Brothers

“I hate airports!”

“How can you hate airports? You were an airman!”

“That doesn’t matter. Flying didn’t require airports.”

“Military airports, it sure does.”

“Jesus, Cliff! They weren’t military airports…” the ex-airman burst into laughter… “It was military.”

Cliff was grinning, his long-time buddy, Johnny Decencies, had set himself up. “Since when is Air Force military?” He shoved his mate and began laughing as the old trope of “My arm of the service is the real military” continued to rage between the friends for nearly 31 years.

Johnny laughed along, nodding in chagrin, “Ya got me, ya fuckstick!” He chuckled more, while Cliff Polite tipped sideways on the bench they were sitting on.

“What I was trying to communicate, you ass, is the airport and all the ants runnin’ back and forth and the soulless animatons that fly loads of farting, burping cattle… that shit’s not flying. That’s farming.”

It did nothing to stop Cliff from laughing, in fact, it made him roar, without words.

“Shut the hell up Polite! You ass! How would you know what I’m talking about?”

Cliff regathered the power of speech, “Yea, good question. What the hell is an animaton?” He just started back in that guttural laugh. Johnny was joining him in an accidental way, because laughing with Cliff Polite was one of Johnny’s favorite things in life.

“Ass!”

“Inarticulate bunghole!”

Johnny threw a shoulder into Cliff as he tried to sit back up.

“Fucking grunt! The dipshit who does three tours in the desert, insulting the guy who was flying miles above the latrines and the sand, and I’m the bunghole.”

“Hey, if you gotta tell yourself, being afraid of the battle was flyin’, then go for it.” More laughter, more nodding head from Johnny having been outdone on this front.

“Fucking mudbug”

“Fucking Do-Do bird.”

Johnny turned and pounced on Cliff in mock assault, that to the general airport audience looked like the real deal, and some passersby tried to intervene until they saw the scrappers were laughing, with tears in their eyes. It broke up of the wrestlers’ prerogative, and the aghast populace walked by gawking like the two ex-military men were a rare animal exhibit.

Cliff was bringing the peace, waving the pedestrians along, “Nothing to see here, folks. Just a grunt teaching an airman a lesson.”

In mid-chuckle, Johnny Decencies blurted out, “There’s Don Juan!” He punched Cliff’s shoulder, excessively hard for any other crew, but a love tap among best of friends. He ran ahead to the most recent arrival to the Las Vegas airport. These randy boys were revving it up.

***********************

Don “Juan” Yankovich was dressed for his nickname. Black pressed slacks, a black turtleneck that fit his 44-year-old, toned physique like a single-coat of ink. One bright gold chain circled his neck, with two small charms: St. Michael, for all the scrapes the Saint of saving asses pulled him through, and a small version of his dog tags, in 24 karat gold. And on his well sculpted bicep was a tattoo that read “Semper Fi” that crept from beneath his left sleeve. It was everything and all of Don Yankovich, the warrior, and the “lover Pollack.”

“Donnie! My brother!” Johnny embraced him, shaking him with violent friendship.

Cliff Polite followed, “Oorah, Donnie…” hugging him tight, virile men who saw death and destruction and narrowly dodged it themselves know the importance of now and comrade, and there was no shame in showing the world how they cared for each other. Cliff kissed him on the cheek, before finally letting go.

“Oorah! It’s good to be in Vegas with my boys! Where’s Artie and Lazlo?”

Cliff, having made the rank of Sergeant, advancing beyond his mates, was still looked to as the leader of this group of Marines and one “birdman” when they would go away on their annual junkets, so of course, he would answer.

“They’re back at Treasure Island. Lazlo was winning and Artie was holding his pud for him!”

Don “Juan” began laughing, instantly turning into the irreverent warrior whose delicacy and political correctness flew out the window when with his mates. They all suffered a similar infection on their excursions of life living well, all designed to remind each they were alive, they were loved; because there was a day when they were almost neither.

“What about Denton?”

Johnny took this one, “He’s late… of course!”

All three military men broke out laughing for the old habits that die hard.

