Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk Read online

  So fuck that, he was done with football after his sophomore year, except the Army is pretty much the same thing, though the violence is, well, what it is, obviously. By factors of thousands. But for the moment Bravo has found some measure of peace as they bounce off each other like lottery balls, great gouts of tension release with every hit and they are laughing like absolute maniacs. The end-zone crowd—the cheap seats, the rednecks, the blue-collar rowdies—they’re standing and cheering them on. Bravo is running wild over hallowed ground and—weird!—nobody is stopping them. Then three obese men in Cowboys parkas and caps roll up in a stretch golf cart, and the fattest of the three, a guy with steel-framed glasses and swollen ass cheeks for jowls, yells at Bravo to Get the hell off my field, NOW.

  “Get the HELL off his field!” Crack screams, and Mango screams it back and in an instant all the Bravos are bellowing at each other, Get the HELL off his field! His field, dude, get the HELL off his field! He wants his field back NOW! Get the HELL OFF! They gather up the footballs with a geriatric shuffle-trot, pausing every couple of steps to scream HELL! and FIELD!, and the three fat guys just sit there and scowl. A couple of cops saunter over but don’t say anything, and the Bravos keep yelling at the tops of their lungs because the bastard couldn’t even be nice about it, couldn’t append a civil please or gracious thank-you for these brave American soldiers, these youngsters, as General Colin Powell (ret.) calls them, these loyal, honorable youths who bared their breasts to the foe for the sake of your freedoms, you fat fuck, you disgrace to the notion of man-in-God’s-image, you whale-ass keeper of other people’s grasses. Dude, maybe they don’t hate our freedoms, maybe they hate our fat!

  The end-zone rowdies send up a boo when they see what’s happening, a blowsy, cynical sort of Screwed again! howl. Norm & Co. greet the Bravos as they trot off the field. Norm is laughing. “Sorry, fellas,” he says with that mouthful-of-salad chewiness, “I should’ve warned you. Bruce is pretty touchy about his field.”

  But isn’t Norm the boss? So it seems like he could . . . Whatever.

  “It’s a really nice field,” A-bort says.

  “Dude, best field you’ll ever see,” says Crack. “I bet Mango’d love to have a run at that turf. Crank up the John Deere and go at it, I mean, you know, just being a Mex and all.”

  “It’s Astroturf, moron,” Mango points out.

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Ethnic clichés demean us all,” Mango says.

  “All I’m saying is any beaner would love—”

  “—to do your mother like I did?”

  Norm is laughing. What cards these Bravos are, what a grab-ass band of brothers. Okay, so maybe they aren’t the greatest generation by anyone’s standard, but they are surely the best of the bottom third percentile of their own somewhat muddled and suspect generation. Over in the flats a network camera crew is setting up while two media-type women discuss “the shoot.” The six cheerleaders are there, waiting. Josh is there, hovering, and Albert, texting. With a certain habituated weariness Billy notes that Major Mac is nowhere to be seen.

  “Right here, guys,” calls the younger of the two women, who turns out to be the network producer for their shoot. “Line up right along here.”

  “Well, facing more this way,” says her middle-aged colleague, a high-ranking Cowboys PR executive who has the swat to call Norm “Norm.” Intense women, these two, competitive, willful, dressed all in black, their faces set with the pinched look of angry vegans. Billy is angling to speak with Dime about the Faison situation, but Norm has glommed onto the sergeant and keeps him all to himself.

  “I’ve got serious problems with Hollywood anyway,” says the Cowboys owner as everyone footsies around their marks. “I think they’re way out of step with the rest of the country, the concerns and value systems of mainstream Americans. Someone needs to get out there and start making films that reflect what America’s really all about.”

  “I think we need that,” Dime replies. “I think the time is now.”

  “Just the way they’ve been giving you the runaround, you start to wonder where their loyalties lie. Whether they really want America to win this war.”

  “You start to think they might be a little gutless,” Dime observes.

  “Listen, Ron Howard’s made some great films, Splash is one of my all-time favorites. But for him and Glazer—”

  “Grazer,” Dime corrects.

  “—Grazer to say you have to set your story in World War Two, that’s just outrageous.”

  “They’re playing hardball, sir, that’s a fact.”

  “World War Two gets its due, there’ve been plenty of great movies about World War Two. The Longest Day, The Big Red One, those are great, great movies. But Bravo’s story is all about the here and now, and I think that context should be honored.”

  “I think all of us would agree with you there, sir.”

  “Listen, I sure don’t see any signs of Iraq fatigue out there. The vast majority of Americans support this war, and they sure as heck support the troops fighting the war. If anybody has any doubts about that, they should just look at the reception you’ve gotten here today.”

  The women herd Bravo into a quarter-circle line with garlands of cheerleaders on each flank. Norm and Dime stand front and center in the starring roles. There is a script, which everyone has memorized. “Hold your footballs up, like this,” the PR woman instructs, clutching an imaginary football to her breast. Though it’s dorkish and lame, the Bravos do it.

  “No, lower,” says the producer.

  “For Christ’s sake,” moans the PR lady, rolling her eyes.

