wars

flash pseudo-fiction, iraq, children

April, 2004.

(The Human Condition)

1.
Jared hopes that Christine and I weren’t talking about him last week. He hopes that we didn’t have anything (too) bad to say about why he left school, why he joined the army, why he’s calling me from Baghdad now at four on Tuesday morning.
“Don’t be so suspicious,” I tell him.
“All my suspicions eventually dry out,” he explains, “and form the crust inside me.”
“Something to fill the void?” A pause.
“There’s nothing wrong with a void, s’long as you don’t cave in.”

2.
Jared is surprised: he assumed I knew that he and Beth had married.
“I just heard yesterday. Congratulations.” This comes out dry.
“Oh, yes, well…” he trails off and I close my eyes and we’re quiet.

3.
I try to avoid the obvious, picking up these short silences with random questions for a few more minutes, until he asks about the pictures. There’re three of them he sent in a dirty envelope several weeks ago, with a note that said only “I’ll call you.” He captions them for me. These aren’t pictures like the ones on television; they’re just Jared looking dusty and taller (wearing glasses?) and they don’t seem real.

4.
Jared reminds me that I owe him $50 for a middle school bet I can’t remember over which of our teachers would die first.
“If you don’t recall, I’ll just forgive your debt.”
“I’ll take you and Beth out to dinner when you get back,” I offer. “Then I think we should be even.”
“That sounds fair,” and without a breath, “better than going to my funeral, right?”

5.
He sounds to me thirteen again, on the roof of my parents’ house with the malt liquor and cigarettes, talking about impulses. He crawls close to the edge and tiny rocks slide down the slate.
“Like what if I just pushed myself off, just fell?”
“You shouldn’t,” I can only suggest things to Jared.
“But you only have to push. And the rest just happens.”
Jared and I peer over the edge for a long time, smoking, daring each other silently.