White Man's Problems (19 page)

“Is this supposed to get them to think about history?”

“I think it's supposed to keep them quiet,” she said.

“Have you ever watched this movie? It's ridiculous…”

She nodded. “I know.”

He moved up to the seat next to her and made himself comfortable. “I don't know what happened to Nicolas Cage.”

“Right?” she said. “Remember
Moonstruck
?”

They moved through their favorite Nic Cage movies, surmising that at some point he started doing it for the money. During a lull in the conversation, he held up the glassine envelope with Jobie's cash. “Are you holding money for any of the girls?”

“No,” said Linda.

“It's so weird.”

“It must be the parents. Have you spoken to them?”

“No. I never met them.”

“But, have you
spoken
to them? You know, when Jobie calls home?”

Hansall felt his face burn. “Oh, I've been letting the kids call home on their own.”

“Lucky you.” She waved toward the girls in the back. “I have to give a full report every night. I haven't been to sleep before midnight.”

“Do you know Jobie's parents?”

“Not really.” Her voice trailed off. “I saw them once. I've heard they're very nice. I think they do something with computers.”

“Is he…what, Japanese? I'm so bad with that, sorry.”

“His mom is Vietnamese. His father is German, I think.”

“Ah,” he said. They both nodded politely, at what he wasn't sure. “I guess they're worried he'll blow the money.”

“Guess so.”

“I can see why. He wanted to buy a set of spoons for a hundred and thirty bucks.”

“A set of
spoons
?” she giggled.

“For his mom. Williamsburg spoons.”

“That's so cute.”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “She would have killed him and me.”

“Oh, I don't know. Any mom would love it a little bit.”

“Maybe so,” he said. “But Asians and Germans are usually tough with a buck.” When he said it, he worried he had gone a bit too far over the boundaries of political correctness. But it was a calculated risk, he thought, the kind white Americans make every day when entering into a new relationship. As he got older, he tested such ground early in conversations, rather than treading lightly for months only to find that the other person—women, really—were bleeding hearts. In his experience, liberal women also tended to be very loud in the morning, and he couldn't deal with loud in the morning.

He was a libertarian, and this leaning got stronger as he aged. He saw government as inept, taxes as legalized theft, and laws as intrusive. Never much of a believer to begin with, he had been a nominal Democrat in college because it helped one get laid, at least at Brown, at least when he was there. His feelings calcified as he matured, and his sense of the meaningless of politics grew the way bread goes stale and then one day is gone.

***

The sun was still in the sky when the Capitol Building appeared on the horizon. The bus left the interstate and pulled into DC. Everything seemed of granite, lending a permanence to its sense of place. That's how it seems to the untrained eye, thought Hansall. He remembered his friends who moved to DC after college speaking only of Happy Hours in Georgetown bars. On the street near an empty manhole cover a white utility van from the phone company or the electric company or the sewer company was parked with “Blazing Hot Internet” advertised on its side.

“Wait, look!” said Mrs. Coyle, jumping up and pointing out the window where the Washington Monument stood like a postcard. “Repeat after me,” she yelled to the kids. “Standing at five hundred fifty-five feet and three-quarter inches…” A smattering of voices repeated the phrase back. “C'mon, let me hear you,” she said, and then continued, “the world's largest freestanding masonry structure…” She paused: “The Washington Monument.” She beamed. The children, catching on now, yelled, “The world's largest freestanding masonry structure…The Washington Monument.”

“Every time!” she said. “We say it every time we see it, ok?”

***

The Keybridge Marriott was not much different than the Williamsburg Marriott. To be sure, there were urban touches: the front door was more active, busboys schlepped bags, and people whom Hansall assumed were lobbyists hustled through the lobby. The adults lectured the kids not to wander around unsupervised. When Hansall opened the door to his room, he faced the same forest-green drapes. The minibar situation was no different, signaling to him the power within the chain of policies of bulk-purchasing room finishes. His hopes for airplane bottles of scotch, peanut butter cups, overpriced cashews, Red Bull, and cans of Bud Light were dashed.

