Free Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk by Ben Fountain

he told Bravo in their first face-to-face. “No overhead, no pressure. I feel like a kid again, I can do whatever I want.”
    And if his hot young wife (Bravo googled her too) is miffed that he’s not home on Thanksgiving Day, well, she’s a good kid. She understands the demands of his work. Albert watches with interest as several Stadium Club patrons stop to pay their respects. The men have the hale good looks and silver hair of successful bank presidents or midsized-city mayors, tanned, fit sixty-year-olds who can still bring the heat on their tennis serves. Their wives are substantially but not offensively younger, all blondes, all displaying the taut architectonics of surgical self-improvement. So proud, the men say, going around shaking hands. So grateful, so honored. Guardians. Freedoms. Fanatics. TerrRr. The wives hang back and let their men do the honors, they look on with vaguely wistful smiles and not an ounce of evident lust.
    Enjoy your meal, the men say in parting, with the stern yet coaxing manner of white-glove waiters. “They sure do love you guys,” Albert observes after the group moves on. Crack snorts.
    “If they love us so much, how about if their wives—”
    “Shut,” Dime woofs, and Crack shuts.
    “I mean everybody loves you guys, black, white, rich, poor, gay, straight, everybody . You guys are equal-opportunity heroes for the twenty-first century. Look, I’m just as cynical as the next fella, but your story has really touched a nerve in this country. What you did in Iraq, you went head-to-head with some very bad guys and you kicked their ass. Even a pacifist twerp like me can appreciate that.”
    “I got seven,” Sykes says, which is what he always says. “Seven for sure. But I think it was more.”
    “Listen,” Albert says, “what Bravo did that day, that’s a different kind of reality you guys experienced. People like me who’ve never been in combat, thank God, no way we can know what you guys went through, and I think that’s why we’re getting push-back from the studios. Those people, the kind of bubble they live in? It’s a major tragedy in their lives if their Asian manicurist takes the day off. For those people to be passing judgment on the validity of your experience is just wrong, it goes beyond wrong, it’s ethics porn. They aren’t capable of fathoming what you guys did.”
    “So tell them,” says Crack.
    “Yeah, tell them,” says A-bort, and Bravo strikes up a spontaneous chant, tell them, tell them, tell them like a frog chorus or monks at prayer. The nearby Stadium Club patrons smile and chuckle like it’s all a high-spirited college prank. As abruptly as it started, the chanting stops.
    “Tell Hilary to tell them,” says Dime.
    “I’m trying, hoss. Lotta moving parts to this deal.” Albert’s cell hums and the first thing he says is, “Hilary’s officially interested.” Then: “Sure she is. It’s a very physical role and she’s a very physical actress. Plus she’s a patriot. She really wants to do this.” Pause. “I’m hearing fifteen million.” Pause. “Will there be politics?” Albert rolls his eyes for Bravo’s benefit. “Larry, you know what von Clausewitz said, war is simply politics by other means.” Pause. “No, you illiterate, not The Art of War . The German guy, the Prussian.” Silence. “My ass you read The Art of War . You might’ve read the CliffsNotes for it. I could believe you read the blurbs.” Albert’s eyes glower down as he listens. Big listen. Mouth twitching, hairy fingers fribbling the tablecloth.
    “Tell me this, Larry, how could you make a movie about this war and not be political? You want a video game, is that what we’re talking about?”
    The Bravos glance at one another. Could do worse, is the general thought.
    “Okay look, how about this for politics. My guys are heroes, right? Americans, right? They’re unequivocally on the right side and they also unequivocally kicked ass, now when was the last