  “Well it just looks unnatural up there. It doesn’t look right.”

  “We’re at a football game, hel-lo? It looks completely natural.”

  Presently everything is ready for the first take. Norm’s personal videographer stands off to the side, filming Norm being filmed. “Bravo squad would like to wish you and your family a Very HAPPY THANKSGIVING,” Dime booms, then veers off-script: “And to our brother and sister soldiers out in the field, we say PEACE THROUGH SUPERIOR FIREPOWER!” Thus everyone is laughing when Norm, the cheerleaders, and all the Bravos shout, “Go Cowboys!” but the media people are pissed. Excuse me, is that in the script? That is not in the script so don’t say that, you can’t say that, don’t you know you can’t say that? Dime apologizes. He mumbles something about getting carried away. Everyone settles in for take two.

  “Bravo Squad would like to wish you and your family a Very HAPPY THANKSGIVING!” Dime starts, and then, oh God, he’s doing it again, “and to our brother and sister soldiers out in the field, we say, shoot first! SHOOT STRAIGHT! PUNISH THE DESERVING!”

  “Yaaah, go Cowboys!”

  Now the medias are really pissed. “People, we’ve got four minutes to get this done,” the producer lectures them. “I suggest you get serious real quick or we can forget it.” Norm is laughing as hard as the Bravos, but he urges them to settle down and play it straight. “A lot of people out there want to hear from you,” he assures them. On take three Dime obligingly follows the script, but so primed are they for mischief that Lodis and Sykes bust up laughing. Take four goes smoothly until the end, when a fan leans over the front-row railing and screams, “Chicago Bears suck horse cock!”

  At this point a short break seems in order. Extra cops are summoned to secure the taping area. Billy keeps trying to speak with Dime, but Norm and the sergeant are talking again. Billy almost butts in—he’s that desperate—but instead forces himself to fall back three paces as an exercise in impulse control. And runs straight into a huddle of cheerleaders.

  “Whoa. Sorry!”

  The cheerleaders smile and nod. There are three of them, two white and one black.

  “Are you guys sisters?”

  They hoot.

  “Ooooh, how can you tell?”

  “We thought it was our little secret!”

  “Hey, it’s obvious. You could even be triplets.”
r />   More hoots. As with all the cheerleaders they are stunning specimens of buff femininity, soft where they are soft and firm where firm all in accordance with the Photoshopped ideal of fashion magazines, except these women are real. Jesus. Bullshit spews from his mouth, he has no idea what he’s saying but they’re laughing, so he must be doing all right. The cheerleaders stamp their feet and shirr wintry breaths through their teeth to dramatize how cold they are. “Seniority,” they tell him when he asks why Faison wasn’t included in the Thanksgiving shoot.

  “She’s brand-new, and everything goes by seniority. We get first dibs on TV spots based on years of service.”

  “So the TV spots are a big deal?”

  The girls shrug, make blasé.

  “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “Hurt what?”

  “Well, you know. Your career.”

  “Ah. I didn’t know cheerleaders have careers.”

  “What’s that?” one of the cheerleaders asks, pointing to, almost touching, Billy’s shiniest medal.

  “That’s a Silver Star.”

  “What’s it for?”

  Billy flails. He has no bullshit for this, nor anything else that will serve for polite conversation. “For gallantry, I guess,” he says, then resorts to the language of the actual citation. “For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action against an enemy of the United States.”

  The cheerleader gives him a blank look. “Cool,” she says, and all three women abruptly turn away. Somehow Billy has killed the conversation. Did they think he was bragging? The medias order everyone back for take five. They find their marks and wait. And wait. And wait some more. Then groan when told there’s a technical problem. They’re instructed to stay put while the glitch is fixed.

  “There’s your man,” Norm murmurs, nodding at Albert pacing the sideline with the cell to his face. “Looks like he’s working it.”

  “He’s a machine,” Dime says. Standing just to the side and slightly behind them, Billy has no choice but to eavesdrop.

  “How long have you been associated with him?”

  “Well, officially about two weeks, I guess. That’s when we met him face-to-face. Though we were doing e-mails and phone calls before that, while we were still in Iraq.”

  “You’ve got a contract, I’m assuming.”

  “We signed some papers, yes, sir.”

  “And I assume it’s been a positive experience so far?”

  “Yes sir, we like Albert a lot. He really believes in our story. And he’s doing everything he can to get us the best deal possible.”

  Norm clears his throat and says nothing for several moments. Billy leans forward a couple of millimeters, anxious for someone to speak.

  “Hilary Swank,” Norm says at last.

  “Sir?” Dime inquires.

  “Hilary Swank,” Norm repeats. “Albert says she’s one of the stars interested in your project.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He said she wants to play you.”

  “Apparently so.”

  “That strikes me as sort of nutty. What do you think?”

  “I’ll be honest, sir, I’m having a hard time getting my head around it.”

  “They should stay true to the story, not go twisting it around just to suit some star’s whim. I’ll tell you frankly, the narcissism of Hollywood people never ceases to amaze me.”

  “I only know what I read in the tabloids.”

