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We Were Warriors It’s lonely and loud and my bearings are off—I’m usually asleep by now. There’s a guy, bulky with an NYFD t-shirt, doing karaoke, wailing on some old Van Halen song. I’m tempted to turn around and go home. I scan the place for Emerson, but can’t see much in the dim lights: a table full of heavy women in pantsuits and sweaters; some blue-collar types at the bar, facial scrub and tired eyes; an older guy at a little table by the stage, three weeks to liver failure written all over his baby-crap-yellow face. I step up to the bar and order a glass of Heineken. “Gelberrrr!” It’s Emerson, wild eyed, black hair greased back, long leather jacket, standing beside me. “It’s good you’re here,” he roars, putting firm hands on my shoulders, then squeezing me in a steel embrace. “Cheers!” He slams his Bud bottle into my glass. To the bartender at the other end, “Hey, two Cuervo Gold shots and some limes.” “Wait, Otto, I don’t think I should mix,” I say, holding up my glass of Heineken. His brows furrow and his pupils seem to widen. “Gelber, these are for me, baby.” He dumps one down his throat and chomps into a lime, juice dripping down his chin. Guy hasn’t changed a bit. Emerson and I had been friendly in high school, played ball together, but lost touch shortly after I went away to school. Supposedly he nabbed a good job on Wall Street after college, but couldn’t hack it and bailed within a year, started bouncing all over the country: Vegas, California, Florida. One day at work, on my prep period between classes, I’m heading up to the vending machines when I see some guy coming out of the boiler room whose fierce eyes give me déjà vu. It’s him. He’s working as an independent contractor, refurbishing the school’s ancient heating system. He’s fired up to see me and we decide to go hang out that night. After a few beers, I’m more at ease. I hadn’t been out with a buddy in years, probably since I had kids. Emerson knows half the people in the bar and is introducing me around like I’m the Pope or Donald Trump. And it’s kind of fun to be out in the world again. When the bar starts to quiet down Emerson says we should split and go for a ride. I figure what the hell. “How is your marriage, Gelber?” Emerson asks as we drive down the Saw Mill River Parkway. “Huh, no comment.” Long silence. “Do you consider yourself a happy man?” he asks. “I don’t know.” “You don’t appear happy to me.” I feel the piercing eyes, but can’t see them as I’m focused on the road. “Why?” “Because you’re not even forty yet and you’re turning into a cow. You’re a good thirty pounds overweight. And look at you, wearing the same damn pants with the stained crotch you had on when I saw you at work today. Just threw on another plaid shirt. Everything about you radiates unhappiness, apathy.” “Oh, shut up, Emerson. I was just starting to like you again.” That gets a respectful chuckle out of him. After a pause, “You know, everything about our lives goes against how we we’re meant to live. Man’s purpose is to survive, spread his seed, hunt, kill.” “Emerson, the drunken philosopher.” “We survive so well we’re fat, we’re forced unnaturally into monogamy, our food is wrapped in plastic and war is a far off dream for most of us, something you read lies about in the paper. This life in the suburbs—remodeling the house, taking kids to soccer practice, spending all our time on computers, cell phones, blackberries—we’re dead inside.” Okay, it was fun for a minute, but I don’t need a lecture on the evils of modern life from Otto Emerson. “Here, here, get off here.” We pull into a quiet neighborhood, I think in Scarsdale or thereabouts, and we’re in the land of estates and mansions: stately Colonials, austere Tudors, swanky moderns, each a kingdom unto itself, each inhabiting a sea of perfectly manicured lawn, each a real estate agent’s wet dream. “Keep going, slowly.” “What is this?” “Come on, trust me, Gelber,” he says, his eyes stalking the road like a lion for an impala. “Here, here, stop here.” I pull over in front of a new-looking pre-fab house, three stories, rustic rock walls for each of the several levels of gardens. He shooshes me as he slips out of the car and snakes up the driveway toward a black BMW, moonlight gleaming off its shiny exterior. My stomach tenses and I clutch the steering wheel. I see his arm fly up, something dark in hand, CRASH, right on the windshield, setting off an alarm that echoes through the neighborhood. A blast of adrenaline shoots through my veins and I am urgently sober and