“That little prick. He still don’t run on time! The only private that could show up late to training exercises and mission briefs. Christ!” There was no break in the laughter, as they all knew, Johnny by way of their stories from their shared tours, while in-country, Mark Denton had this insane death wish played out in his chronic tardiness for… everything. And after 15 years, they still were dumbstruck that he never suffered any real trouble.

“Go figure. He gets burn-barrel duty…” the most subhuman chore of the military front, where the grunt had to pull the latrine barrels full of the camp’s excrement and burn them off to refresh their functioning waste-management system. “He must have loved playing with everyone’s shit!”

They were entering their groove, as men from distant corners who see each other one certain trip a year, where they dispatch their lives and families, those who had them, and put that military jaw to the wind, and all inhibitions in the grave.

“Oorah, Marine… oh, and one leg-humpin’ fly-boy!” the two marines were chortling.

Decencies was all over Don Juan, grinding knuckles into that muscled tattoo, faux-biting his ear like he was in the Battle Royale!

“Okay you grunts, you’re buying first round. Fuck that, you’re buying all my rounds. You forget who flew your sorry asses support?”

“He always hangs that one on us, Donnie. How long we gonna let him get away with that?”

Donnie raised his eyebrows in dubious wonder… because Decencies was right… the angels above flying those F-16 Fighting Falcons saved a lot of grunts… but friends couldn’t let that get in the way of a good razzing.

“Only as long as the pussy can stand up tonight! And I’ll drink two for his one!”

Cliff was carrying Don’s duffle, but leaned into Johnny and gave him a one-armed hug. “You hear that, Buttercup? Our boy Donnie has throwed down the gauntlet!”

“As long as I get to do the counting, I’ll bury the Polack lover boy before he can find his first date.”

“Game on Do-Do Bird!”

The six friends would all be there, together in Vegas… Art Manaya and Lazlo “Laz” Pentavo were at the hotel already getting ginned up; and of course, Mark Denton, the last man in on anything, was another hour in the air… But all of them were in Iraq, one in the air, five on the ground; three of them from Basic to Camp Lejeune, to the Middle East. And Johnny and Cliff went all the way back to middle-school. All coming together by God’s grace or a great fucking coincidence. Fierce fighting men that would all tell you, how amazing it was that fear for life so readily turned them into warriors, and it was the training, adrenaline and that very fear that made them successful soldiers, some of them actual heroes. To them, it just felt like they were dodging death and firing back… And it’s interesting, that while these buoyant troublemakers all were laying out a good life in the civvy world, they rarely talked about their time in-country. Not with others who knew nothing of the war world; not willingly anyway. And it wasn’t an orchestrated thing among them. It was that fear still accompanied them all at most inconvenient times. And not talking about their monsters was best.

**********************

“Markie, Mark and his funky bunch! Mis amigos, Private First Class, Mark Denton has his beer and Jack Daniels in hand.” Lazlo was about to get a little preachy, sentiment ranked highly for Laz, the Latin blood, the warm heart. So, each year as they would celebrate surviving the tours, the war, and its aftereffects, Lazlo would give some warm and fuzzy declaration on brotherhood and survival – of hearts and minds.

They were gathered at the end of the bar, Don Juan and Johnny were playing bar-top Blackjack and losing; the others huddled around, between roaming and sitting, gambling and pissing. It was an unstructured warming up, as the following days would be filled with drinking, swimming, a little golf, more drinking, eating excessively, more drinking… that sort of fine getaway that exorcised one’s demons, or remade them.

“So, I want you all to raise your drinks. Both of ‘em.” All the veteran military men had their double-fisted salute in the air waiting for Laz’s prayerful proclamation, each knowing it would be good, just because that dude had a serious gift of soul and words.

“To Mark, on his 46th birthday, welcome to this side of that wall, baby!” They all responded with a loud “Oorah!” and held their perch. “And now, to my brothers… the guys we all come back to, the men we all rely on, the boys who all became men together…” With that, Donnie, drinking two for every one Johnny was downing, was feeling his hetero being assailed by that awkward pitch. “Wait a minute Father Lazlo, but ‘boys to men?’ You wanna keep this in the corral padre?”