  “I don’t think a whole lot of her as an actress anyway.”

  “Ah.”

  “I saw her in that movie with Schwarzenegger, the one where she plays his wife and he’s in the CIA, but supposedly she doesn’t know it? Kind of a silly movie. I didn’t think much of that movie at all.”

  “I think that was Jamie Lee Curtis, sir,” Dime says.

  “Pardon?”

  “I think that was Jamie Lee Curtis who played the wife, not Swank.”

  “Really? Well. It was still a shitty movie.”

  Billy happens to look at Albert just as he pockets the phone, his shoulders rising and falling in a tectonic heave. Such a gesture would seem to suggest defeat, but Billy thinks he looks more thoughtful than worried, like a consummate old pro plotting his next move. So do something, Billy silently urges, and he finds himself wishing the producer had more skin in the game. The deal craters, Albert goes back to L.A., back to his Brentwood home and his hot young wife and his office with the three Oscars sitting on the shelf. Meanwhile it’s back to the war for Bravo, deal or no deal. Iraq has never been less than a life-or-death proposition for them, but the deal hanging in the balance seems to make it more so.

  They nail the next take and everyone cheers, even the camera crew adds its own jaded bray. Norm doles out old-school high-fives. “Hang on to those footballs,” he tells Bravo, “they’re yours to keep. But they’ll look better with some ink on them, don’t you think?” He grins. “Follow me, men.”

  XXL

  THEY ARE HUGE. THEY could be a new species, or throwbacks to some lost prehistoric age when humans the size of Clydesdales roamed the earth. TV’s toy-soldier scale doesn’t do them justice, these blown-up versions of the human frame with their beer-keg heads and redwood necks and arms packing softball-sized bulges, plus something not quite right about their faces, their eyes too close or too far apart, a thumb-mashed puttiness to cheekbone and nose. All the parts are there but the whole is out of joint, a hitch of proportion, of cranial size relative to facial scheme, as if by achieving superhero scale the players have outstripped the blueprint of the human face.

  “Arncha glad you aren’t that guy’s toilet seat?” A-bort whispers to Billy, nodding toward that pile of human spam known as Nicky Ostrana, the Cowboys’ All-Pro offensive guard. Where else but America could football flourish, America with its millions of fertile acres of corn, soy, and wheat, its lakes of dairy, its year-round gushers of fruits and vegetables, and such meats, that extraordinary pipeline of beef, poultry, seafood, and pork, feedlot gorged, vitamin enriched, and hypodermically immunized, humming factories of high-velocity protein production, all of which culminate after several generations of epic nutrition in this strain of industrial-sized humans? Only America could produce such giants. Billy watches as tight end Tony Blakely pours an entire box of cereal into a mixing bowl, follows that with a half gallon of milk, and serenely falls to with a serving spoon. One. Entire. Box. Any other country would go broke trying to feed these mammoths, who blandly listen as Norm speaks from the center of the room. Real American heroes . . . freedoms . . . that we might enjoy . . . “So let’s give them our warmest Cowboys welcome,” Norm exhorts, and the team responds with a round of applause. For all their exalted status, the players are, technically speaking, Norm’s employees, so Billy supposes they have to do what he says.

  Norm turns to Coach Tuttle. “George, would you mind if our guests got a few autographs while they’re here?”

  Coach answers with a marked lack of enthusiasm, “That would be fine,” all but adding, Then get the fuck out of my locker room. He is a large, dour, slope-shouldered man, in size and shape not unlike an old bull walrus. His skin is the same oatmeal shade as his salon-tinted hair, a bushy quiff that he combs straight back for a retro Deep South prison warden look. On their way down to the locker room Josh handed out Sharpies to the Bravos—still no Advil, he lashed himself for forgetting—and now the soldiers fan out to gather autographs.

  “I wonder if Pat Tillman played with any of these guys,” Dime muses in a bright voice. Several players give him a look, but no one answers. So there’s Dime, staking out his psychic territory, and there’s Sykes and Lodis scurrying off to collect as many signatures as possible, and here is Billy, hanging back. He’s never really seen the point of autographs anyway, and the players’ size is such that he doesn’t even want to look at them directly, much less approach in supplicant mode. He’s not comfortable here. He feels exposed, diminished. If the painful truth be known, he feels less of a man right now than he did five
minutes ago. The players seem so much more martial than any Bravo. They are bigger, stronger, thicker, badder, their truck-sized chins could bulldoze small buildings and their thighs bulge like load-bearing beams. Testosterone, these guys are cranking it, and their warrior aura ramps up exponentially as they assemble themselves for the game. As if these human mountains needed more bulk? Elaborate systems of shock and awe are constructed about their bodies, arrays of hip pads, thigh pads, knee pads, then the transformative lift of the shoulder pads, these high-tech concoctions of foams, fabrics, Velcros, and interlocking shells, with girdling skirt extensions to cradle mere mortal ribs. Tape for the hands, tape for the wrists. Roll pads. Elbow pads. Pads for the forearm. The top shelf of each locker displays no fewer than four pairs of brand-new shoes.