horrified. He’s a psychopath. “Emerson, what the fuck are you doing?” I hiss. The hand reaches up and crashes onto the windshield again. The upstairs lights are on in the house and I hear a dog yelping in the distance. I have to get away from here. My God, I could go to jail. I slam the car into reverse and whip down the driveway. Emerson is pounding at my window, crowbar dangling from his fingers, running with the car. Every impulse in me shouts to leave him, but at the last second I click the unlock button and hook a right into the street as he struggles against the centrifugal force to climb in and shut the door. “You fucking bastard. What the hell are you doing?” I scream as I race toward the Saw Mill, hands trembling on the steering wheel. “We’re cool, man,” he states, breathing heavy and grinning. “No. No, we are definitely not cool! I’m a teacher for God’s sake! I have a wife and kids! We could get thrown in jail!” He sits there, Zen, a glimmer in his eyes. “What the hell was that?” “Man, I just have to get the shit out of my system sometimes. To know there’s more to me than just work and all the other mundane bullshit that makes up this sorry-ass life. It’s a release, man!” “Are you serious? Are you really that ridiculous? So you break some innocent person’s windshield? That’s pathetic.” “Not innocent. It was a BMW. I only fuck with certain cars, the ones that attract a particular type of people, the despicable ones, the smegma of society. Every time I’ve had a run-in with someone on the street, tailgating me, cutting me off, doing dangerous or obnoxious shit, they’ve been driving a fucking Beemer or some crap like that.” “You need psychiatric help.” “People who drive them are always these pompous, arrogant types.” “You’re saying everyone who drives a BMW is a bad person?” “No, but probably 90%. I figure that’s decent odds. Of course, Saabs are fair game too.” The rest of the ride is silent. In my peripheral vision I notice Emerson take a few hopeful glances at me, but I keep my focus straight ahead. We pull into the bar parking lot and only a few cars remain. He puts a strong hand on my shoulder. I shrink from it, but his grip only tightens. “Gelber, I know I freaked you out. And I can see you don’t get it.” “Come on, Emerson, I have to go.” “Man, don’t you miss it?” “What?” “Being young, wild.” “Not especially.” “Come on, man. We were warriors,” he says, I guess referring to our time together as teammates on the New Rochelle Panthers. We were both linebackers and helped take our team to state. “Living like this is a death sentence to a man. I know you know what I mean. We don’t fight, we don’t kill, we don’t build, we don’t even hardly fuck! We don’t do anything worth doing! So, every now and then, I make it happen. So what?” Businesslike and measured: “Emerson, when we see each other at work, we can be civil and exchange hellos, but that is the end of it. I can’t associate with you on any other level. You’re hazardous to my wellbeing.” He gets out of the car, slams the door and beelines for the bar. By the time I get home, I am strangely calm and numb to what has occurred, almost amused as a scientist might be at an experiment gone hilariously against his hypothesis. I undress and curl up next to Angela. I want her. I kiss her neck, caress her thigh. She clears her throat several times sounding more like a dock worker than my wife. “What are you doing?” she asks. “Come on, honey, I want some loving.” “Jesus, David. I was sound asleep.” She shuffles around to a comfortable spot and her breath slows down and deepens again. I lay on my back, staring into blackness, feeling the unavailable heat of my wife’s body. *** A couple of weeks later, we have Angela’s family over. Exhausted from a long week at work, I can barely pay attention to the inane chatter: kitchen remodeling, the best brands of big screen TVs, Dougie’s baseball tournament. It floats into my mind in clips and fragments, but by the time I can make a connection and plan a remark, the conversation’s moved on to something equally uninspiring. Plus I’m in a fog from all the heavy food: eggplant Parmesan, fettuccine Alfredo, canoles, cheesecake. I hear my father-in-law mumbling something to Angela as he’s leaving and a sense of dread creeps through me. Angela’s warm goodbye-smile disappears the moment the door shuts. “When my family is here, I expect you to make an attempt. You weren’t friendly, you weren’t welcoming,” she says, starting down the hallway. “I wasn’t unfriend—” The door to our bedroom clicks behind her. I stand there in the hall, feeling