Dear Mr. President Read online

  But listen, if you do insist on fighting over there, let me give you another lesson in history. Did you know that almost all the men in Rome were gay, and did you know that the Romans were some of the mightiest warriors who ever walked the face of the earth? The reason for this is the young gay couples in love would be sent out together into the battlefield. This way, when a man took up arms, he wasn’t just merely fighting for his empire, or even for his own survival; he was fighting to protect his gay lover, who was right next to him in battle—now that’s what I call esprit de corps. And this ingenious mixture of love on the battlefield elicited a fierceness and aggression in the Roman soldier that could not be matched by his enemies. So, if you’re still not sure, consider this: Wouldn’t you be more inclined to fight to the death if Dithers were by your side, he being the man to whom you had made passionate love the night before? Just wanted to plant that thought in your head.

  As ever, Dad

  DITHERS’S GRATITUDE, AND HIS SENSE OF WONDER AND NAÏVETÉ, WHICH SEEMED TO MASK ULTERIOR MOTIVES

  At first Dithers was grateful as hell to me for saving his life, and I have to admit it felt nice to be appreciated like that. Of course hiding out in this bunker took some getting used to, for both of us. But we stuck it out together, making do with what we had. It is a pretty gruesome scene up there on the highway. There’s packs of roving dingoes that feed off the dead. Sometimes a car will pass through, weaving around the demolished cars spilled in the lanes, rubbernecking to stop and stare at the accident. And buzzards wheeling in the sky. And that stench is sometimes too much. I have no idea what battle took place up there, but it was definitely huge. Yesterday I stumbled across a busload of civilians, lying on its side, just fully charred, and when I opened the door, I couldn’t help it: I puked. I had not said anything to Dithers yet, but I was hoping eventually, when he was well enough, that we could start going out on these missions together. Of course that was a ways off.

  And we had some good talks during that first week or so, Dithers and I. I told him more about my recent revelation, and he seemed to listen to me with much interest. I really couldn’t have asked for a more attentive audience. Sometimes I’d talk to him as I cleaned the chimps’ cages, making sure he watched closely, so that when the time came he would know how to do it. He’d say, “Roger that, Help People,” and, “I couldn’t have said it any better myself,” as he munched on a chicken à la king M.R.E. Dithers sure had worked up a huge appetite during his time in never-never land. I didn’t care, though; we had more than enough chow.

  But at some point I sensed Dithers wanting to get back to the killing, to the mayhem. I also got the feeling he wanted to go back and see if he could find his other arm. This was just a hunch on my part, and there was no concrete evidence that that’s what was on his mind. “You know they can sew these things back on,” he’d say, holding his left arm out in front of him. “I’m not complaining or anything. So don’t take this the wrong way. But it sure would’ve been nice if you’d grabbed my arm when you split like that. Who knows? Maybe we could have sewed that thing back on.” And then after some really loud bang, one of those explosions that comes every few days when the bunker rattles and little pieces of plaster flake from the ceiling and twirl to the ground, Dithers would raise up off the sleeping mat I’d set up for him and say, “ What the heck do you think’s going on out there? Huh? What do you think that was, Help People?”

  His curiosity seemed to have an ulterior motive. In the mornings when I came back I’d climb down the ladder, flushed from the night’s rescues, and almost land on Dithers. He’d be standing right at the base of the steel ladder, staring, I guess, up at the hatch. I knew he couldn’t get out. Because whenever I left, I shoved a big boulder on top of the hatch so it couldn’t swing open. I also did this to ensure that nobody on the outside would discover the hatch if they happened to be wandering around. It was a perfect, simple system. Then one morning I came back and found that Dithers had rooted through my stuff and found the maps. “Look what I found,” he said. I didn’t say anything. I figured he was just bored and that he’d lose interest. But then he started spending all his time looking at the maps. Too much time, as far as I was concerned. I’d come in and he’d have the maps spread out on the table, and he’d be making notations on them with his one arm. He’d look up from a map and say, “Now where exactly are we, Help People? What are the coordinates, Help People?” I hoped I wasn’t being paranoid.

