An Excerpt of “Jerry and Rodrigo Go to War”

The following is an except from the newly-published novel Jerry and Rodrigo Go to War, which you can learn more about here. 

Amid this period of sadness, I decided to hit the town and see if I couldn’t get into something fun.  Radford didn’t have many options for professionals such as myself and I didn’t want to go all the way to Blacksburg because I knew I’d be getting drunk.  In college, I’d driven those old mountain roads under the influence dozens of times, but at my age it was a terrible idea.  I no longer had the energy to gamble or get arrested. 

I showered and gave myself a spritz of the Bulgari cologne I’d owned for eight or nine years.  I didn’t dress up, but made enough of an effort to where nobody would confuse me for a slob.  I hopped in my 1995 Altima and headed to Macado’s, a sandwich joint that had been around since my student days.  (There was one in the mall in Bluefield and to people of my station it was the height of luxury.)  My grad school cohort went there occasionally, but Macado’s was mostly a faculty hangout, with a few townies thrown in.  The place had a large and lively bar area with plenty of TVs.  I arrived as it was getting dark and took a spot at the counter. 

There was no talent around, so I sipped on a rum with coke and waited for the bar to fill up.  (You probably thought that I drink bourbon, but it always tasted like diesel fumes to me.)  I didn’t feel like getting sucked into conversation with any of the middle-aged men at the bar, so I kept my gaze on the screens showing college football.  People kept trickling in and soon the restaurant was buzzing with activity.  Nobody worth hitting on had showed up and I was thinking about packing it in when I heard somebody call, “Hey, Professor Turley!” 

I turned around and saw a group of first-year grad students, young and earnest and filled with possibility.  I smirked at hundreds of long-ago memories.  The entire cohort wasn’t out at Macado’s, of course.  Each cohort had some older students, people with real jobs and families.  But the majority were fresh out of undergrad, enjoying that fleeting period where a person is dumb enough to imagine a decent future. 

The person who had called my name was Natalie and she was in her upper-twenties, just young enough to join her peers on the bar circuit every now and again.  I used to serve as a faculty mentor to the teaching fellows, but gave it up after a couple of years.  I decided I’d rather take on an extra class than bullshit a bunch of neophytes about the majesty of teaching.  I was still familiar with each incoming class of grad students, though.  GTFs were the pride of the department.  The chair introduced each of them by name at the year’s first faculty meeting and they could often be found hanging around the photocopier and teachers’ lounge.  Natalie wasn’t like anyone in her cohort, or like anyone in the entire department, really.  She had a way about her that suggested a whole lot of excitement. 

“Good evenin’,” I said in response to her greeting.  The group stood around awkwardly until Natalie broke the tension.  “We’re getting a table.  Do you wanna join us?”  Her peers nodded and implored me to say yes.  I pretended to think on it for a second before accepting.  I followed Natalie to the table.  She was wearing a mid-length skirt made of striped knit fabric that hugged tightly against her.  As she moved among the mass of pasty-faced frat boys and middle-agers in their TJ Maxx khakis, she repelled all the energy around her.  “She don’t belong here,” I thought to myself.  “She ought to be in a TV show set in some big city.”  It’s weird how we can be in a place but not of a place.  Like we’re there but somewhere else, forever in conflict with our surroundings.  Anyway, at the time I sure wasn’t thinking about geography.  I shook my head in appreciation.  This life wasn’t always hard luck. 

It took us a while to loosen up, but once we got started it was a merry time.  The students thought it was cool to drink with faculty, even though they probably knew that I wasn’t a real professor.  The topic of universal truth came up and one of the students asked if I believe in it. 

“Sure do,” I said. 

This answer riled them up—they all thought the notion was absurd—and started in on their rejoinders. 

“How can you make any judgment beyond your own Eurocentric standards?” Natalie wanted to know. 

“What’s that got to do with universal truth?” I said. 

“Like, everything?” 

“You can’t say that unless you believe in universal truth, at least implicitly.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense.” 

“But it does,” I said, smiling at the table.  “You’re hung up on what I’m gettin’ wrong, but ain’t no wrong in a world governed by relativity.” 

“I’m just saying that our perspectives are limited by experience, so you can’t know the world from a Black person’s point of view or a woman’s point of view.” 

“I agree.” 

“So you don’t believe in universal truth.” 

Actually, I didn’t give a single fuck about truth, universal or otherwise.  It was the sort of topic that fascinated new grad students at middling universities.  My cohort had quibbled about the same thing.  Back then, just like now, I took whatever position might make the conversation less boring.  My truths were simple:  I was a bit smitten with Natalie, I was an unpublished writer, and Rodrigo Suarez stole my novel.  These truths didn’t have to belong to anyone else. 

“Now I didn’t say that,” I laughed.  “Your side of the issue has an unfair advantage.” 

Natalie laughed in return.  “What?  No it doesn’t.” 

