Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk (16 page)

“
I,
” he resumes, and waits out the last shrieks as the cheerleaders finally get a grip on themselves, “
I
”—another pause, this time for effect—“and the entire Cowboys organization”—
kai-boiz,
Billy mouths to himself, scratching an itch on his inner ear—“are pleased, privileged, and extremely honored to have with us today the outstanding young men of Bravo squad, these true American heroes here to my left. If you want to talk about a group that knows how to suit up and show up, here they are. They are the best our nation has to offer, and our best is absolutely the best in the world, as they proved on the battlefields of Iraq.”

The cheerleaders cry out, their orgasmic shriek quickly morphing into the lockstep U-S-A! chant. Have they been told to interrupt, Billy wonders, or do they just know to do it on their own? The role of cheerleader being secondary by definition, yet cheerleaders themselves exhibitionists by nature, he starts to sense the conflict at the core of every boy and girl who ever fanned the fires of team spirit, the private anguish of always cheering for others when you’re the one busting it body and soul. Nobody cheers for the cheerleaders! And how that must hurt, the goad for many a deafening scream of crazed enthusiasm. Norm is chuckling, shaking his head as if to say, Those girls. Off to the side, the Cowboys brass are chuckling too.

“I’m sure,” Norm resumes, “everyone is familiar by now with the Bravos’ exploits, how they were the first to come to the aid of the ambushed supply convoy, they went straight into the battle with no backup, no air support, outnumbered against an enemy who’d been preparing this attack for days. They didn’t think twice about the odds stacked against them, they even suspected it was a trap, and yet they went right in without hesitating—”

Several of the cheerleaders cry out, but Norm holds up his hand. He will not be interrupted now.

“Fortunately for us, a Fox News crew was embedded with the group that arrived shortly thereafter, so it’s possible for us to see for ourselves what these fine young men did that day. And I have to say, I have
never
”—Norm’s voice grows husky, he hunches close to the microphone—“I have
never,
been prouder, to be an American, than when I saw, that, footage. And if you haven’t seen it, I urge you to do so at your earliest opportunity . . .”

Billy’s mind wanders. Now that he’s settled down somewhat he can give the cheerleaders his first considered look, and he had no idea there are
so many
of them, they are a life-sized sampler of rapturous female flesh with all colors on display, all flavors of sculpted tummy and supple thigh, scooped waist, contoured flare and furl of hip, and such breasts, oh Lord, such volumes of majestically fulsome boob overflowing the famous tail-knotted half shirt, yes, at any moment an avalanche could burst forth and bury them all, only a few scant inches of besieged cloth save Bravo from utter annihilation.

“It’s my personal feeling,” Norm is saying, “that the war on terror may be as pure a fight between good and evil as we’re likely to see in our lifetime. Some even say it is a challenge put forth by God as a test of our national mettle. Are we worthy of our freedoms? Do we have the resolve to defend our values, our way of life?”

Billy makes a few of the cheerleaders for strippers—they have the tough slizzard look of the club pro—but most of them could be college girls with their fresh good looks, their pert noses and smooth necks, their scrubbed, unsullied air of wholesome voluptuousness. Don’t stare, Billy tells himself; don’t be a creep. Albert and Major Mac are sitting together in the back row, and he tries to imagine what they might talk about. This seems funny. From time to time Albert looks up from his BlackBerry to check on Bravo, his eyes keen, not without affection, much like a rich man watching his prize Thoroughbred taking a jog around the track.

“To all those who argue this war is a mistake, I’d like to point out that we’ve removed from power one of history’s most ruthless and belligerent tyrants. A man who cold-bloodedly murdered thousands of his own people. Who built palaces for his personal pleasure while schools decayed and his country’s health care system collapsed. Who maintained one of the world’s most expensive armies while he allowed his nation’s infrastructure to crumble. Who channeled resources to his cronies and political allies, allowing them to siphon off much of the country’s wealth for their own personal gain. So I would ask all those who oppose the war, would the world be a better place today with Saddam Hussein in power? Because what is America
for,
if not to fight this kind of tyranny, to promote freedom and democracy and give the peoples of the world a chance to determine their own fate? This has always been America’s mission, and it’s what makes us the greatest nation on earth.”

Billy wonders if Norm will run for office someday. He’s as polished a public speaker as any of the politicians Bravo has encountered over the past two weeks. He has the presence, the
werds,
plus he’s mastered the wounded, vaguely petulant tone that is the style of political speech these days. If there’s a grating artificiality in the performance—Norm’s awareness of himself as performer, sneaking peeks at a mental mirror off to the side—it’s no worse than any other fixture of the public realm. Billy has noticed that audiences don’t seem to mind anyway. All the fakeness just rolls right off them, maybe because the nonstop sales job of American life has instilled in them exceptionally high thresholds for sham, puff, spin, bullshit, and outright lies, in other words for advertising in all its forms. Billy himself never noticed how fake it all is until he’d done time in a combat zone.

“I had the pleasure of visiting with our president recently, and he assured me we are winning this war. We are winning, make no mistake. We have the best troops in the world, the best equipment, the best technology, the best home-front support, and as long as we maintain our resolve, it’s only a matter of time before we prevail.”

The medias look, if not downright sullen, then definitely peckish and bored. Norm is talking longer than anyone expected, and even the Bravos, who are tired of answering questions from the press, grow impatient. Billy’s attention swings back to the cheerleaders and he does an experiment, walking his gaze down the row of women to his right. As he catches each cheerleader’s eye she breaks into pyrotechnic smiles—it’s like flipping on a row of klieg lights, bam bam bam bam. But somewhere down the line his gaze stops, backtracks of its own accord to a petite, fair-skinned girl with a teased-out corona of strawberry-blond hair, soft bolts of which drape the rising tide of her chest. She smiles again, then silently laughs and crinkles her eyes at him. He knows it’s her job, but still; his stomach does a drop-kick sort of bounce. A nice girl doing her part to support the troops.

