The Family Fang: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

which is pretty much never.”
    “We don’t have jobs, Buster,” said Joseph. “We’re living with our parents and we don’t have girlfriends. We just drink and blow shit up.”
    “You’re making it sound like it’s a bad thing,” Arden said to Joseph.
    “Well I don’t mean to,” said Joseph, and looked at Buster. “It only sounds that way when I say it out loud.”
    “So,” Buster began, unsure of the correct way to phrase his question, “does all of this, shooting off potato guns, ever remind you of your time over in Iraq?” As soon as he finished his question, everyone around him seemed, momentarily, incredibly sober. “Are you asking if we have flashbacks or something?” asked David. “Well,” Buster continued, beginning to realize that he had been better off shooting potatoes into the atmosphere, “I just wonder if shooting these spud guns makes you think about your time in the army.” Joseph laughed softly. “Everything makes me think about the army. I wake up and I go to the bathroom and I think about how, in Iraq, there were just pools of piss and shit in the streets. And then I get dressed and I think about how, when I would put on my uniform, I was already sweating before I buttoned my shirt. And then I eat breakfast and think about how every single goddamn thing I ate over there had sand in it. It’s hard not to think about it.”
    “I thought maybe these spud guns were a way to get back some of the excitement of being over there,” Buster weakly offered, feeling the article slip away from him.
    “In Iraq, I filled out reports regarding the air quality in Baghdad,” Arden replied.
    “It was boring as hell,” said Kenny, “until it wasn’t, and then it was fucking terrifying.”
    “But you had guns, right?” Buster asked.
    “Well, we all had weapons. I had a 9 mm Beretta and an M4 carbine,” Joseph continued, “but other than training, target practice, I never fired my weapon while I was over there.”
    “You didn’t shoot anyone in Iraq?”
    “No,” Joseph answered, “thank God.” Buster looked around at the other men, who all smiled and shook their heads. “What did you guys do?” he asked. Joseph and Kenny helped set up Tactical Operations Centers. David was a logistical adviser to the Iraqi army. “Accounting, mostly,” he said.
    “What about your fingers?” Buster asked, pointing to the missing digits on Joseph’s left hand. “Hell, Buster, I didn’t lose them in Iraq,” he said. “I was testing out accelerants for a new spud gun, and I exploded them off my hand.”
    “Oh,” said Buster.
    “You sound disappointed,” said Kenny.
    “No, I’m not,” Buster answered quickly.
    “We’re just bored,” said Joseph. “That’s the simplest answer. It’s like, no matter where you are or what you’re doing, you have to try like hell to keep from getting bored to death.”
    Kenny killed his last beer and bent over to pick up another potato gun, smaller than the others, a silver canister attached to the gun by a tube, the barrel outfitted with a scope. “Like this, for instance,” Kenny said, holding the gun out for Buster to inspect. “Look down the barrel of this one,” he continued, but Buster hesitated, looking around at the other men. “It’s okay,” said Joseph, holding up his disfigured hand, “it’s totally safe.”
    Buster leaned over the barrel but couldn’t see anything of note. “What am I looking at?” he asked. “It’s rifled,” said Kenny, “like a real weapon.” Buster slid his fingers inside the barrel and felt the grooves inside the PVC. “What does that do?” he asked. “Accuracy,” said Kenny. “You can hit a damn target from fifty yards away. Here, Joseph, show him.”
    Kenny handed the gun to Joseph and then picked up an empty beer can. He began to walk away from the crowd, counting off each measured step until he was at a fair distance from them. Like a waiter holding a tray of food, he held the beer can in his