  Eventually I had to take the maps away from him. “We are here to celebrate Life,” I said, folding up the maps and putting them in my cargo pocket. Then I made a tube with my fingers and held it up to my right eye to indicate the Kaleidoscope of Life. “Who cares where we are.”

  His eyes glazed over, and he said, “Life, right. Sure. Definitely Life, Help People. Life.” But I could tell I was losing Dithers. And I knew I was going to have to do something to help Dithers see things my way. I had to make him love his newfound life here, as I did. I knew we needed to get closer, to become friends, that this was going to take some personal investment on my part. You can’t just expect someone to care about what matters to you, if they don’t see that you care about them too.

  PROPAGANDA LETTER #3

  Dear Son,

  I mean what business does America have in Kuwait? If it’s really defending certain ideals, then why don’t they go to all the other places in the world where there’s oppression? I’ll tell you why. Because they don’t have oil. The U.S. government is no better and no worse than any other government. The only difference is we’ve currently got the most original and innovative story in the world to guide our ship by—the Constitution. Throughout history the most successful populations have always been the best storytellers, because they know how to redress reality with a great story that justifies their cruel instincts and desire to survive. Our forefathers, those liars, those storytellers, have given America a way to feel morally justified when we do the same thing as every other country: murder, conquer, breed our population, and generate income and luxury. America the so-called big kingpin for freedom came to this land and murdered the Native Americans who were here before us. America the so-called big kingpin for freedom bought Africans from the Dutch and then kept them in chains. Don’t even get me started, the contradictions are too numerous for me to note. But we’re not alone in our hypocritical ways, every government is just as guilty, and so it seems like man is doomed the instant he starts to live in organized groups, but in this late stage of history, with overpopulation, man is doomed if he doesn’t. That’s why I’ve got Rob. At night, the soft moon outside the window, and with Rob’s hard dick in my hand, all the worries of the world just seem to melt away.

  As ever, Dad

  MY CAMPAIGN TO RESTORE HONOR AND HETEROSEXUALITY TO MY DAD

  I was subjected to all kinds of humiliation because of my dad. The guys would be like, “Hey, G.D., were you scared when your dad tucked you into bed at night? If he read you a story at night, what was that, like foreplay?” I was deeply ashamed, so much so that I didn’t even point out that they were buying into the stupid myths that surrounded gay people: that they were more inclined to be promiscuous, that they were somehow a greater sexual threat to children. It was idiotic, but then so was my dad. Gay people were fine, in theory, but not so fine in reality, if they were your dad, who was your absolute hero. My dad had dishonored not only his service to our country but mine too. He’d made us a laughingstock. You always assume your dad won’t do something to make you the butt of every joke you hear. And I didn’t have the will to fight back when the guys ganged up on me, because in a sense, I knew they were right. I wanted to kill my dad for this.

  Of course I’d known for a while that after Vietnam my dad had flirted with communism. I had seen the red flags up in the attic. I knew my dad went through the disillusionment that many Vietnam soldiers did. Plus my dad had been through some hard stuff. Enter my mom. He’d met my mom in China Beach and he’d fallen in love with he
r, and brought her back to the States. But things went awry after that, my mom embraced Americana 100 percent and starting spending her days in the mall and at beauty salons, much to my dad’s distress. They drifted apart and when I look at the pictures of her in Vietnam standing next to a moped in a miniskirt with no makeup I can’t believe it’s the same person. And then when my mom came home from the salon with three-inch tape-on zebra-striped fingernails, my dad went through the roof, and started shouting that’s why he fell in love with her because she was not like the women over here, but she didn’t understand. Mom didn’t speak English. Finally she took it one step too far and tried to get breast implants on the sly from a doctor she’d seen on a late-night paid advertisement on TV, but there was a complication (the doctor claimed afterward that he’d warned her that 36Ds were too much for her little body frame, and then showed us the release forms she’d signed absolving him of any responsibility—the signature was the familiar X), and her heart stopped forever under the weight of all that silicone. I was sad but because of the language thing we weren’t superclose. And plus I was only eight when all this happened. I do remember some things though, like how at night she would hum pretty Vietnamese songs to me in bed and stroke my hair. So yes, my dad had definitely gone through some hard times, but that didn’t do squat for my shame.

