Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk (23 page)

“Yeah!” someone cries, and the players erupt, more oomph in the cheer than Billy would expect. Then again, they are professionals. To lead them in prayer Norm calls on Pastor Dan, a pleasantly weathered man dressed in the same shiny track suit as the coaches.
Dear God,
prays the reverend in a melodic southern voice, all crushed-velvet vowels and chunky consonants,
please help us play to the best of our abilities. To conduct ourselves on the field in a way that fulfills your word and honors our faith. Guide us, lead us, protect us . . .
With his eyes shut tight Billy is thinking of Shroom’s comment that the Christian Bible is mostly a compilation of old Sumerian legends, not something he particularly needed to know at the time but which has afforded some solace during these past two weeks of practically nonstop public prayer. America loves to pray, God knows. America prays and prays and prays, it is the land of unchained prayer, and all this ceremonial praying is hard on Billy. He tries, but nothing comes. You close your eyes and bow your head and at the first
thee
or
thine
it’s like the signal cuts out, not so much as a stray spritz of static comes through. The thought that others might be having the same problem doesn’t much help, but awareness that something came before—Sumerians, Hittites, Turkmen, an entire UN of ancient civilizations—that the thee-thine formula might not be the last word?—for some reason he finds comfort in this.

So who were the Sumerians?

“I’ll tell you about it sometime,” Shroom said, strapping on his IBA. “But not right now.”

Not now and not ever, as it turned out. Shroom swore off video games and rarely watched TV. Instead he read. All the time. “I am constructing my personality,” he said of his reading. Even for whacking off he had an authoritative text, the ancient Egyptians this time, who believed—
no lie! I swear!
—that the first, the original, the nameless primeval god who created the universe did so through an act of masturbation, in effect bringing the cosmos into being by virtue of sheer ejaculatory force.

A-men,
says Pastor Dan.
Tooooooh min-UUUUUUTTTTTES,
hollers an assistant coach, and in these final moments of preparation Billy finds himself invited, no,
summoned,
he’ll think later, by a nod and lowdown flick of the wrist to Octavian Spurgeon’s locker. Octavian, Barry Joe, a few others, they stand there with a stillness that suggests momentous events. Billy wishes he wasn’t holding his dorky souvenir ball.

“Lissen, we wanna know . . .” Octavian’s voice is barely a murmur. “We, like, we wanna do somethin’ like you. Extreme, you know, cap some Muslim freaks, you think they let us do that? Like we ride wit yall for a week, couple weeks, help out. Help yalls bust some raghead ass, we up for that.”

Billy sees that they are, up. They’re up for it. He tries to imagine the world inside their heads, and can’t.

“I don’t think it works that way.”

“
Wha?
Whatchoo mean, we offerin’ to
help,
fah
free
. Nobody gotta pay us, we ain’t askin’ fah that.”

Billy knows better than to laugh. “I just don’t think the Army’s gonna be too interested in that.”

“Hunh. Sheee-uh. Or why anybodys even got to know. Like we ride wit yall a couple weeks, nobody even gonna know we there. We offerin’ to help, yalls sayin’ you doan need the help?”

“Billy!” Mango calls. “We’re going.”

Billy nods and turns back to Octavian. “Sure we could use the help. But—look, you wanna do extreme things, join the Army. They’ll be more than happy to send you to Iraq.”

The players snort, mutter, cast pitying glances his way.
Fuck that. Shee-uh. Hell to the naw naw naw . . .
“We got
jobs,
” Octavian impresses on him, “this here our
job,
how you think we gonna quit our
job
go join some nigga’s army? Fah like, wha, three
years
? Break our contract an’ all?” Hilarious. They’re laughing. Little squeals and snuffling yips escape their mouths. “Go on,” Octavian says, waving Billy away. “Go on now. Yo’ boy over there callin’ you.”

THIS IS EVERYTHING
THERE IS

SO BILLY DECIDES FIRST
chance he gets he’ll give his ball away. It’s mere minutes before kickoff and the teams are on the field doing stretching and calisthenics, and Norm himself is leading Bravo along the main concourse, showing the skin, sprinkling some star power on the instantly smitten masses. All grudges, gripes, and man-on-the-street critiques melt like suet under the heat-lamp glow of his celebrity. Yo, Norm! Norm! We gonna do it today, Norm? Boyz by three, make it happen for me, Norm! It is the parting of the waters as the fans make way in a rippling furl of cell phone flashes, Norm striding through it all with his head held high and that same pleasant smile for everyone. Texas Stadium is his turf, his castle; no, his actual kingdom. A real king is rare these days but here Norm reigns supreme, and Billy sees how little it takes to make the peons happy, just a glimpse, a wave, a few seconds in his presence and they’re stoked on that good strong celebrity dope.

