Chapter 10

James married young. When his friends were still in college, or working their way into entry-level gigs to pay bar tabs, he was wearing a uniform, carrying a rifle, and answering for the tomfoolery of his Marines. By his own admission, he was taking life entirely too seriously and he’d all but lost sight of the Jimmy his friends knew back home. But he was an adult with a woman to provide for, Marines to look out for, and a future to build. He worked hard, earned promotions and the respect of his peers, saw the world, loved his wife and aside from a few missteps along the way, he was good at it. But being good at something doesn’t mean it’s right for you and as his fifth year in the Marine Corps was coming to a close, he knew his career behind a rifle was in its twilight. He loved his country, he loved his Corps, but he was tired. Some people could do this forever, but James knew he wasn’t one of them.

He’d found his way, through virtue or folly, to a job that came with substantially less responsibility than those he’d been holding before. He immediately went about making it clear that his time was running out and that he’d soon be on his way to greener pastures: relinquishing responsibilities to the new guys checking in and burning through the substantial amount of leave he’d accrued through all that time he was too serious to go on vacation. Injuries, marital strains, and the emotional exhaustion of the uniform had helped him to develop a drinking habit that some may have considered unhealthy. James didn’t. Many people would have you believe that you can’t find any answers at the bottom of a bottle, but he knew better, especially when the question was usually how fast he could get there. Being drunk never hurt anybody, James would say, it was being an asshole that got people hurt.

One might expect at this point to find out that Jim’s marriage fell apart or that his life spiraled into darkness because of his seemingly rabid consumption of spirits… but the truth of the matter was alcohol was a tool to him. Picasso painted, Michelangelo sculpted and James drank: sometimes alone, sometimes with friends, but always with intent. His beloved wife wasn’t pleased about his methods during those days, but it was what Marines did, after all. As she came to learn during his nights of studying Marine Corps history for the promotion boards, the Marine Corps was in fact, founded in a bar.

It was no surprise then that there was a certain level of expectation when it came time to plan his best friend’s bachelor party. Money was tight as James had recently been medically separated from the Marine Corps, but Terry was a great guy and although they’d lost touch a bit over the years James was gone, their bond overcame the time and distance. James had been honored when Terry asked him to be his best man and he intended to earn that honor. He started setting money aside as soon as he learned of the engagement and started putting together plans during the hours he spent striving relentlessly not to do any work. He was acutely aware though, that planning never really made for a good party. The secret ingredient to a memorable night, regardless of the event spurring it, was chaos.

Unpredictable, unimaginable, and unintended events were the secret sauce, and James knew he could bring that to the table, but this was Terry’s big night – if James couldn’t plan the chaos, he would at least try to stack the deck. He needed to bring in reinforcements. He needed Jack - a buddy from the Corps that was the only man James had met thus far in his travels that could not only keep pace, but actually match Jim’s lack of social and physical self-preservation. He was well traveled, well read, intelligent and an inconsolable drunk. He was a peer in a world full ticket-buying gawkers and hangers on. Like the missing link separating man from ape, Jack clung to the edge of society with a fingertip grasp, yet somehow had a better grip than most. Jack could seduce your mother; he probably would too, but most importantly, Jack wouldn’t leave James awake and drinking alone when the other party-goers surrendered to the urge to pass out. James didn’t mind drinking alone, but no one turns down good company.

“So, I’m assuming I’ll be the only brown guy in attendance,” Jack spoke more to the bottles of various liquors he was loading into the trunk than he did to James.

“You’d better hope so. Strippers in upstate New York have probably never seen a Dominican penis before, bro. They’ll be so awe struck by your melatonin they won’t even notice me digging through their purses for pills!” Jim’s joke was peppered with sincerity. He’d developed an affinity for prescription pain killers after one of the multiple surgeries he’d undergone over the years to keep him walking. A lifetime of rugby, football, fights and falling off his motorcycle tended to lead to such things. He’d also taken to stealing trophies from women that were foolish enough to try to sleep with one or both of them, deeming them to be unrespectable and therefore forfeit of their belongings.

“Dude, I’m basically going to change the North East’s gene pool tonight, so I hope your people are cool with tan babies.” He replied as he piled into the passenger seat of James’ Mercedes. Neither man had packed any clothes, knowing full well they would have neither the time, nor the inclination to change out of what they were wearing. James wore his traditional button down shirt over blue jeans with designer imposter shoes and a watch that cost a fraction of what it appeared to: a delicate balance between actual class and the poverty created by a government salary. Jack’s clothes were slightly more casual but actually bore the designer brand names that their combined image would necessitate. James wondered to himself how Jack could afford designer undershirts, ignorant to the irony that he was sliding into the driver’s seat of his Mercedes, parked ten feet ahead of Jack’s old Volkswagon.

“We’ve got three hours before we have to pick up the strippers, think we can make it?” Jack asked as he they backed out of the driveway.