No harm, no foul, Lazlo – the entire group – knew Don Juan’s testosterone levels pressed him into action, married or not, and that man-thing lacked a sense of humor about such things. “Shut up marine. You know what I’m talking, I’m talking about the boy band!” The group cut up at that, and as Laz tried to regather for his lasting remarks, a tall woman strolled up in stilettos, a tight miniskirt, with a fitting top, deep burgundy, and a leopard stole across her shoulders. She pulled out a bar stool and sat next to Johnny, while his seat was facing away from the bar. He nodded to the woman, she smiled. She looked dangerous in every way… She was the hottest incandescent creature in the western states. All heads turned, Art trying to appear he hadn’t noticed her, Cliff politely looking at his feet… as if that would tell this beauty he was uninterested. Even Lazlo was out of words, his bottom lip hanging like a birdbath.

“You were saying Laz?” Donnie, drunk as anyone in the hotel but composed and charming at the proximity to estrogen, knew you did not make your vulnerabilities known… you never end up in pillows and heaven if you can’t stare the girl down, or find the strength to be indifferent to her beauty.

The “padre” to the comrades decided to do the short version: “To my brothers of Regimental Combat Team One, Third Battalion/First Marines, and our angel in the air, brother Johnny, ‘All in and all done!’” They all responded with an emphatic, “Oorah!” to their singular slogan about returning home intact, “With balls on! May your hearts soar on wings of eagles, knowing you saved more than my life, you saved many. And we all walked away.”

A loud, “OO-RAH!” followed, and each pitched the Jack Daniels and slammed the shot glass down, then poured the beer of choice down in racing speed. Then bottles clinked down, their tradition once again served.

The beauty leaned over and quietly offered to Johnny, “That’s impressive. You guys all are the real deal? Saviors of the world and all?”

“Well, some would say that. Others would say we didn’t belong.”

“Well, fuck them. Soldiers go where they’re told to go, right? Duty, honor. Marines?”

“They all are, I was Airforce, fighter pilot.”

She raised her eyebrows in approval, “You’re the smart one then.”

“Oh, don’t know about that, these grunts are top of the mountain people. You don’t get there by being stupid…” By then, Don Juan had sidled up and took a perimeter position, near and inching nearer, wanting in and knowing Johnny was married in every sense of commitment… Donnie? Well, what happens in Vegas…

Johnny deftly turned that conversation towards the Polish lover, for he knew he was the only one who truly sought the action, while some others might only accidentally fall in his association. Besides, Johnny could claim a win of their bet if Donnie tapped out – no matter the reason. “Take my friend, Donnie. This marine got home and found his way into the lighting industry, and opened a couple shops, then took that to warehousing, and pretty soon, Daddy Warbucks…” Donnie was thinking, ‘Johnny talks too much,’ and dove in, grinning in delight.

“You can call me daddy all you want.” He winked. “Donnie Yankovich, the Polish lover.”

Not even a blush from the lush sophisticate. She reached her hand out in greeting, “Amber. Nice to meet you, Donnie. Who’s your talkative friend here?”

“This is Johnny, he’s a flyer. First rate fella in the second-rate arm of service.” That one slipped by Amber, but not Johnny, who was chuckling. Then Donnie turned around ready to introduce all the guys, and they were standing like monkeys at the cage door, ready to pile out… or in…

“This fella with the tan is Art Manaya, Marine. This fella is Lazlo Pentavo, we call him Padre because his closeness to all that thou-art stuff.” No chuckle, and Donnie thought he was being cute… “The thick neck with the crew cut – terribly out of style, by the way…” he was smirking at Cliff, “… he is Cliff Polite, long-E, but writes like polite… which he is. Fine man. Was our Sergeant in tour the last three years. Then our birthday boy over there, Markie Mark Denton. Five Marines and one Fighter Pilot, and not a broken nose among us.” There was other stuff, far more severe, but home they made it… and no, none had a broken nose.

She smiled at that… and it was a beautiful smile. The ex-military men stood like Grackles lining up on a telephone wire, while being enchanted, pretending if only for a few minutes, maybe…

Sensibility overcame most of them and they moved back to their beers and other discussions, as Johnny and Donnie continued to chat with Amber.

