D. D. West

D. D. West—Writing Sample
From Army Brat, Chapter 6, "L'Ingenu"

  One Saturday, Pete calls up Russel and tells him one of the Canadians his father works with has his son Bruce visiting from New Brunswick—they should take him out for a night in the nearby town. The plan is to meet on the road and walk the few kilometers from the village, maybe get some beer and frites on the Grand-Place, then check out a couple of bars.
  Bruce shows up looking—it occurs to Russel—like he's ready for a night out in Canada: short hair combed to the side, short-sleeved work shirt, tan slacks with brown leather belt and dress shoes. Pete wears what he always does: a Canadian army surplus jacket from his cadet days in Germany, his sandy hair pushed back in a crew cut. Russel has on his latest anti-solution to the no-idea-what-to-do-about-clothes problem: a plain white t-shirt with a black leather jacket that he found for cheap in the only department store in the village. He's also made his first trip to a barber on base, where he had no idea what to say and no relevant vocabulary (English or French) to talk about the possibilities. Luckily, a young Belgian haircutter took matters into his own hands and gave Russel's hair a new shape: shorter and narrower on the sides, with a bit of extra length on top and across his neck. Now when he sees his reflection in shop windows he doesn't feel like punching it.
  Russel guesses that Bruce is a couple of years older than him and Pete: he's about an inch taller and has also filled out, so he's a good thirty or forty pounds heavier. Russel looks at his thick neck and broad shoulders and solid thighs and says, "Jesus, you lift weights or something?"
  Bruce says, "Going for my black belt in judo when I get back."
  Russel says, "No kidding." He pauses as if deciding whether to continue, then says, "There's actually a pretty good club right here in the village. You should come round some time. I'm a brown belt too."
  This is how Russel fills most of his evenings and many of his Saturdays, though he rarely talks about it. At school, huge chunks of class time are given over to discussions of the school teams' road trips to American bases in Germany and Holland, their successes on the field, pranks in the locker rooms, escapades in the hotel rooms. Russel feels like a Martian as he watches these sunny faced discussions of junior and senior varsity cheerleading teams and non-drinking pledges and group showers among sons and daughters of Army sergeants and Navy captains and CIA rank-equivalents. He can never get over the disconnect from the sour bodies and greasy hair of the Belgians he does judo with, in a derelict former warehouse with no heat or running water, and multiple rounds of after-practice Jupiler brought in by the case.
  . . . .
  Russel and Bruce and Pete spend the evening in a cave—a grey stone basement bar shaped like a train tunnel—called Le Chin Chin. They take turns buying rounds of Stella while Bruce does most of the talking. He has a way of telling stories that have a friend-of-a-friend quality, though the manner of telling suggests that he was there, that these things really happened, that he is not to be challenged. These generally revolve around groups of military men, maybe playing poker or getting into a bar room brawl or going to a strip club; Bruce seems to take particular pleasure in an anecdote about Battalion Betty, who did the whole unit. The thought alone all but nauseates Russel.
  Russel takes all this to imply that Bruce has military experience, though he doesn't dare ask for particulars. He hasn't felt this over his head since the day he found himself at Le Chin Chin drinking with a guy who had just gotten out of prison that day. The guy explained that there had been a fight, and he had reached into the trunk of his car and then gotten a gun and shot the other guy. He kept getting up to take his shirt off, to flex his muscles and show where his beer belly used to come to.
  Now Russel decides that he is terrified of Bruce, and that the best he can hope for is to have him on his side if anything goes wrong. For the moment, Bruce appears to like him, though Russel wishes he knew what he did to achieve this, so he can be sure to keep doing it. As they walk back to their village, Russel and Pete are so drunk they slur and stumble, while Bruce works hard to play it straight. As they near the corner where they originally met, Bruce says that the Mounties have taken him on; he's going to start training when he flies back. Russel looks at him, incredulous, and is about to ask what they could possibly have been thinking, when he catches himself and says, "How did you get in?" hoping it comes out sounding impressed rather than dubious.
  Bruce says, "Easy. Cause of my languages."
  Russel says, "You mean French?" He didn't notice any attempts, unless you could count a couple of grabs at the waitress's bum.
  Bruce says levelly, "Mic Mac." Russel nods; he feels like there's something he wants to say— something on the tip of his tongue—but he just keeps nodding. He suddenly feels foolish, though he isn't exactly sure why.
  By this time, they are standing at the place where they were going to part, but notice they are only a few meters from a bar that is still open: they can hear music and voices, and begin to discuss whether they should go in for one last drink. They look up at the sign, trying to make out the name of the place. Most bars in the area have names along the lines of Mes amis (My Friends) or Au bon vieux temps (The Good Old Days)—but this one has the rather more perplexing name Les Gais Lurons. They can't make any sense of it. The Gay Lesbians? Right here in their own little village? The idea seems as unlikely as it is exciting. Should they go in? Surely they wouldn't be welcome.
  Just then a thin mustachioed man walks out and waves them away, saying something about Americains. Russel and Pete and Bruce all start up with the now-familiar litany: Non, non, Canadiens. Nous sommes Canadiens. But the man takes out a gun.
  This has a remarkable effect on the conversation. Russel looks at Pete and Bruce: they've been in cadets, or the militia, or whatever it is. Surely they're no strangers to guns? And anyway, Bruce is going for his black belt: he must be capable of disarming someone. The guy's waving the gun all over the place like it's some sort of show—and anyway he's in too close, within reach. But the others are hypnotized, frozen in place, struck dumb. They look on as the guy breaks open the chamber and dumps the bullets into his palm. Pete and Bruce lean in to get a closer look and nod to each other, Yup, those are the real thing alright. All by way of being threatened with a loaded gun.
  Russel says, "Fuck this noise." It's a new expression for him—something he learned in the American school. He turns his back and walks the long meters to the corner.

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