He unpacked only his toiletry kit. He could not, would not, face the room and insomnia, lightening darkness, and those drapes—
those drapes—
again. He slapped on aftershave, brushed his teeth, stopped down the hall at the boys' room to make a compulsory plea that they call their mothers, and went to the bar.

It was outfitted in minimalist orange and black tables. The menu featured sushi, steamed dumplings, and Thai salads. The servers were dressed in orange shirts, black slacks, and floral vests. Hansall's mind went again to the decision-making Marriott middle managers. Odds were, every three years they undertook a new theme. “Let's give it a contemporary feel,” he heard them say. He saw the budget meetings and the suppressed creativity, perhaps even a maverick within the company pushing for a sushi place. Perhaps the man who spearheaded the innovative restaurant was seen as too big a spender, too ready to go half-cocked into bizarre variations, which served no purpose other than to dilute the brand.

Through his first two scotches Hansall had been watching a plumpish girl two seats away. When she ordered her third vodka and tonic, Hansall said, “Hope you're driving, because I'm not.”

She laughed. “Not me, I'm stuck here.”

He slid over to the seat next to her. “Me too. Business?”

“Sales trip.”

“Don't look so happy about it.”

“You have no idea.” She crunched her ice. “Day eight.”

“Yeah, well, I can beat that.”

“Ha. Tell me and tell me slow.”

“Field trip.” Off her raised eyebrows, he said, “Fifth grade.”

“Oh God, kids? From where?”

“California. Santa Monica.” She lit up, excited for some reason about Santa Monica.

He ordered two more drinks and the discussion began. He moved like a great running back on a power sweep, sizing up the defense, feinting here and there, applying just enough speed. She was past her window on the looks side, and definitely heavy. This was ok, though—he didn't mind heavy when he was drunk. In his experience, big girls liked to fuck. One drink gave way to three, then five. She put her knee into his thigh and pulled it back. He mentioned his empty room. When he got the right answer, he asked for the check. The tab was one hundred and ten bucks. He decided he didn't want a bar bill on his credit card, for fear it would come up in his deposition, so he reached for cash. All that was left in his wallet was a ten and two ones.

“Do you want me to get it?” said the girl, whose name was Meredith, fishing for her purse. “I ate before you got here.”

“That's crazy talk.” He found Jobie's glassine envelope and left six twenties on the bar.

***

Hansall came out of a fitful sleep with his left arm was pinned under Meredith's upper body. He saw his face in the mirror from across the room. The air conditioner was on too high, but he didn't want to deal with it, so he stayed beneath the bed's checkered cover and light-yellow sheets. Having rolled over, Meredith's back was to him. He looked at her and was grossed out. He went to his back and stared at the ceiling. His head uncontrollably veered to the right and he saw the drapes. He rolled back toward Meredith, felt the round of her buttocks against him, and felt himself rising. Hansall tried to caress her hair, but it felt like steel wool. He grabbed down along her side and felt her fleshiness. He pushed his hands between her legs, licked his fingers and parted her lips. She groaned and reached back for his head, putting him in a sort of forearm headlock.

They pushed and panted through the sex act for the next fifteen minutes. He grabbed her breasts one at a time from various positions, as though he were reaching down to grab more fruit from a tree. She took on a rubbery resolve, issuing a simple high-pitched grunt each time he thrust. The cold air blowing through the Marriott vents made it impossible to sweat. He buried his head in each available opening of her abundant body, trying to disappear between her legs from the front, between her tits, into her neck, even into her crevices from the side. He put her on her back, on her stomach, put one leg at a time over her head. She complied with each position. He increased the velocity and the force, trying to get her to make more than her basic sound. But nothing worked. He rose onto his forearms and felt his body pound into her until his loud slapping was the only sound he could hear.