“Can I ask what you did there? If it’s not impolite.”

Johnny would take this as it was easier for him to buffer for the infantrymen who went door to door in Fallujah… that stuff is never fun talking about. So, Johnny would clear the air with some nice generalities and move on.

“Well, it’s not the adventure the commercials tell you it is. And it’s more than a job, cuz at regular jobs you don’t have AK-47’s rattling at your head.”

“Yea, I understand. I don’t want to insult soldiers, just curious.”

“No, no insult, but I was the F-16 pilot, and these heroes, my buddies were the door-to-door grunts who had to clean up Fallujah.” He realized he might have to explain what Fallujah was, but she bounced right back at him.

She gave a slight grimace, “That was some tough stuff. I don’t want to impose.” In all this Donnie just took the opportunity to do another shot and another beer.

“Amber, I can just tell you, these guys are the stuff movies are never made of, sorry to say. They are the meat of the military; the ones who deliver, and the ones who die more than any others. And these lucky sonsofbitches all made it out. Three of them with Purple Hearts, two Silver Crosses…”

Amber interjected, “Wounded warriors. Salute. Good soldiers. Any Army or…”

She didn’t even get it all out, “God no, these grunts are hard-assed marines, full-blooded. I’m the Dodo Bird flyer who tried to keep ‘em safe.”

“Looks like you succeeded.” She lifted her glass and held it up to Johnny, Don Juan was looking on with a little smile, but was waiting on his new beer. He winked at Johnny… which in most circles of men meant, “I defer, brother”, but with Donnie it meant, “thanks for keeping my seat warm!”

“Here’s to you and your mates.” Johnny couldn’t stop noticing the way her lip gloss shined, like a perpetual wet smile… and he ached… being married in a real sense, and being horny in a real sense as well. He knew he had to back out of this trouble, almost pleased, and pissed that Donnie would walk right in…

He subtly shook his head. Such a fucking misogynist thing to think… He was just too solid a dude, and could reconcile neither his attraction, nor his man-mind concessions… someone was gonna make that move… He held his glass up and clinked with Amber, wishing he could act, or he could run.

********************

He would choose to run, but after finishing the small talk.

“So, what do you do, Amber?”

Again the lipstick shined perfectly, he snugged closer to the bar top, a little more guarded.

“I work in private relations…” Johnny’s eyes were on those beautiful lips and that jawline… classic… and the rest… his thumping chest was overwhelming his hearing, because Johnny Decencies thought she responded, ‘public relations.’

“Great, must be a lucrative business in Vegas…” she did not react, she twizzled her drink, “So you work public relations for the city or the hotel?”

Amber gave him a flat stare, unaffected, but just clearing the air, so all cards were on this table, “No, I said I am in private relations. I’d rather they not be made public.”

At this news, Johnny’s eyes spilled out like a cartoon, his jaw went a little slack… silent… lost in deep water. Donnie was all part of this conversation, but not wasting words, he just looked on nodding, appreciating his friend deferring to the grunts and keeping his place in line. He was smiling at Johnny’s discomfort.

Amber looked up at Donnie and a little incredulously asked, “Does he know what I’m talking about?” pointing a thumb at Johnny, the fly-boy.

Finally words came to him, and he was in near-meltdown, but attempted to right the ship of competence. “Yea, yes, sure I know… business good?” Meltdown underway… he groaned inside, never mind he would never… he just hated feeling such a fool… acting one supremely well. Donnie just chuckled, not about to save his buddy.

“Business is very good.” The way she said that… the word ‘very’ dripped slowly off her tongue… that tongue… and it sounded too good… his neck was hot… this meant his face was red as a barn.

“Will you excuse me? I have to go piss…” ‘go piss? You really said that?’ Amber just nodded and smiled… with those lips… Johnny stood and pivoted and gave Cliff a look like they had to talk… Cliff didn’t have a clue. Johnny wanted someone to save him because he was walking with a full set of trousers. Cliff saw it and laughed, but walked with his buddy to give cover. And what came next was the perfect answer.

