for sorting out differences of opinion is on the gun deck below topside, right underneath the turret, where munitions are stored and not much else happens with the ample space. I follow Moses through hatches and up ladders as if I were his apprentice.
We reach the empty space and stand opposite each other. I assume the position, arms up, fists curled in, almost like I am ready to punch myself. I have no idea where I learned this stance.
It’s possible I have never felt stupider in my whole life.I don’t stand a chance, and it would be very difficult for me to put into words what I might hope to achieve. I would bet that nobody on the entire ship would vote for this to happen, other than the utter complete sickos who just love blood for blood’s sake. For his part, Moses’s face shows no hint of any kind of pleasure in this.
And yet. Somewhere deep inside, where common sense cannot reach, I feel noble about this.
Until the punch.
Moses says, “Okay?” like he’s asking permission.
I nod, and his hands are so quick that as I nod I actually nod my nose right into his straight snapper of a right hand.
I go down. My knees buckle and I fall forward, making things even more pathetic by bashing my mouth on Moses’s knee on my way down. My arms don’t feel right, don’t do the job of getting me up off the floor. I can feel the warm blood pooling up behind my wiggly bottom front teeth. I manage eventually to stagger to my feet and find Moses politely waiting for me. I mimic his approach and say, “Okay?”
He nods, then punches me hard enough this time that, though I attempt to fall forward, I find myself sitting on my butt about six feet from where I started, looking up at my puncher. Then there is a gap. There are blackout conditions.
Then I am topside, at the rail, the wonderful, wonderful life-saving sea breeze blowing consciousness into me from the top down.
“You’re a good boy, Mo,” comes the voice right at my ear.
I turn to see Moses’s face right in my face. Because he is holding me up. My arm is around his shoulders, and he is dabbing at my lip with a wet and ruined handkerchief.
“Does that mean I win?” I say, smiling and splitting the lip a little more open.
“You are a good boy, and a great friend to that jarhead, leatherneck, simpleton of a moron Marine idiot pal of yours.”
He lays a big wide smile on me, one that does not have so much as a dent in it.
“Am I going to have to teach you another lesson?” I say. I’m at my most menacing, which is not wildly menacing at the best of times. But the truth is, the words feel fine now.
“Now, now, Mo, you know that violence never solved anything.”
I’m wobbly, but not so bad I can’t handle that one.
“Then what happened to my face? “
“We’ll call that
friendly fire.
Very different thing. It’s
real
violence that never solved anything.”
“You don’t believe that, Moses.”
He laughs. “Nah. That was just a test to see if you had a concussion. Violence solves everything, man. That’s why we’re here.”
I shake my head gently. I see things a lot differently from how Moses sees them. I always have, always will.
But I know I want him right beside me every single day until they send me home.
CHAPTER TEN
Cherry Bomb Jamaica Pond
I t always shocked me.
No matter how many consecutive Fourth of Julys we’d come here and do exactly the same thing. No matter how many consecutive years we took the green line to Park Street and then made the nervous walk over to the North End to purchase the illegal fireworks. I knew weeks in advance — certainly by, say, June 21 — what was going to happen and what it was going to sound like.
Still, it shocked me. Every time.
Cherry bombs, M-80s, bottle rockets, Roman candles, everything we could scrape up the money for was part of our arsenal. Then we would bring craft to float out on the pond and attack. Ivan, who only cared about the boom-boom element, just brought a copy of
We reach the empty space and stand opposite each other. I assume the position, arms up, fists curled in, almost like I am ready to punch myself. I have no idea where I learned this stance.
It’s possible I have never felt stupider in my whole life.I don’t stand a chance, and it would be very difficult for me to put into words what I might hope to achieve. I would bet that nobody on the entire ship would vote for this to happen, other than the utter complete sickos who just love blood for blood’s sake. For his part, Moses’s face shows no hint of any kind of pleasure in this.
And yet. Somewhere deep inside, where common sense cannot reach, I feel noble about this.
Until the punch.
Moses says, “Okay?” like he’s asking permission.
I nod, and his hands are so quick that as I nod I actually nod my nose right into his straight snapper of a right hand.
I go down. My knees buckle and I fall forward, making things even more pathetic by bashing my mouth on Moses’s knee on my way down. My arms don’t feel right, don’t do the job of getting me up off the floor. I can feel the warm blood pooling up behind my wiggly bottom front teeth. I manage eventually to stagger to my feet and find Moses politely waiting for me. I mimic his approach and say, “Okay?”
He nods, then punches me hard enough this time that, though I attempt to fall forward, I find myself sitting on my butt about six feet from where I started, looking up at my puncher. Then there is a gap. There are blackout conditions.
Then I am topside, at the rail, the wonderful, wonderful life-saving sea breeze blowing consciousness into me from the top down.
“You’re a good boy, Mo,” comes the voice right at my ear.
I turn to see Moses’s face right in my face. Because he is holding me up. My arm is around his shoulders, and he is dabbing at my lip with a wet and ruined handkerchief.
“Does that mean I win?” I say, smiling and splitting the lip a little more open.
“You are a good boy, and a great friend to that jarhead, leatherneck, simpleton of a moron Marine idiot pal of yours.”
He lays a big wide smile on me, one that does not have so much as a dent in it.
“Am I going to have to teach you another lesson?” I say. I’m at my most menacing, which is not wildly menacing at the best of times. But the truth is, the words feel fine now.
“Now, now, Mo, you know that violence never solved anything.”
I’m wobbly, but not so bad I can’t handle that one.
“Then what happened to my face? “
“We’ll call that
friendly fire.
Very different thing. It’s
real
violence that never solved anything.”
“You don’t believe that, Moses.”
He laughs. “Nah. That was just a test to see if you had a concussion. Violence solves everything, man. That’s why we’re here.”
I shake my head gently. I see things a lot differently from how Moses sees them. I always have, always will.
But I know I want him right beside me every single day until they send me home.
CHAPTER TEN
Cherry Bomb Jamaica Pond
I t always shocked me.
No matter how many consecutive Fourth of Julys we’d come here and do exactly the same thing. No matter how many consecutive years we took the green line to Park Street and then made the nervous walk over to the North End to purchase the illegal fireworks. I knew weeks in advance — certainly by, say, June 21 — what was going to happen and what it was going to sound like.
Still, it shocked me. Every time.
Cherry bombs, M-80s, bottle rockets, Roman candles, everything we could scrape up the money for was part of our arsenal. Then we would bring craft to float out on the pond and attack. Ivan, who only cared about the boom-boom element, just brought a copy of
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