Meanwhile Billy is looking for a certain kind of kid to give his football to. Not one of the money kids, nobody who could be on TV, tanned, smooth skinned, dazzlingly orthodontured, with the long clean limbs and good face that denote the genetic home run. No, he’s looking for a little redneck kid, an undergrown runt with ratty hair and nails chewed down to bloody nubs, about as aware at ten years old as a half-bright dog and basically miserable, but doesn’t know it yet. Billy is looking for himself. Outside the Whataburger booth he spots him, a smallish, twitchy kid with a head too big for his neck, ill dressed for the cold in a thin cotton hoodie and fake falling-apart Reeboks, and why the
fock
would parents spend hundreds of dollars on Cowboys tickets when their son lacks a proper winter coat? It is infuriating, the psyche of the American consumer.

“Excuse me,” he says, approaching, and the kid quietly freaks—
what’d I do?
His parents wheel about and what a pair they are, thick, soft, dull, clearly useless as humans and parents. Billy ignores them.

“Young man, what’s your name?”

The boy’s jaw falls off. His tongue is a liverish white.

“Son, tell me your name.”

“Cougar,” the boy manages.

“Cougar. You mean like the animal?”

The boy nods. He can’t quite look Billy in the eye.

“Cougar! Radical name!” A lie; Cougar is a ridiculous name. “Look, Cougar, I’ve got an autographed ball here, bunch of the Cowboys signed it for me down in the locker room. But I’m going back to Iraq and I’ll just lose it there, so I want you to have it. Are you all right with that?”

Cougar risks a quick look at the ball and nods. Clearly he thinks this is the setup for some low humiliation, a wedgie, a firecracker down the back.

“All right, young man. Here you go.”

Billy hands him the ball and walks away with no lingering, no looking back. He is sick of the squishy sentiments of the day and will not let this be yet another Moment. Mango has held up and is waiting for him.

“What’d you do that for?”

“Dunno. Just felt like it.” And on reflection he does feel better, though a strange melancholy fills his new mood. For several moments the two Bravos walk along saying nothing, then Mango gives his ball to a passing kid.

“Like, fuck their autographs,” Billy says. Mango laughs.

“If they win the Super Bowl we just gave away about a thousand bucks.”

“Yeah, well, a thousand bucks says they ain’t winnin’ no Super Bowl.”

Still no word about halftime, other than Norm’s promise to “showcase Bravo to the fullest extent,” which could be as harmless as standing there while your name is called, or as terrifying and onerous as . . . the mind boggles. Rumor has it that there are multiple bars in the owner’s suite. The lower-ranking Bravos agree among themselves to get stinking drunk, then Billy thinks of Faison and privately amends his side of the bargain to sort of drunk. It was an impulse invitation—come watch the kickoff from my box! Norm has clearly caught a bad case of the Bravo disease, that burrowing spirochete of home-front zeal that inspires strippers to give free lap dances and upper-class matrons to bloodlust. A round of applause greets Bravo as they file into the suite, the polite, pro forma wittering of soft hands taking on real sizzle and pop. Yaaay for Bravo! Hooo-ray for the troops! Mrs. Norm is there to greet them at the door, and if she’s perturbed by the sight of ten largish, panting, booze-breath guests piling into her already crowded suite, she has the good grace not to show it.

So glad you could join us. So many friends eager to meet you.
Billy takes it all in at a glance, the blue carpet, the blue furnishings with silver accents, giant flat-screen TVs implanted in every wall, two bars, hot and cold buffets, white-jacketed waiters, then a couple of steps down there’s a second level that replicates the first, and farther on a steep-pitched bank of stadium seats, rows of upholstered chairs stair-stepping down to the glassed-in front and its postcard view of the playing field. The money vibe can be felt at once, a faint hum, a kind of menthol tingling of the lips. Billy wonders if wealth can be caught like a germ, just by virtue of sheer proximity.