“Well, it takes two hours to get there, but I’ll be drunk before we’re off the turnpike, so three should just about do it.” James replied over his shoulder before transitioning his focus forward and putting the car in drive. He reached forward and turned the stereo up before sliding a pair of aviators over his eyes. Over the roar of the Mercedes’ exhaust leak and a metal song from the early nineties on the radio, Jim’s hearing caught a faint whistling. Always something wrong with this fucking car, he thought before turning the radio up a bit louder and cracking a beer.

Upstate New York was very different than Connecticut. The silver Mercedes slowed as it lumbered over potholes caused by years of heavy snowfall and the abusive snowplows that followed close behind. Any shimmer to the paint was now dulled beneath a layer of road dirt that stuck to the silver with adhesiveness indicative of recent rainfall. James knew that didn’t bode well for the strippers. He was already unsure how comfortable they’d be coming out to a cabin in the woods a few miles off of anything even remotely resembling a main road. Mud would make the drive that much hairier – and strippers, as a rule, tend to keep things as far from hairy as possible. Whatever, he thought, I’m paying them a small fortune to make bad decisions; it ought to come naturally to them.

A small man, Italian looking and with the build of a wrestler, climbed out of the driver’s seat of the Honda CRV the Mercedes had pulled alongside. They were the only two cars in the parking lot of a bar that may have closed ten years prior, or possibly were just closed for the day, the worn wood of the sign and dingy windows made it a tough call. He looked over James and Jack slowly in what James recognized as an attempt at intimidation. It was a game required by his profession and taking offense would be useless. Besides, the silhouette of two girls in the back seat had caught his attention. Hiring strippers through the internet is a crap shoot and he wanted to know if they were actually hot. Of course, he’d learn soon that they weren’t.

A few hours later, the party had officially started and Terry was having a blast. James was, per his custom at the time, sober enough to tell a good story and drunk enough to assume everyone would want to hear it. He went with a classic, the time Terry had nearly knocked him unconscious during a high school football game despite the two of them playing for the same team. It seemed to land with the group, which was no surprise as the group was comprised nearly entirely of guys that had been playing in the same game. Throughout the story, Jim’s phone vibrated repeatedly on the picnic table, his wife checking on him, he ignored it.

“Hey bro, your wife is calling again,” Jack let James know as James flipped a burger on the grill.

“Eh, she’s probably just freaking out about the strippers,” James knew she wasn’t. They’d fought again before he’d left, which was why she hadn’t bothered to say goodbye.

“Marriage seems awful,” Jack took a long drag from a cheap, gas station cigar.

“It is.” James was still angry. Another fight about the future, another fight about his drinking, another fight where she compared him to his father, “lord knows, I’m sure she’ll leave me soon and I won’t have to worry about it anymore.” They both laughed.

“Then you can start slaying bitches with me!” Jack stood on the picnic table and flexed with his announcement.

“Screw that, I’m glad I’m getting married, it means I don’t have to pretend I’m interested in girl’s bullshit anymore,” Terry arrived at the grill with a plate full of various meats, “well, except for Lynn’s, I guess.”

“You’re making the right move, man. I’m happy for you,” James put his spatula down and patted Terry’s shoulder. He didn’t know Lynn well, but it seemed the appropriate thing to say.

“I really came up here to see if you two faggots were gonna spend the rest of the night flirting here in the kitchen when the strippers are down by the fire,” Terry put his hand on Jim’s shoulder now.

“Well, it’s your night, so if you want me to go see the strippers, I’d be remiss in my duties as best man to ignore your request…” James passed the spatula to Jack.

“But I wanna see the strippers!” Jack protested with the tone of a child.

“Once you finish up with those burgers, bring ‘em down. Maybe you can trade one for a lap dance.” James called back over his shoulder as he walked down the hill toward the fire. Jack looked at the spatula for a minute, then the burgers, considering what James said, then got back to flipping them. Jim’s phone, still on the picnic table, began to vibrate again.

Things progressed exactly as James had hoped. Though his memories were foggy, he remembered the strippers volunteering to stay at the party, then fighting each other naked a few hours later over who had done all the coke. Secretly, James assumed Jack did it, but making such an accusation wouldn’t have done anyone any good. He’d heard a few of the guys ended up with poison ivy that night, one even got it somewhere James wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy, but his recollection was too muddled to know exactly how. He was just glad he wasn’t a part of the afflicted group.

By the time he got home, his wife was making dinner. She didn’t speak to him when he came in, but he expected that.

“The party went well,” He tried to breach the silent treatment, “Terry was really happy.”

“I’m glad he had fun,” Jessica’s tone didn’t match her words.

“How was your night?” James played ignorant of her mood.

“I want to start marriage counseling.”

“Not this shit again, Jessica… please,” James rolled his eyes and walked to the refrigerator. He opened the door, expecting to hear a response, none came. He pulled a beer out of the cardboard six-pack in the door and closed it.

“Still drinking?” She finally spoke.

“Just trying to keep away the worst of the hangover,” James told her the truth. There was nothing even remotely appetizing about the beer in his hand.

“I spoke to my mom, she has a guy,” Jessica continued where she’d left off about the marriage counseling.

“I’m not going to go air our dirty laundry to some asshole who’s just going to blame our problems on sad childhoods and Oedipus bullshit…” James would have continued with his rant, but Jessica interrupted him.