  A couple days before we shipped out for Saudi, I hopped on my motorcycle, and shot up to Raleigh, North Carolina, to put an end to all this. On the way, my hopeful thoughts muffled inside my helmet, I envisioned myself sitting down at the table and hashing everything out reasonably. I thought maybe if I let my dad know how important he was to me that would help. Maybe the whole gay thing was from low self-esteem, I thought. So I roared into the driveway and barged through the back door and spotted a man with a brown mustache seated at the dining room table, and my dad swept into the room wearing an apron and his customary rope sandals and said, “Son, what a nice surprise. I had no idea. Hey,” and he opened his palms toward the mustache man, “Here’s Rob. You two have heard a lot about each other. This is a special moment.” This was even worse than I thought, my dad was the femme of the relationship.

  I’ve never liked men who wear mustaches. All my life this is something I’ve felt deeply. It’s a gut instinct and you’ve got to trust those. My fourth-grade gym teacher, Mr. Jenkins, who used to come in the locker room and watch us boys change, had a mustache. My dad’s brother, Uncle Ray, who was always borrowing money for his get-rich-quick schemes, had a mustache. Hitler had a mustache. In my experience a man with a mustache is someone who doesn’t play fair. And this Rob character was no exception.

  Rob stood up and put his arm around my father’s waist, drawing him in close, and said, “Nice to meet you. We were just about to have some pancakes. Would you care for some? They’re blueberry.”

  “In your dreams.” I said. “Pancakes? Are you fucking crazy?” I knew my face was bright red.

  “Listen, you,” I said, and I took a menacing step toward Rob. Then I told Rob in no uncertain terms that I’d be back tomorrow and that if I found him in my house I’d kick his ass from here to kingdom come. I told him that he was sick, ruining my family like this and that I’d cut off his head and stick it up his ass.

  Rob sneered, “Which one is it? Are you going to kick my ass? Or are you going to stick my head up my ass? Because I don’t know how my head would fit up my ass if you are busy kicking it.”

  My dad laughed. I noticed a red barn stitched on the apron he was wearing. There was a girl skipping rope in front of the barn. A friendly cow smiled from behind a wood fence. Then my dad put his hand over Rob’s hand, and said, “Take it easy, Robby. I told you he’d be like that. Don’t pay attention to him. He’s a good boy with a good heart, just a little misdirected.” I knew why my dad was laughing, and he knew I knew why he was laughing. My dad was all fun and games until he got mad, and then he was the scariest thing I’d ever seen, and there’s no question that he could kick the living crap out of me if he wanted to. I couldn’t believe it. My dad was taking sides. So I did the most hurtful thing I could do: I announced to my dad that from this day on, I had no dad. I said, “You’re dead to me, Mr. Fag-man. I sure hope he’s worth it. Because from now on you don’t have a son.” I instantly saw the hurt in his blue eyes, and even though part of me wanted to run to him and say, “I’m sorry,” my principles wouldn’t allow it. I stood my ground. He’d always been my hero, and now what he was doing was sick.

  That was 107 days ago, and we haven’t talked since.

  THE CAGES, AND WHY THEY ARE NECESSARY TO ENSURE PERSONAL SAFETY AND TO MAINTAIN ORDER

  How I got the idea for using the cages was from Dithers. It wasn’t Dithers’s idea, it was my idea, but it came about because of Dithers. Because when I had to leave him to go out on my nightly missions, I realized he was still too weak to fend off the chimps. After one of my first missions for the Good of Mankind I came back and the chimps had dragged Dithers to the rear of the bunker. They were punching Dithers and jumping up and down on him. Dithers was saying, “Help People. Help People. Help People.” When I came bounding back there, the first thing I saw was that Ingrid had Dithers’s big toe in her mouth. So I put Dithers in one of the cages in the back of the main room. And it worked. I’d return in the mornings and the chimps would be screeching and banging on Dithers’s cage with the empty ammo cans that were strewn around on the ground, but they couldn’t get in. Then when I appeared at the base of the ladder, the chimps would scatter to the very back of the bunker. Especially since I always came in with a handful of rocks. No chimp likes to be pelted with a rock.

