Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk. Ben Fountain

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СКАЧАТЬ appearances at malls, or whenever TV or radio is present, you are apt at some point to be lovingly mobbed by everyday Americans eager to show their gratitude, then other times it’s like you’re invisible, people just see right through you, nothing registers. Billy and Mango stand there eating scalding hot pizza and know that their fame is not their own. Mainly it’s another thing to laugh about, this huge floating hologram of context and cue that leads everyone around by the nose, Bravo included, but Bravo can laugh and feel somewhat superior because they know they’re being used. Of course they do, manipulation is their air and element, for what is a soldier’s job but to be the pawn of higher?

      Wear this, say that, go there, shoot them, then of course there’s the final and ultimate, be killed. Every Bravo is a PhD in the art and science of duress. Billy and Mango finish their pizza and start walking. With some food in their bellies they’re feeling stoked, and on a whim they wander into Cowboys Select, the highest-end of all the on-site establishments offering Cowboys apparel and brand merchandise for sale. The dizzying scent of fine leathers meets them at the door, along with a brightly lit Texas Lottery machine. Flat-screen TVs mounted in the walls are playing a highlights reel from the Aikman years. Billy and Mango are a little bit punchy coming in, they’re primed for an ironic retail experience, and in seconds the place has them laughing out loud. It’s not just the racks and racks of upscale clothing, the fine jewelry, the framed and certified collector memorabilia, no, you had to admire the determination, the sheer marketing balls of stamping the Cowboys brand on chess sets, toaster ovens, high-capacity ice makers, personal oxygen bars, and laser-guided pool cues. Dude, check it out! An entire line of Cowboys kitchenware. The two Bravos grow so rowdy that other customers start to give them some space. As far as Billy and Mango are concerned, the store is a museum, these are all things to look at but nothing a Bravo could buy, and the humiliation of it makes them a little wild. His ’n’ hers cotton terry-cloth robes, like, four hundred dollars. Authentic game jerseys, a hundred fifty-nine ninety-five. Cashmere pullovers, cut-crystal Christmas ornaments, Tony Lama limited-edition boots. As their shame and sense of insult mount the two Bravos become rough with each other. Dude, check it out, sick bomber jacket. Only six hundred seventy-nine bucks, dawg.

      Is it leather?

      The fuck you mean, hell yeah it’s leather!

      ’Cause, dawg, I don’t think so. I think that’s pleather.

      The fuck it’s pleather!

      Unh-unh, dumbshit. It’s just you’re so fucking ghetto you don’t know from pleather—

      Suddenly they’re grappling, they’ve hooked arms in a fierce shoulder clench and lumber about like a couple of barroom drunks, grunting, cursing each other and butting heads, laughing so hard they can hardly stand up. Their berets go flying as they tear at their ears. It hurts and they laugh harder, they’re gasping now, bitch, shitbag, cum-slut, faggot, Mango jabs at Billy with stinging uppercuts, Billy crams a fist into Mango’s armpit and off they go on a left-tilting axis, pottery wheel and pot rolling loose across the floor. Can I help you! someone is shouting, jumping in and out of the way. Gentlemen! Fellas, guys, can I help you? Whoa there!

      Billy and Mango separate, come up flushed and laughing. The salesman—store manager? a middle-aged white guy with thinning hair—he, too, is laughing, but it’s clearly a situation for him, what with two obvious lunatics on his hands. Everyone else, staff, customers—the few who haven’t fled—is standing well back.

      “Is this leather?” Billy asks, lifting a sleeve from the rack of bomber jackets. “’Cause moron here’s trying to tell me it’s pleather.”

      “Oh no sir,” says the manager, “that’s genuine leather.” He’s chuckling, he knows they’re putting him on, but in the manner of straight men since the beginning of time whose job it is to bring order to a sick and comical world, he launches into a fruity description of this full-grain aniline lamb’s-leather jacket, the special tanning and dyeing processes and so forth, not to mention the coat’s superior construction qualities. Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh, the Bravos hear him out with the rapt expressions of cavemen watching popcorn pop.

      “See, dumbfuck”—Billy cuffs Mango’s shoulder—“I told you it was leather.”

      “Like you know so much about fashion. I bet you ain’t even wearing underwear—”

      They swat at each other, start to grapple, but the manager’s gulpy Whoa! calls them off.

      “So, hunh. You sell a lot of these?” Billy asks, fingering one of the jackets.

      “Five or six a game. When we’re winning we might do better than that.”

      “Damn. Your peeps got some juicy cash flow, huh.”

      The manager smiles. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”

      The Bravos thank the manager and leave. “Dawg,” Mango says once they’re outside. “Six hundred seventy-nine dollars,” he says. “Billy,” he says, then, “Shit.” And that’s all they say about it.

      THE HUMAN RESPONSE

      “FIFTEEN MILLION,” ALBERT IS saying as Billy and Mango resume their seats. “Fifteen cash against fifteen percent of gross, a star can do that when they’re running hot. And Hilary’s running very hot these days. Her agent won’t let her read without a guarantee.”

      “Read what?” Sykes asks. Albert’s eyes slowly track that way, followed by his head.

      “The script, Kenneth.”

      “But I thought you said we don’t have a script.”

      “We don’t, but we’ve got a treatment and we’ve got a writer. And now that Hilary’s interested, we can slant it in a way that really speaks to her.”

      “I love it when he talks like that,” says Dime.

      “Look, the script’s not the problem, just telling your story’s gonna make a compelling script. The hard part’s getting the damn thing in her hands.”

      “You said you know her,” Crack points out.

      “Hell yes I know her! We got bombed off our ass a couple of months ago at Jane Fonda’s house! But this is business, guys, everything she reads has to go through her agent, and he won’t let her so much as touch a script unless it comes with a firm offer from a studio. That way she knows if she says yes, the studio’s on the hook. She can’t get turned down.”

      “Uh, so, do we have a studio?” Crack asks. He knows he should know this, but everything about the deal seems so abstract.

      “Robert, we do not. There’s tons of interest out there, but nobody wants to commit until a star commits.”

      “But Swank won’t commit until they do.”

      Albert smiles. “Precisely.” The Bravos emit an appreciative ahh-hhh. The paradox is so perfect, so completely circular in the modern way, that everyone can identify.

      “That’s kind of fucked,” says Crack.

      “It is,” Albert agrees. “It’s totally fucked.”

      “So СКАЧАТЬ