Make yourselves at home,
Mrs. Norm is murmuring.
Help yourselves to refreshments.
Say no more, ma’am. Bravo breaks en masse for the free liqs as Dime mouths “just one” with a stern look, but before the soldiers can bar up, Norm climbs onto a chair—he’s got a thing for chairs?—and delivers a little speech about

is the entire Oglesby family for the opportunity on this Thanksgiving Day to

the Bravos for their service. Billy notes how closely his fellow guests listen to Norm’s speech, how keen their facial expressions of faith and resolve. The men look wise, relaxed, in great shape for middle age, possessed of the sure and liquid style that comes of long success. They have good hair. They’ve wrinkled well. The women are slim and toned and internationally tan, their makeup sealed with a Teflon coat of cool. Billy tries to imagine the formula of birth, money, schools, and social savvy that lifts people to such a rarefied station in life. Whatever it is, they make it look easy just standing there, just by being who they are in this special place, being warm and safe and clean, being guests of Norm. Most have a drink or a plate of food in their hands.
Evil,
Norm is saying.
Terror. Mortal threat. A nation at war.
His speech describes the direst of circumstances, but at this moment, in this place, the war seems very far away.

“They have to leave us shortly,” Norm is saying, “they’re going to take part in our halftime show, but while they’re here let’s give them a big Texas welcome.” Everyone claps, hoots, cheers, let’s get this party started; the ballers are feeling that good Bravo vibe. Billy is hailed by someone’s craggy-faced granddad.

“Soldier, I’m damn glad to meet you!”

“Thank you, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you too, sir.”

“March Hawey,” the man says, sticking out his hand. The name and face are vaguely familiar to Billy, the kindly rumpled sag of his narrow features, the elfin tweak of his eyes and ears. Billy would hazard March Hawey is one of those celebrity Texans who’s famous mainly for being rich and famous.

“Listen, when the news broke that night—when they started running that video of yall taking care of business?—that was one of the biggest thrills of my life, no lie. It’s hard to put into words just what I was feeling, but it was, I don’t know, just a beautiful moment. Margaret, tell him how I was.”

He turns to his wife, who looks a good twenty years younger, a statuesque six-footer with stiff blond hair and skin taut as a soufflé.

“I thought,” she says,
I thot
in the tart British accent of Joan Collins trashing a rival on a
Dynasty
rerun, “he’d lost his
mind
. I hear him
screeeeeming
in the media room and I
ruuuussshhh
downstairs to find him
standing
on my good George Fourth library table, in, my
Gohd,
his
cow-boy
boots, doing this
Rocky
thing”—she raises her arms and gives a couple of spastic fist-pumps—“ ‘Mahch,’ I’m shouting, ‘Mahch, love, dear, what-
EVER
,’ ”—wot-
EVAH—
“ ‘on
earth
has gotten
into
you?’ ”

Several couples have joined them. Everyone is smiling, nodding, evidently they are used to such antics from their good friend March.

“It was cathartic,” Hawey says, and Billy carefully repeats the word to himself,
cathartic
. “Seeing yall John Wayne that deal, it’s like we finally had something to cheer about. I guess the war’d been depressing me all this time and I didn’t even know it, till yall came along. Just a huge morale boost for everybody.”

The other couples vigorously agree. “You’re among friends,” a woman assures Billy. “You won’t find any cut-and-runners here.”

Others chime in with variations on the theme. Margaret Hawey stares at Billy with enormous blue eyes that never blink. He senses that whatever judgment she’s passing on him will be strict, swift, and without appeal.

“Let me ask you something,” Hawey says, leaning into Billy’s space. “Is it gettin’ better?”

“I think so, sir. In certain areas, yeah, definitely. We’re working hard to make it better.”

“I know! I know! Whatever problems we’re having aren’t yalls fault, we’ve got the finest troops in the world! Listen, I supported this war from the beginning, and I’ll tell you what, I like our president, personally I think he’s a good and decent man. I’ve known him since he was a kid—I watched him grow up! He’s a good boy, he wants to do the right thing. I know he went into this with all the best intentions, but that crowd he’s got around him, listen. Some of those folks are good friends of mine, but you’ve gotta admit, they’ve made one royal effing mess outta this war.”

This prompts much head-shaking, many sad mumbles of assent. “It’s been a fight,” Billy says, wondering how he might get a drink.

“I guess you’d know that better than anyone.” Hawey leans in again, closer now, but Billy stands his ground. “Lemme ask you something else.”