Follow the Fuhrer Above the Clouds (1942) by Paul Nash
Coyotes screaming in the middle of the night like it’s an emergency, a celebration of meat, hungrily receiving the eucharist, the frantic redesign of a living soul, a group-curated makeover, a gang of violent flippers, no time to call an architect, let’s just do this thing. My dogs screamed along, worried that these supernatural beasts could walk through walls and rearrange their cells, too.
They took the meat and weighed it and sliced it up and then looked closer to make sure it hadn’t gone bad. Seven pharmaceuticals a-swimming, nerves firing late at night. We’re talking civil war soldier pain, like your ass got shot off on the battlefield and they didn’t find all of it. Everyone wants to witness a soldier falling, to hear his cries right before he hits the ground: contrition, confession, absolution, penance. But I don’t cry about stuff like this. I get the alcohol swabs and stand like a statue, calm like a nurse, still like a patient, no expression, hoagies packed in plastic so they’ll stay fresh forever.
Fifty years of Playboy in his office. Girls from the sixties looking shy on purpose, girls from the eighties looking not shy on purpose. He said they weighed the meat and I laughed like a girl from the 2020s, a gorgeous docile man, a flapper, a jester, a soldier fresh from the war, take a number and wait. He asked me what I wanted. I stood and laughed. I said, just give me what I had, improve on it a little, why not? He said, it would be hard to improve on what you had.
I told you. Remember? Bragging isn’t immoral. It’s good for you, try it sometime. I wasn’t being not shy on purpose, I wasn’t working behind the deli counter, I was just telling the truth, it felt good to tell the truth for a change. These people are fucking professionals, is the thing. Game respects game. Just like the night we met. I watched you. I thought you were the brave one but I was the brave one.
I haven’t lost a thing. You know I would mourn this, if it felt like a loss. This pain fills out my figure nicely. This echo of collapse sparkles across my skin. This river empties straight into the ocean. I am the brave one. I stand and hear the news, I stand and take my pills, I stand still like a soldier and laugh. He says it will be fun, he loves this journey for me, a long term construction project that respects the original architect’s vision, celebrates the bones, pays tribute to the meat, honors amazement, embraces what was true, records every courageous stand and every sigh of surrender. You wish you’d been more brave, before the war was over. You wish you’d pushed more boundaries. The moment has passed.
Now you’ll want a sad tribute to injured soldiers, a way to replace curiosity with pity. Let the fallen say a word about how they suffered, what they left behind on the battlefield, what they lost. Let them sound broken and incomplete so you can feel lucky and whole by comparison. But when it’s my turn at the podium I laugh and say, I told you I wouldn’t falter, I told you I wouldn’t retreat, I told you the war would be over soon, I told you I’d walk all the way home with my rifle on my back, this pain straightening my spine, this implosion expanding my heart, this baptism stirring my skin, no ticker tape necessary. The truth is I didn’t see much action, compared to most. I only had to hold the line. I feel lucky and whole: a flapper, a jester, a priest, a rabbit, a royal. This divine intervention left a beautiful mark. There’s still time to taste the pride on my tongue. Boundaries are as interesting as you make them.
I don’t cry about stuff like this. I’m carefree and careless but I still care. The moment hasn’t passed. The moment is gone. The moment is back. We will always live in this castle, together, you and me, before and after the war, now and now and now. You’ll always be tempted to feel sorry for me, only to discover that I’m the formidable one, my heart is always sincere, forever fresh from the war.
Build me something to honor what I’ll never lose. I give everything away because I always have more than enough left over, before and after, more and more, now and forever. Build a temple for the sun itself. No, I’m not shy, not shy at all, why should I be? I was the brave one all along.
Heather Havrilesky is the author of the essay collection What If This Were Enough?, which was a Publisher’s Weekly Best Book of 2018. You can read Heather’s latest Ask Polly column on New York’s The Cut, where it’s published every other Wednesday. The other Wednesdays, Ask Polly lives here, so sign up, it’s free. Write to Molly: askmolly at protonmail.com.