Powell

OPENING SCENE - Introduces protagonist, one of the main settings, tone, and internal conflict I’ve always been infatuated with large masculine men. Sneaking glances, the water dripping off their broad shoulders in shower stalls of the gym. Girthy hands lacing up giant boots. Razor blades shaving their chiseled chins. Baritone voices boasting of weekend escapades. Even my older brother would catch me staring at his naked body. But don’t get me wrong. I don’t want them. I don’t desire them. Instead, I yearn to be them. I covet what they have. Their attributes highlighting my shortcomings. My previous therapist said it’s because I don’t love myself, because my mother didn’t nurture me and because the army corrupted my views on masculinity. She said I should be content with my life and what I have. Not compare myself to others. But what the fuck does she know? She listened to a few stories and is an expert on my life? She doesn’t know what it feels like to be in the locker room afraid to expose a prepubescent dick to boys the same age who already have hairy armpits and full-sized appendages. She was never told by her mom the bullying was her own fault. She’s never flown a helicopter through the swarming desolation of an Afghan night pretending to be brave while praying an anti-aircraft gun doesn’t tear the cockpit apart. She doesn’t see what I see when I close my eyes at night—my older brother engulfed in flames, his once perfect physique limp and lifeless. His beautiful face charred. His flesh burned through to the skull. Empty eye sockets gape and yearn for deliverance. His bare jaw mouths, “Help me, Sam. For the love of God, help—” I’m startled by a hand gripping my shoulder. “Are you with me?” Colonel Varrasco whispers. “Yes, sir.” “You drifted off for a minute.” His brief smile dissipates as he addresses the crowd with his usual stoic demeanor common to all field-grade officers. “What makes a good soldier?” he says. “The army manuals say it’s patriotism, selfless-service, personal courage, et cetera. But I’d like to just show you. This young officer, this warrior next to me, he is example every one of you cavalrymen should aspire to be.” Hundreds of soldiers and their families give me their half-drunken attention as I loiter on the stage next to the Colonel. Their stares are deferential but combined together they feel like one powerful and damning gaze. I close my eyes but find no escape, only the looming nightmare awaits. My brother’s face begs for salvation. My eyes blast open and fall upon American flags hanging off stone columns. Paintings of tanks and helicopters adorn the exposed brick walls. Every corner of Kevin Barry’s Irish Pub decorated with military paraphernalia, a reminder I am on River Street in Savannah, Georgia. My watch assures my brain it is 15 March 2018, two years since I left Afghanistan. But my body is never quite sure where we are. “So to begin tonight’s events,” Colonel Varrasco says, “I would like to propose a toast to this warrior.” Married soldiers sitting next to their spouses lift beer and wine into the air. Cocktails rise from the bachelors and the few single female soldiers standing in the rear. “To Captain Uistean Samuel Ashe. A true American soldier.” He nudges me with his elbow and I bump my glass of soda water against his Old Fashioned and nod towards the squadron. A symphony of clinks rings across the room. “Captain Ashe!” a soldier shouts. “Out Front!” “Hooah!” “Hey!” says a grizzled staff sergeant sitting at the bar in the back. “If you ain’t cav!” “You ain’t shit,” half the squadron recites with mild enthusiasm. That same sergeant, a scar running up the left side of his neck, stands and slams his mug on the bar. “If! You! Ain’t! Cav!” The entire room booms, “You! Ain’t! Shit!” “If you ain’t cav!” “You ain’t shit!” “If you ain’t cav!” “You ain’t shit!” “Hooah!” “Hooah!” “Damn I’ve missed you guys,” says Colonel Varrasco. “I’m so lucky. An unheard-of occasion for any officer, especially a former squadron commander to return to the same duty station and become the brigade commander.” “Hell yeah! Happy to have you again, Sir.” “Best commander we ever had!” “Out front!” “Lighthorse,” he responds. “Hooah!” “If you ain’t cav!” “You ain’t shit!” “If you ain’t cav!” “You ain’t shit!” Colonel Varrasco holds out a hand in a stop signal and the room quiets. “Now, before we begin, I’d like to explain the meaning behind this ceremony to any family members inexperienced the tradition. A Hail and Farewell is an old cavalry custom. We welcome those new to the squadron and say goodbye to those about to leave. And it’s a memorial for those we’ve