The press is definitely sulking. All the little recording gadgets they were holding up at first, all of these have disappeared. Billy forces himself not to look at the cheerleader for the next thirty seconds, but he’s careful not to look at the TV cameras either. Nothing makes you feel more like a geek than seeing yourself on the tube staring straight back at yourself, there’s some peculiar quality of guilt or cluelessness that the camera seems to catch in the direct gaze.

“Ladies and gentlemen, nine-eleven was our national wake-up call. It took a tragedy of that magnitude for us realize there’s a battle going on for the souls of men. This is not an enemy that can be appeased or reasoned with. They don’t negotiate; terrorists do not unilaterally disarm. In a war like this, mixed signals only encourage our enemies . . .”

When Billy at last looks back, she’s waiting! She gives him a stupendous smile, then another eye crinkle, then winks. Of course it is all professional courtesy but Billy allows himself to pretend that, yes, she really digs him, that they’ll meet, exchange digits, go out on a date, go out on more dates, have sex/fall in love, marry, procreate, raise excellent children, and have incredible sex for the rest of their lives and why the hell not, dammit, humans have been doing it since the dawn of time so why can’t Billy have his turn? He has looked away, and when he looks back they both smile and silently chuckle over this little thing they have, whatever it is.

“ . . .  these fine young men, these true American heroes,” Norm says, and at last he serves up Bravo for direct consumption.
Welcome to Dallas,
says their first interlocutor, which prompts cheers and pom-pom-flapping from the cheerleaders.

What have you been doing since you got here?

The Bravos look at one another. No one speaks. After a moment everyone laughs.

“Here, Dallas, or here at the stadium?” Dime asks.

Both.

“Well, in Dallas, we got in late yesterday afternoon, checked into the hotel, and went out for something to eat. Then we did some sightseeing.”

At night?

“You can see lots of interesting things at night,” Dime says straight-faced. This gets a nice laugh.

Where are you staying?

“The W Hotel downtown, which is probably the nicest place we’ve stayed the whole time. We feel like rock stars there.”

“W Hotel,” Lodis pipes up, “that have anything to do wif—”

Nooooooo,
half the room bellows at him.

“Hunh. ’Cause I just thought maybe the president—”

No no no no no.

What’s been your favorite city so far?

“You mean besides Dallas?” Sykes says, which gets a shout-out from the cheerleaders.

Have you had any trouble sleeping, readjusting to life back home?

The Bravos look at one another. Nah.

What was your most unusual mission?

The raid on the chicken farm.

Hardest mission?

When we lost our guys.

Hottest?

Any trip to the port-a-pot.

Are we making a difference over there?

“I think we are,” Dime says carefully. “We are making a difference.”

For the better?

“In some places, yes, definitely better.”

And other places?

“We’re trying. We’re working hard to make it better.”

We’ve been hearing a lot lately about the Sadr insurgency. What can you tell us about that?

“The Sadr insurgency. Well.” Dime reflects for a moment. “I wouldn’t bet on any group whose leader looks like Turtle on
Entourage
.”

Big laugh.

Do you play any sports over there, like intramural stuff ?

“It’s too hot for sports.”

What do you do during your downtime, for fun?

MASTURBATE!!!
they all shriek, or would, except Dime would slowly kill them one by one. “The Army’s real good at task saturation,” he says, “so we don’t have a whole lot of downtime. Most days we’re putting in twelve, fourteen hours, lots of days more than that. But when we do get some kick-back, I don’t know. Guys, what is it we do for fun?”

Play video games.

Lift weights.

Buy stuff at the PX.

“I like to kill my enemies and listen to the lamentations of their women,” Crack says in a lumbering German accent. The room freezes, then exhales a laugh when he adds, “That’s from
Conan
. I just always wanted to say that.”

Billy and his cheerleader continue their face work—glances, smiles, brow-scrunching mugs, then this amazing soulful stare that lasts for several seconds. He feels strangely porous, as if his vital organs have turned into Nerf balls.

What was it like meeting the president?

“Oh the president,” Dime enthuses, “what a totally charming guy!” The rest of the Bravos strain for studiously blank expressions, as Dime’s loathing for the Yale brat—his words—is well-known within the platoon. When their deployment began, Dime soaped “Bush’s Bitch” on the front passenger door of his Humvee with an arrow shooting up to the window, where he, Dime, usually sat, but the Lt. finally noticed and made him wash it off. “He made us feel incredibly welcome and relaxed, like, say, if you went down to your local Chase branch to get a car loan, he’s the nicest banker you’d ever hope to meet. He’s friendly, easy to talk to, you could sit down and have a beer with this guy. Except, hunh, I guess he doesn’t drink anymore, does he.”

This evokes a few sniggers from the medias, a few hostile stares, but mostly it’s business as usual.

What’s the food like over there? Do you have Internet? Cell service? Can you get any sports channels?
The Bravos have this much in common with POWs, they are asked the same questions over and over. Someone asks about the day-to-day challenges of life in Iraq. Crack tells them about the camel spiders, A-bort talks about the horrible biting fleas, then Lodis gets off a free-associative riff about his skin problems, “how my skin dry out and get all crack and ashy, my boy Day always on me about moisturizer an’ I’m like
snap,
den gimme somma dat Jergens, dawg!” This goes on for a while.