He did not know how long he held, but his back started to weaken and he went to his side. He grabbed for her clammy arm and guided her to his crotch. He put a pillow beneath his head and moved her hand faster. She began talking in his ear, and when she saw that he was responding, she spoke more rapidly. She got dirty, then dirtier, then filthy. He put the pillow around his other ear, so that her voice vibrating in his ear louder and louder still was the only thing he could feel. Then he was done. He stared again at the ceiling. Then he turned on his side away from Meredith and looked, once more, at the drapes.

Dark green drifts over him, the color of cold ocean water splashing against a beach, but much grayer, even black. He is in one of those World War II battles from the movies, wearing a green army helmet with netting around it. His unit is mid-invasion, trying to get a foothold amid the shrapnel and flying limbs and smoke and noise. So this is war. It is louder than his imagination allows, and he is in a terror so deep he cannot swallow. He sprints to cover where soil overhangs the beginnings of the shore, with the roots of a long-gone tree fortifying just enough space for a few GIs to find safety. He slams his back into the mound, panting next to two other soldiers. The sound of the bullets is:
pfft
. They are cutting through clothing, piercing into flesh of the men around him.

He is so scared. He sobs. He vows he isn't moving. He looks out to the water where hundreds of other men are swimming back to the boats. The soldier to the right of him clutches his gun and makes signs that he is ready to head back into the fire. He screams in Hansall's ear but his voice is inaudible. Hansall keeps whimpering and looking to the ocean. The solider continues yelling; saliva is pouring out of his mouth. Still Hansall does not budge. The soldier hits Hansall on the helmet, with the butt end of his rifle, screaming all the while, as bullets rattle by.
Pap. C'mon. Pap. Get up. Pap. Get the fuck up. Pap pap. Get up you fucking coward we gotta go. I will leave you here to die in two seconds. Pap, pap, pap.

Hansall's eyes opened. The noise continued:
pap, pap, pap
. He raised his head. It was someone knocking on the door. Daylight was on the room, a gauzy substance through the sheers. He disentangled from Meredith and groped for his boxer shorts. He stumbled to the door and opened it a crack, pulling the little chain lock taut.

Linda's eyes looked back at him.

“Hey, wanted to make sure you were up…” she said. Before he could react, Linda saw into the secrets of his room. Meredith wrapped herself in a sheet and leisurely went toward the bathroom. Linda's face fell like a stone.

“Ok, wow, I didn't hear the alarm,” he said.

Linda backed off the door. “Oh, I'm sorry.” She instantaneously recovered. “You overslept. The bus is leaving in five minutes.” She held up her wrist to indicate the time. He squinted at her watch as though she must be wrong. Then he glanced back into the room. “This is not what it looks like. She is an old friend from college—we got drunk and…”

Linda made a none-of-my-business face. “Ok, well, hurry up,” and she headed to the elevator. Immediately, a familiar feeling came over him.
Let it all come
, he said to himself.
That's right. I'm a fuckup. I'm an asshole
. The elevator bell rang. He heard Meredith peeing. He closed the door and started packing his day bag.

When he took his seat next to Will, no one was talking. Linda would not meet his eyes, focusing instead on shushing her daughter and then looking out the window.

“Dad, where were you?” said Will. “
Jesus
.”

“Don't talk like that,” said Hansall. “Jesus, Will, I got a stomach thing. I was up all night puking.”

***

Mrs. Coyle made the group walk from the Arlington National Cemetery's parking lot to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, some two miles uphill. Hansall, head throbbing, trailed closely behind Jobie, who trailed closely behind Will, Declan, and Harry. It had turned cold overnight, and Hansall was suddenly underdressed, cutting the wind in a hooded sweatshirt. He looked at the boys to see if they were wearing enough clothes. The main troika seemed ok, but when he looked at Jobie, something was wrong. Hansall caught up to the boy and felt his shoulder. It was sopping wet.

“Jobie, what happened? You're soaked.”

Jobie pushed ahead. “Got splashed on. Ms. Barlow let us swim after dinner and I left my stuff too close to the edge.”

“You can't go around like that,” said Hansall.

“I'm ok.”