like a fattened pig full on slops, stuck in my dreary pen. And there’s this compartment in my mind that Emerson is occupying and has been for weeks. And I’ve been trying to keep it sealed, but he’s starting to melt through the cracks. “Uh, I’m going out for a while, honey.” “Going out? Where are you going? It’s almost…” fades in the background as I step into the night. *** The place is actually pretty hopping for a Westchester County bar: a few tables of attractive women in their 30s and 40s, the blue-collar dudes at the bar, a well-dressed black couple, some young Manhattan-looking types at the pool table, and me and Emerson in the epicenter: cheering on the shy karaoke singers, striking up small talk with guys at the bar, clowning with the women at the tables. We end up at four-top next to one of the groups of ladies and I start up a conversation with one. She has drab hair and a pointy nose, but a big smile that’s all for me. We’re chatting about nothing, like what we’re drinking, the karaoke singers, who we’re here with. And it’s enjoyable, light. And her friends start poking fun at her a bit. Oh, Laura, always finds the guy to talk to. And I’m floating, floating, floating. Been so long since I felt like “the guy,” since someone actually considered being friendly or flirting with me. And I start feeding into it, hamming it up a bit. And I start imitating this lady singing some old Cher song. I’m pulling my head back on my neck and letting my lips flap around, and every now and then giving my man-breasts a little shake like I got it going on, just like the lady singing. And they all think it’s hilarious. And then one of the hard-eyed bar guys goes up and starts singing “Desperado.” And I capture him perfectly: the quivering lips, voice breaking at the high points, putting my head down pensively after an intense moment. The whole table of ladies is in hysterics, but he senses what’s going on and as soon as the song is over makes a beeline for our table. “What kind of shit you trying to pull here?” He’s about ten years younger than me and infinitely fitter, wiry and muscular, someone who uses his body every day to earn his bread. Black neatly trimmed beard, hair sheered to about half an inch with a shaver, veins bulging out of his neck as he speaks. He’s standing right over me, violating my space, silencing my fans. They give nervous, jerky glances toward each other and around the room. My throat is dry and my breath short. I have to diffuse this situation. “Hey, my bad. I got a little carried away.” The tension in his body fades just slightly. “Damn right, it’s your bad.” He stands there swaying on his feet, not quite knowing his next move. He starts to turn around when suddenly Emerson is in his face. “Hey, don’t fuck with my friend!” “You tell him don’t fuck with me!” he hollers, face inches from Emerson’s. The ladies at the table scatter, sensing the impending explosion, the entire club focusing on us, bartenders scrambling in our direction. As I’m getting up to try to diffuse this thing, I hear Emerson scream, “He’ll kick your fucking ass, pussy.” I step between them, “Guys, guys—” Desperado pokes me in the chest, hard. “You going to kick my ass?” He’s bearing down on me and I’m backing away. “Come on, it’s a misunderstanding.” A tall, skinny bartender stands in front of him, “Sir, please calm down,” which only seems to fuel his outrage. “Kick his fucking ass, Gelber. He’s a wolf ticket.” He shoves me in the chest with two meaty palms. “Kick my ass!” Laura, the woman I was talking with, is to the side, eyes wide with fear, a bartender is trying to negotiate with him, I’m getting backed into the wall when suddenly I feel my blood chemistry make an outrageous shift. I am no longer a family man in Dockers with something to lose. I feel something deeper, more primal, more desperate bubbling, boiling to the surface and the more I try to shove it down the more explosive it becomes. It’s a wolf, a lion, a monster trying to rip itself out of my chest. I see Desperado’s pathetic angry face, thick eyebrows, black eyes, his upper lip curling up in a snarl: “kick my—” I squeeze my fist into a knot and let it fly from my hip and feel my knuckles crash into the side of his skull. His head jerks back and he staggers. I hear a woman scream and Emerson ranting. I let out a gargled howl as I attack again, but am met with a sharp blow to the bridge of my nose. Before I can regroup, I get slammed by a cluster of savage blows to the face, head and neck. I flail wildly, but can’t manage to connect with anything other than