“It’s not a request. We go or I’m leaving.” Jessica didn’t look up from the cutting board, but paused her chopping. James was caught entirely off guard.

“I… what?”

“You heard me. We can either go to counseling or I’m moving in with my mother.” James put the beer down on the counter and scratched his head.

“Well… then I guess we’re going to counseling.” Neither of them spoke again for the rest of the night.

Less than a year later, James graduated magna cum laude from Central Connecticut State University with a bachelor’s degree in communications. Jessica attended the ceremony, but he didn’t see her. He met briefly with the Marine Corps officer recruiter that had attended, though not because he had any intention on commissioning. He simply didn’t have anyone else to talk to. He walked down the long stairs to the commuter parking lot where his Mercedes, now a bit banged up as a result of James driving into a McDonald’s drive through menu. He had mixed Vicodin, marijuana and tequila after a particularly painful night of couple’s counseling. Not surprisingly, the counselor had recommended that James seek substance abuse counseling after the mishap. James didn’t return the following week.

Jessica made sure to tell him that she still loved him and that she was worried about his wellbeing as she left, but her leaving seemed to contradict that. It didn’t matter to Jim, he had already decided to close himself off emotionally to the entire situation. Once she was gone, he opened up a bottle of Svedka Vodka and poured a glass. He took a long sip of it, then threw it through the picture window that used to overlook her beige Toyota Corolla. The window would end up costing him six hundred dollars to have replaced, a fee he was forced to hand over out of his first pay check from his new entry level position as a corporate recruiter for a small IT firm in Hartford, Connecticut.

He made friends pretty quickly within the small company, but none that he felt particularly attached to. Though he had been out of the Marines for over a year, being back in the workplace made him miss the camaraderie of the Corps, even if it was often born of joint hardship or misery. He felt no attachment to the men and women he worked with, he honestly felt no attachment to anyone. Each night, James would drive home to the house he once shared with his wife to drink and smoke weed until he lost consciousness. Then, one Friday afternoon as James scrolled through a popular celebrity nipple-slip website and waited for the clock to reach five, he got an e-mail from Jack. He was going to be on the East Coast for a few weeks and wanted to meet up. James excitedly e-mailed him back; a night partying with Jack was exactly what he needed. They spent the next few minutes e-mailing times and locations back and forth until it was settled. They’d meet at a bar near James’ house the following night.

James arrived wearing a pair of jeans and a worn out, grey Metallica tee shirt. It was karaoke night at the bar so he hadn’t been particularly concerned about looking good. He walked a lap to make sure he hadn’t missed Jack before taking his usual seat at the bar and ordering a vodka and ginger ale. He’d long been making them at home but only recently had started ordering them at the bar. Something about doing it still felt strange.

“I hope you ordered that for a lady,” Jack’s voice erupted from behind him. James turned around to face his verbal assailant, he was wearing a tailored suit without a tie, the top button of his collar was unbuttoned, revealing a thin gold chain separating his under shirt from the bar. The two men hugged like brothers that hadn’t seen one another in too long.

“You look good, bro,” James admitted, suddenly self-conscious about his wardrobe decision.

“It’s the new gig man, pays well and they gave me a signing bonus!” Jack sat at the bar next to Jim.

“No shit? What are you doing now?” He wondered if he was also living out his own cubicle hell.

“Intel, bro. I leave for training next week.” Jack answered casually, as though what he just said wasn’t the coolest thing James had ever heard.

“Intel? Like the PowerPoint bullshit we had to sit through in pre-deployment workups?” The “Intel” Marines James had worked with didn’t have the coolest of jobs.

“Naw bro, like undercover, espionage, spy shit… but without the dangerous parts. I’m just gonna be living the high life in some country, writing reports and banging the locals.” Jack spoke into his fresh beer.

“No way man… how’d you land a gig like that? I’m wasting away recruiting nerds to make webpages about bullshit…” James had hoped not to talk about work tonight.

“It’s not all great man, you gotta be cut off from your family completely, new name, new identity, the works. It’s not forever, but just while you’re on the job.” Jack seemed like he was trying to console Jim, suggesting that his job wasn’t that much better than his own.

“Sounds like a perk of the job to me, bro.” James looked back toward his beer.

“What about Jessica?” Jack must not have been on Facebook anytime in the last year.

“Gone. It’s fine dude, I’m better off without her.” James lied.

“Ya know, I wasn’t supposed to say any of this shit to anyone,” Jack began.

“It’s cool bro, I won’t say anything,” James assured his beer.

“No… I know… I mean, I can probably make some calls, see if I can get you an interview. They’ve got a lot of boat spaces to fill.” Jack put his beer down and looked at Jim.

“That would seriously be great man… I’d kill for a chance to do something like that.”

“I’ll see what I can set up, just make sure you’re clean when you go in for the interview, no weed or pills you don’t have a prescription for man, seriously.” Jack knew how James partied, they’d done it together enough times.

“No problem. I’ll start my cleanse tomorrow,” James changed his attention to the bartender, “two shots of whiskey.”

Jack smiled, “tomorrow it is.”