***********************

“That’s why Mark was late. Teresa filed for divorce last year and is slow-walking it because she feels bad for Mark. He had to meet with her before flying out.” Cliff was patting Mark on the back, his arm half-around his friend. “And Mark doesn’t want the divorce.”

All the friends were gathered like prairie dogs, heads popping up to look over at Donnie and Amber at the bar, trying to figure out how to introduce the idea.

“I think Donnie will be fine with it. Semper Fi. Oorah!” It was that simple to Art, Lazlo was nodding enthusiastically.

Cliff went on, “So, Markie Mark hasn’t been laid in… how long, Mark?”

Mark was the color of burnt orange, as his mates were talking around him like he were in a coffin… but he had to concede, he kind of was. “16 months.”

“Holy sh…” Johnny didn’t dare finish that one… 16 months was bad enough… “Yea, Donnie will be good with that, if you are, Mark.”

The littlest marine was toeing the edge of the carpet that was rolling up a bit, the equivalent of kicking the can down the road, not wanting to answer… because how stupid could you look? He already had to break the heart-wrenching news of his divorce, then the very un-virile news that he hasn’t worked the plumbing department in almost a year-and-a-half… now, they were going to work on a pool to buy him a ride with Amber the Beautiful… He was aching in every way a man could ache – outside of war.

Cliff covered for his silence, “Mark, you’re good. Fuck Teresa…” he went there, not because he didn’t like Mark’s wife, because she was a cool person, nice lady, but she was turning his friend inside out. “You better start thinking about you, Mark. Your ex-wife sure ain’t – and she is your ex, make no fucking bones about it.”

It was a pep talk… it was kind… but it was still weird, because he had never, in all his years of military, before or after lay with paid talent.

“Mark, this is Lazlo talking. Padre himself. Sometimes a man’s soul needs to give way to the man.” He pulled $100 dollar bill out of his wallet and put it on the table. “Here’s my contribution.”

In the next 20 seconds they had five crisp $100 dollar-bills, and Donnie not only deferring, but hugging his suffering friend. “If you are going back into the fray motherfucker, you are doing it with a Ferrari. She’s a purrin’ bro.”

That sealed it, except for one thing.

“Can you guys at least come up for a little first? I’m so frigging nervous, I might throw up.”

***********************

They had all topped off their drinks and escorted Mark and Amber up to her room, Donnie walking arm in arm with the pricey professional. It was like a boxer and his entourage being announced into the ring.

After a few minutes of leisurely banter, Amber had pulled up her website and started pawing at Mark’s leg, certainly cranking the old engine back up. When Lazlo tapped Cliff on the shoulder as a sign it was time, Mark frantically looked up, “Not yet, guys… we’re still talking!”

It was a sad but dear sight to see their friend this lost in a love that quit him, that it was now determination that, by hell or highwater, and breaking whatever moral code he danced with, they were going to make sure he had a full night of dreams, indulgent and complete.

And Amber had the same idea, “No, I think we’re done talking boys.” She looked up in this cute and benign manner, but it was the words that were saying as nicely as possible, “Get the fuck out, I gotta make a living here.”

Cliff popped Mark on the head and headed to the door. “We’ll be at the bar Markie Mark. You take your own sweet time in paradise. Thanks Amber. Our boy here needs your best.”

The soldiers filed out, a little cheeky, they had to grab Donnie as he was seated paging through Amber’s photos… they had him by the collar. Art blew Mark a kiss, “See you downstairs in a couple hours.”

And the boys were gone, leaving the Ferrari to do her work.

The guys reached the casino floor and gravitated back to their end of the bar, Lazlo stopped near the bar to drop some coins in a slot machine. Donnie and Johnny retook their seats, and Cliff was ordering new beers for them all. And before the cold beers broke their first droplet of sweat, Art tapped Cliff, chuckling and pointing.

It was a straight shot past a bank of slots, but they could see the elevator from their seats at the bar, and in the greatest stroll of a conqueror, Mark Denton walked with swag, all done-up in a post-coitus afterglow… and it hadn’t even been 12-minutes since they left the room.

Cliff held his laughter and told the barmaid, “Can you make that one more Yuengling please? Our buddy’s back.”

Semper Fi! The things a marine will do for his brothers.

***********************