“It’s a letter,” I finally mumbled. “An old letter from Bruce.”
I was surprised at how easily the words rolled out.
“He wrote me a lot at first,” I went on, “and he always paired his letters with music. It was his way to keep DJing, I guess. So whenever I got a letter, I’d store it with whatever song he chose.”
“Damn,” Hana said, “that’s beautiful, man.”
I shrugged.
“Would you read us the letter?” she asked.
I squirmed uncomfortably.
“I’d like to hear it,” Milo said. “I miss Bruce, too, ya know?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, “I know.”
I went to the stereo. Hana sat down beside Milo. They stared at me eagerly, like I was some bonked-out Mother Goose about to read them a bedtime war story. I unfolded the letter, and looked it over. Was I really gonna read it out loud?
Apparently fucking so.
“Bruce sent this to me from California when he was there training. If I remember right, this was the last I heard from him before he went to Vietnam.”
I eased the needle onto the wax. Roy Orbison sang about his faraway home.
Softly, I began to read—
Listen to: “Blue Bayou,” by Roy Orbison
How’s the weather, Raspy Ronnie?
It’s great here . . . because I’m writing you from California!
I wish you could hear the stations we pick up from the barracks! KRLA in Hollywood, the Boss Jocks on KHJ-AM—they’re incredible! Me and you have got some serious competition out here on the coast!
But otherwise, California isn’t exactly how I imagined it. Scratch that! It’s exactly how I imagined it! This just isn’t how I imagined ending up here.
I thought we’d be cruising Sunset with Wolfman Jack by now, ya know? Having fun in the California sun, going on safari to stay, all that good shit.
But all I’ve done is run, run, run, climb, climb, climb, shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot. Seems like they’re pushing my battalion harder than the others.
But hey! Last week I went to San Diego on leave, and let me tell you . . . the chicks out there, Ronnie! Good Sweet Baby Jesus, they were out of sight! Wouldn’t give me the time of day, though, because of this stupid buzz cut. I have S-O-L-D-I-E-R written all over me. Do girls back home still like a man in uniform? Because out here, not so much.
Crazy, isn’t it? I finally made it to California, and all I seem to do is miss Florida. Especially at night, when the scent of gunpowder dies down enough for me to smell the ocean.
But word has it we’re shipping off to Da Nang in two weeks. I’m so ready to get this over with. I’ll try to scrounge up some medals so you can watch people kiss my ass when I get home, ha ha. I’m counting down the days until then. I count them like I’m in prison. Not that I need to tell you that. You’re in high school, after all.
Send my love to everyone, Wolfman included. I miss you, Little Brother.
I miss all y’all. Tell Momma to keep putting those candles in the window.
I’ll be home soon,
-Bruce
The song was over before I finished reading. No one seemed to notice.
I folded the note and looked up.
Milo had removed his glasses. He was wiping his eyes with his shirt.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, “shit, I’m sorry. That was just . . . that was so sad.”
Hana was looking right at me.
Her dark eyes took it all in, and didn’t give back an inch.
Finally, her lips curled into a soft smile.
“The sad ones are the truth, man. Go on, play it again.”
five
How To Outrun A Bullet
The first meeting of The Vinyl Underground was over by 10 p.m.
Milo called dibs on borrowing the MC5 single. I left the Blues Magoos record with Hana, and she loaned me her new Bob Dylan. I kept it at my side as she walked us out. They laughed as I struggled to get my shoes on, but I didn’t mind. Milo held me steady until I got situated.
“This was cool,” he said as we crossed the porch.
“Yeah. Solid idea, Ronnie.”
“Same time, next week?” I asked.
“Definitely,” they both said.
Hana pointed to the Roy Orbison single. “How many of those do you have? The ones with the letters.”
“Fifteen, I think,” I said, knowing damn well.
“Could you bring more next time?”
I clammed up for a moment. I was surprised she asked.
“Sorry if that’s weird,” she continued, “I just never got to meet him. But when you read that letter, I felt like I almost did.”
“Yeah,” Milo said, “I wanna know what happens next.”
You know what happens next, I thought.
“Sure,” I smiled, “I’ll bring more next time.”
“Groovy,” Hana said, grinning.
I blushed and looked at my shoes.
“Well, I should get going,” Milo said.
“Me too,” I said.
“Bye, guys.”
I followed Milo down the front steps, and we crossed the street in silence. The two of us shared a smile in the dark, and then went our separate ways.
I looked at the vinyl again as I climbed the stairs of my porch. It was the first time I’d been able to listen to Bruce’s records without plummeting into the void—and I knew it was the others who’d held me in place. My family considered grief a private thing, but finally sharing a little had proven shockingly cathartic. If my friends could understand it, maybe they could help me bear it.
I was still smiling as I fumbled my key in the front door and walked inside.
“Hey, Ronnie,” Ramrod called from the dining room.
He was sitting next to my dad, looking over a chart of wrestling matches that were graphed together like the branches of a family tree. He’d turned nineteen last week and been forced into an unofficial retirement from wrestling.
Now Lewis had the prestigious title of Unpaid Assistant Coach. The job came with only one benefit—free beer at scheduling meetings. A half-dozen empty bottles of Jax surrounded the poster board.
“Hey,” I said, “what are y’all doin’ up so late?”
“Tryin’ to see if we can squeeze a scrimmage in before finals,” Dad said.