking out—the stuff sloshes out when your skull's opened up like that."

I bury my hands in the front pocket of my hoodie, pull my legs up close to my chest, and pull the gray fabric over my knees.

"You know I have no idea what to say to that, man."

"I know . . . I just wanted someone here to know."

"I'll never know."

"Not if I keep it up like I have been. I got three of those fuckers."

There are more tears now.

"Three, all at once. One of them I was real close to. That's his blood on my boot."

I look again at the dusty and bloody boots at my feet.

"His blood is in my fucking truck."

I look down again. Russell is hysterical now, still curled up, snot running from his nose, mixing with tears and saliva. The change hits him so quickly that I hardly know what to do. I grab napkins from the glove box and hand them over. He smears his face with the paper and drops them to the floor. I stare at the dashboard. For a long time we sit, me silent, Russell bawling loudly. I finish my beer, crumple the can, and drop it on the ground next to Russell's boot. Eventually I can't stand it anymore and exit the vehicle. Gotta do something. I tell Russell I'll be right back and run to the house looking for someone with size to help me carry him inside. His overly dramatic girlfriend Michelle goes running out as soon as she sees me. When I return outside with my giant friend Sal, Michelle is in the truck, her arms squeezing Russell's heaving torso, her tears mixing with his. Sal peels her off of him and slowly, calmly, pulls Russell out of the truck and cradles him in his gigantic arms. Russell seems to be quieter almost right away. We stand him up and walk him into the house, dragging his feet over the porch and into my bedroom. Sal and I lay him down, remove his shoes, and leave. Michelle runs in, and we shut the door behind us. I go back outside to the truck, its door open, the interior light shining and a beeping noise telling me to remove the key. I pull it out. The sudden quiet is welcome and unnerving at the same time.

I pocket the keys and shut the door. Inside, I can barely hear the sounds of laughing, glasses clinking, and the heavy bass beat coming from the stereo, like the canned background noise in a movie. A gallery of drunkards dancing and drinking, living in a totally different world than Russell's. A different world than mine. Standing in the cold night, I'm suddenly very alone again. I pull my hood over my head, but the chill sneaks in anyway. It runs down my back and out the bottom of my shirt. My hands return to their pocket. I shiver. I realize I'm sweating. I look up at the clear sky above, wondering if the stars look different in the desert. I picture swirling clouds of sand obscuring them. Shame, I think, they're beautiful. My eyes find the beer perched on the hood and I grab it. I crack it open with a satisfying cold welcome. A few sips and I feel the shakes start to subside. I’m still cold. I pull my beer hand inside my sweatshirt to insulate it from the cold aluminum. Standing here, beer in hand, I feel uncomfortable, lonely, and sober. I can't stay here. The house is right there, next to me, but it seems so far away. I turn away from it and start walking down Pleasant Street towards campus.

Ethan Swann is a writer and vagrant from New England whose poems have appeared in Centripetal. This is his first fiction publication. He spends as much time travelling as he can, but when he's not on the road, he takes up as much space on friends' couches as he can. He is an excellent badminton player. Visit him at www.myspace.com/swannethan.