shoulder or arm. I’m hanging on to the front of his denim shirt, clutching and tearing at the pockets, trying to stay up, gasping for breath, a hoard of people trying to separate us, pulling, tugging, grabbing at me. We collapse into a writhing pile on the ground, and he is wrenched off me swinging and kicking. I jump to my feet. He’s being held by a mass of bodies. “I told you not to fuck with me. Didn’t I? Didn’t I?” he rages. I feel warm liquid flowing out of my nose, and taste it, thick and salty, as it drips over my lips and leaks into my mouth. “You okay, man? You hurt?” asks Emerson, standing beside me. My eyelids narrow; I feel as if I’ll rip his head off. “Hey man, I thought you could take him.” Then I hear police sirens in the distance, and it’s over. Whatever possessed me has gone into hiding. *** Several hours later, after the terror of possibly destroying my life subsides, after the cops decide to let me go, as they actually know this guy and see my spotless record, my status as a local school teacher, after I am back to the safety of my home, I feel weary, frightened, but kind of exhilarated too. That week, the feeling of my knuckles smashing the guy’s head, of his fist pounding my face, live with me like spirits, nurturing me during down moments, like on Thursday when some parents are screaming at me because their son did not get into the advanced math program. I just watch their mouths and fantasize about knocking the husband’s teeth out and proclaiming the wife mine. That week I start jogging too, every other day. Maybe I would have lost that fight anyway, but being out of shape definitely contributed to my defeat. I want to get my old body back, at least to some extent. Angela is very supportive. She likes the idea of me taking care of myself and we start jogging together now and then, and it’s the first time we enjoy each other’s company in a long while. I’m still pissed at Emerson, but after about a month I give in and meet up with him again. This time, it’s pretty uneventful. We get into this nostalgia thing, reminiscing about our days playing ball together. “Remember that hit we put on the big clown from Peekskill? He was so dazed he went to the wrong huddle.” “Yeah, remember when we played Mahopac and you batted down the final pass of the game.” It’s enjoyable and boosts my spirits. Then about a week later, Emerson bails on me, decides to move back to Florida, back to his “old lady.” I feel kind of betrayed. But I try to keep the party going—I invite a new friend, Ed Fishkins from the science department, to go hang out, but it isn’t the same. As the weather changes, I morph back into a domestic cow, ready to be milked, and the little flame between Angela and me dies back down to cold ash. It’s as if Emerson never existed. *** One night I’m driving home from a visit to a sick aunt upstate. I’m feeling a bit depressed and isolated and decide to cruise by the old bar, maybe have a beer. Pulling up at the same time as me is the black-haired asshole I had fought, couple guys jumping out of the car with him, full of testosterone and bravado, big shots in a wimpy little town tavern, driving a hot-shit Mustang. Wonder if that’s on Emerson’s list. I stay in my car, in darkness, and once they make their grand entrance, each a Don in his own little mind, I cruise around the corner onto a deserted residential street. Peering around first, I open my trunk and maneuver the tire iron out of its bindings. I sprint to the bar and wait in the shadows as a young couple is entering. I scramble across the lot to the back of the Mustang, heat still emitting from it. Feeling the weight of the cold metal in my hand, and holding the sharp end, I whip it around and smash the rear taillight, sending a sharp jolt through my hand, arm and shoulder. Spastic flashes light up the parking lot as the alarm shrieks. I shatter the other taillight and then take the tire iron like a baseball bat and smash it into the back windshield three times till my palms are bruised and the window is a crystal spider web. I turn on my heels, but then, not satisfied, take two racing steps toward the bar, kick the side mirror and watch it skitter across the asphalt. Someone opens the tavern door and I run, booted-feet pounding the pavement, thighs flying in the air, like the old days. I hit a turn and feel something pull in my hamstring, but ignore it. Keys in my hand, I click the unlock, scramble into the car and blaze out of the there, howling with glory, leaving tire tracks all up the street.
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