“Sure it does.  All you gotta say is that a Mexican can’t understand a Korean and you’re done.  But the way I see it, all our experiences being different is the ultimate universal truth.” 

“No, that’s a truism, not a truth.” 

“Okay, I’ll try another one.” 

“Go for it.”  She raised her eyebrows ever so slightly, sending shivers throughout my midsection.  It was an innocent gesture on the surface, but lurid in its execution. 

“I was born in Bluefield, West Virginia.  Now go ahead and tell me how that ain’t the truth.” 

“Factoid.  Not a truth.” 

“So what we’re really arguin’ is definitions?” 

“That’s the only thing anyone argues over when you think about it.” 

It seemed that the rest of the table, and the restaurant surrounding it, had faded into the night and Natalie and I were alone, stuck in one another’s company.  It went on that way for a few hours.  Others occasionally intruded on our conversation, but we quickly closed ourselves off to their presence.  Our knees touched often enough to suggest that our night wouldn’t end at Macado’s.  Before we knew it, everyone started paying their tabs. 

“Go on without me,” Natalie told her ride.  “Professor Turley is giving me some career advice.” 

Her friends looked amused.  They knew damn well what I was giving Natalie.  Their smiles suggested that they approved.  The old lady of the group decided to have a little fun.  After they cleared out, I asked for our tabs and paid them both. 

Natalie touched my arm and whispered, “Let’s continue our conversation in a more private place?”  

“It’s no palace, but my house is clean and quiet.” 

I tried not to leer at her on the drive home, but she made it difficult.  She kept doing this coquettish thing where she bunched her shoulders and pressed her legs together, all the while letting her tongue slide across her upper lip.  Once inside, we didn’t do much conversing.  I shut the door and we practically collided into each other.  I led her to the back of the house and explored beneath her skirt until both of us were ready to explode.  My earlier reading of Natalie turned out to be correct:  she brought an energy to the bedroom that had me praying and exalting more than a country preacher.  After we finished, Natalie went into the bathroom to clean up.  I was splayed out on the bed, too satisfied and tired to move. 

She came out of the bathroom, still naked, and stood at the foot of the bed, an uncertain look on her face.  “Well, um, I guess I’d better go.” 

“You can stay if you like.” 

She smiled and lay next to me on the bed.  I lit a joint and offered it to her.  We passed it back and forth, watching the smoke expand throughout the ill-lit bedroom smelling of body fluid and marijuana ash. 

“I’m gonna read for a bit,” she said and went to the living room to retrieve her shoulder bag.  She settled back into bed with a book and clicked on the table lamp.  I’m the kind of guy who likes to know what book everyone’s holding, so I leaned forward and glanced over.  I fell back onto my pillow with a grunt. 

She was reading Coyote Road. 

My heart started pumping extra oxygen to my extremities, which I suppose is why I suddenly got sloppy.  They say that after a man spends himself, he can think most clearly.  It sure as hell wasn’t true in this case because I couldn’t control myself despite a warning bell in the back of my brain. 

“Whatcha readin’?” I said. 

She rested the book on her lap and smiled.  “It’s called Coyote Road.” 

“Any good?” 

“Oh my God it’s soooo good.  We’re reading it for our Indigenous literature seminar.” 

“Hmmm.” 

“I’m surprised you haven’t read it yet.” 

“Well, here’s the thing,” I said, rolling onto my side to face her.  “I have an issue with that book.” 

“What?” 

“It’s kinda hard to explain.” 

She tussled my hair and gave me the lurid smile that had churned up my insides all night long.  “Try.” 

To this day, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.  I reckon I was feeling mighty comfortable with Natalie and wanted to release some of the stress I’d been carrying.  Whatever the reason, I knew it was a huge mistake the moment I finished saying, “I wrote that book.” 

Natalie’s smile went away and she pulled back her hand.  “What do you mean?” 

“I wrote Coyote Road.  That motherfucker stole it from me.  It’s plagiarized.”  I was committed by that point. 

“But, like….  I don’t understand.” 

“It ain’t complicated.  I wrote the book.  Rodrigo stole it from me.” 

“Stole it how?”  Her tone was that of a nurse speaking to a mental patient. 

“I don’t know.  I’m tryin’a figure it out.  But he damn sure stole it.  No doubt about it.” 

“Do you know him?” 

“Never met’m in my life.” 

“Did you email him a copy?” 

“Nope.” 

“So how could he have stolen anything from you?” 

“A slush pile, the cloud, I don’t fuckin’ know.”  The frustration was directed at her but squarely aimed at myself. 

“You know what,” she said, hopping off the bed and trying to cover her crotch and chest with her arms, “it’s almost light outside and I have to prepare for class.  So I’d better be going.  I’ll see you around, Jerry, um, I mean, Professor Turley.” 

I didn’t try to stop her.  I’d never seen anyone get dressed so fast. 

“You know what, Professor Turley?  You can’t know whether truth is universal or not if you don’t even know what truth means.” 

She scampered off before I could respond.