  Eventually I just stopped letting Dithers out of the cage. It seemed like I was always coming and going, and it became too much of a hassle to be putting him in there and taking him out again and putting him in there and taking him out again. At first Dithers did not even seem to mind, he even claimed to see the logic in it, but when his stump was almost fully healed, he started begging me to let him out of the cage.

  “Look, Help People, I want to stretch my legs. I can keep things clean around here, straighten up. I’ll clean the cages. I’m strong again. I can hold down the fort while you are out running your missions for the Good of Mankind. It’ll make things easier on you.”

  “Dithers. To be perfectly honest with you, I’ve just grown accustomed to you being in there. I mean what if I came back and accidentally mistook you for a chimp and pelted you in the head with a rock?”

  “That won’t happen. How could that happen? The chimps are in their cages now. So why would you be throwing rocks?”

  “Good point,” I said.

  Finally I relented. I did not know for sure if I trusted Dithers. He was still acting funny, but my heart told me I had to be big and give him the benefit of the doubt. I truly believe that if you want to make progress, you have to learn to trust people. To take risks and put your faith in them. Plus Dithers did make a lot of sense. He was a lot more useful to me free than he was stuck in that cage. I was sick to death of cleaning those foul cages, and I was rewarded for my trust. Because even though Dithers had only his one arm, it turned out that he was a really good worker. It was like he used his missing arm to his advantage, as an inspiration. He got to where he could do one-armed push-ups. It was pretty damn impressive. It was as if he would do something just because he knew technically he wasn’t supposed to be able to, with his disability. I respected this quality in him. Dithers even fashioned this little broom out of a board and a stick. He hummed while he swept. One time I heard him humming “Amazing Grace,” which is my favorite song now, because of the lyrics. “I once was lost but now I’m found.” So I started humming along with Dithers. And he looked up at me and we grinned together.

  I could feel what I considered to be a real bond beginning to form between the two of us.

  A BRIEF SUMMARY OF MY MISSIONS FOR THE GOOD OF MANKIND SO FAR

  I do not mean to pat myself on the back here, but this is what it’s all abou
t. Straight up. This is the justification for my very existence. And so I think it is important to keep track of all that I’ve done for other people. All total, I have administered medical aide to twenty-seven Iraqis, and most of them have been civilians. I put little notches into the wall of the bunker for each person I’ve helped.

  It can be heartbreaking work, and you never know what you’re going to find. A little over a week ago I came up over a dune and found a young Iraqi man gasping for air by the side of the highway. He had a nasty sucking chest wound. He had a bushy head of hair and a big nose and a mustache. He had sensitive eyes, and they were bulging, as his head rocked back and forth. When I knelt down over him, I saw all the pores in his face.

  His chest rattled each time he gasped for air and it sounded like somebody shaking a tin can with a rock in it. The lung had already collapsed, so there wasn’t much I could do. It was pretty clear he was about to make the journey to the Great Beyond. Through the gaping hole in his chest, you could see his insides. His liver was a shiny white in the moonlight. It did not seem like he even knew I was there. But I never give up hope, so I pushed down on him, getting him to exhale, and then stretched a piece of plastic over the chest. Then I slicked on the first-aid dressing over the plastic. His breathing smoothed out a little, but he also closed his eyes, which wasn’t a good sign. Then I held his hand for a moment and whispered, “Go ahead, friend. There’s another world out there somewhere. A world where there’s no pain. A world where you can be young forever. Hurry, my brother.” I shed a quick tear, which twinkled on my cheek in the moonlight, and then let go of his hand and took his rifle and went further on into the darkness.