already lost, who’ve already passed over to Fiddler’s Green. Let’s give them a moment of silence.” The quiescence in room does not settle my mind. I can’t find the respect or the reverence asked of me, only that ever-present blackhole of remorse and the unremembered nightmare. I try to fight the downward spiraling thoughts by focusing on the now like the therapist taught me. I listen to the faint folk music sneaking up the stairs from the concert hall below. A fiddle plucks in a happy rhythm but the minor key resounds of foreboding. I inhale the scent of meat pie circulating from the Irish buffet, herbal but I detect a hint of blood. I inspect the beams crossing the low ceiling, the wood gnarled as if damaged by shrapnel. “To the fallen,” Colonel Varrasco says breaking the silence. “Hooah!” “Tonight will be special,” Colonel Varrasco says, speaking without movement or gesture, hardly even a blink. Though only slightly taller and wider, his martial poise bestows a towering stature next to my current fidgeting. “Both the recoveries of Captain Ashe and his brother Lieutenant (Retired) Rian Ashe lasted past my change of command and departure from Savannah. And even after these two years they were never formally awarded their combat medals in a formation, as is custom. Nor was Lieutenant Rian Ashe ever farewelled from the unit after his medical retirement. Captain Ashe informs me his brother has been in worse shape than usual and can’t make it tonight. Regardless, we’ll dedicate the evening to him.” He extends his glass dripping with condensation. “Another toast, this time to Lieutenant Rian Ashe.” Drinks smash together. “Lieutenant Ashe!” “Hooah!” I reach too far to cheers my soda water against the colonel’s glass and my muscles spasm along the surgically repaired discs in my neck and back, the nerves more stressed than usual after trying to pick up my crippled and comatose brother off the floor two hours ago. Pain shocks like electricity and I nearly drop my drink. I glance back to the three-sided bar in the corner. A vast collection of bottles stack on wooden shelves, a beautiful backlit pyramid of booze. Dozens of pain-killing, muscle-relaxing, anxiety-suppressing whiskeys. “And now,” Colonel Varrasco says, “gathered together with our families, we’re going to do something unorthodox and two years too late. I want to finally honor Captain Sam Ashe’s actions as we approach the two year anniversary of that terrible night in Afghanistan by reading his combat award in front of the squadron for the first time.” My cheeks grow cold and I meet the colonel’s eyes. I shake my head and whisper, “Sir, please don’t. I would never have come if I knew this is what you were planning.”

Story Statement: Captain Sam Ashe is an alcoholic army officer who suffers from post-traumatic amnesia. Just before a wild Saint Patrick’s Day party he is ordered sober. If he disobeys he will face a discharge from the army and lose the last remaining vestige of his masculinity. This pushes him to deep self-reflection where his memories of the battle, the truth of what actually happened, finally return. Antagonist: Lt Colonel DeBeers, the super-soldier and commander of Captain Sam Ashe, is a perfect physical specimen. Yet he's a bully like those that have tormented Sam his whole life. Sam is blamed for a helicopter crash in a battle two years ago that killed one of Lt Colonel DeBeers's best friends and he resents Sam for this. It's the Colonel's order to force Sam into sobriety that sets the story in motion and eventually drives Sam to confront his dichotomous relationships with sexuality, alcohol, his brother, and himself while Sam tries to avoid the Colonel throughout the day. Working Title: Sin is a Good Man's Brother Other Options: Love Thyself as Thy Brother or A Drink to Remember Comps: Billy Flynn's Long Halftime Walk by Ben Fountain. It also a literary fiction novel about the military and the main part of the story also takes place with soldiers stateside in the US. It likewise utilizes flashbacks to the war, the driving force of the novel, to reveal information previously withheld. Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon. It is also a character study of a man in a crossroads of his life during a frenetic weekend of drunkenness, fights, and love triangles. To be honest I struggle with finding adequate comps and I could use help with this Logline: An alcoholic army helicopter pilot with amnesia and survivors guilt from a battle in Afghanistan two years ago is ordered to remain sober during a wild Saint Patrick’s Day party in Savannah. If he fails he will lose his career and the last vestige of his self-worth. Inner Conflict of the protagonist: Sam Ashe has never felt like a real man. He was bullied his entire life, was never nurtured by his mother, and has always lived in the shadow of his older (perfect) brother. He joined the military to prove his masculinity. But in Afghanistan he was blamed for an accident in a battle that cost one man's life and crippled his brother. Ravaged with survivor's guilt he has developed an alcohol problem and now risked being kicked out of the army if he can't stay sober. Excerpt: Fifteen years old and skulking in the dark I leer at our family’s desktop computer. Hearing a creek I yank my pants up to my waist and turn off the monitor. The old cuckoo clock above the door gongs midnight and I’m still alone. When my heartbeat settles I restart the screen and unzip my pants. The naked woman in the video entices me while servicing the man in bed with her. I’ve never done this before and don’t know if I am doing it right. The guys at wrestling practice talk about porn and I play along as if I know what they were talking about. And for years I’ve listened to Rian’s exploits. Last night he bragged how he ‘busted a nut’ in his girlfriend’s mouth. I don’t really know what that means and don’t even know how to kiss a girl. With no hair on my balls still waiting on my growth spurt, the mere act of showering naked in the locker room in front of other boys is terrifying. I can’t imagine my tiny body exposed to a girl, much less would I know what to do with her. As the man penetrates the woman my body tingles and my hips thrust into my hand until I go rigid. Unprepared for the sensation I moan with euphoria and sink into the chair with a feeling of contentment and success. I am capable. Finally I am growing up. Delight lures me into a daze. “Oh, dear Lord Jesus.” I startle awake and turn to see Mom in the doorway in a night gown, hands over her mouth. “It’s not what you think.” She snatches the wide leather belt hanging by the cabinets underneath a small wooden sign which reads, The Lord’s Wrath. “No, Mom. It’s normal.” The belt whacks across my shoulder. “Mom, please.” The next strike aims for my crotch but I shield my shriveled penis and slide into the fetal position on the floor. More lashes redden my arms and slap my thighs. “Stop crying. You’re old enough to defile yourself, you’re old enough to take your punishment.” The belt hums through the air like a lightsaber and tears pour on the floor. “How did I raise such a sinner?” “Mom?” Rian shouts as he dashes into the room. “What are you doing?” Already like a full grown man he snatches her and spins her away. “Your brother is disgusting.” Rian pulls up my pants. “It’s okay Sammy. You’re alright. I got you. Let’s go back to the room and talk.” “You are grounded, forever.” Secondary Conflict: Sam Ashe is in love with his crippled brother's wife. Pushed away by the brother she has developed feelings for Sam. Sam must decide whether to follow his heart or his self-damning moral compass calibrated by his strict Christian upbringing. Excerpt: I trudge into the den where a slight odor of shit and disinfectant lingers from my brother’s episode two nights ago. The TV displays CNN on mute. It reports the number of military deaths in Afghanistan and Iraq and Syria over the images of military funerals across the country. “I wish you would have come earlier,” says Libby walking in behind me. “We need to talk.” “There’s nothing to talk about. Nothing happened.” “Don’t be distant. Not you too.” “Look, I couldn’t come. You know I have guests in town.” “Why are you even friends with them? They’re so crude.” “I don’t know. Habit. I’ve known them ten years.” “Sammy,” Rian calls. “Is that you?” Outside, he’s squished in his seat as if he had no bones, the wheelchair his exoskeleton. His dented head and unnatural hairline and scarred face props against a cushion. He appears asleep but I know he’s awake staring at the sun-rays filtering through the Sweetgum trees. “Maybe we can talk later,” I whisper to Libby as I push open the twangy screen door. “Hey big man. How are you?” Other secondary conflict: Sam struggles to regain his lost memories from the battle, which the reader experiences through flashbacks. Eventually he will uncover what actually happened that night. Setting: The novel takes place over two days simultaneously. One day in a wild Saint Patricks Day weekend in Savannah, Georgia where everyone is drunk but Sam has to remain sober. And the other flashbacks to a night in Afghanistan where a battle goes horribly wrong leading to deaths and the crippling injury of Sam's brother, which Sam is blamed for.