Hella Nation - Evan Wright [154]
“Chaotic and terrible and tragic things are just part and parcel of the natural laws of war,” Dollard says, pacing. “War is its own state of being. It’s like another planet, Planet War. And the people who live on Planet Peace read about the terrible things that happen on Planet War—friendly fire, innocents killed—and are shocked. They naturally say we need to punish these boys”—Dollard points to Welsh—“because they’re not playing by the rules of civilization. The point is these are two worlds, each with their own set of natural laws. And they just don’t get it. Everything that’s happening in Iraq is completely in line with the rules-of-war state.”
Welsh runs his hands through his hair, worn out by Dollard’s frenetic arguing. “I’m fucking hungry,” Welsh says. “You said we were going to get takeout.”
“We can’t call on my phone,” Dollard says. “You’ve got to make the fucking call on your fucking phone.”
Dollard explains the problem: His favorite delivery place is a nearby Brazilian restaurant, but a couple of nights ago he had a run-in with the delivery dude. Dollard ordered a meal, and the delivery dude showed up more than an hour late. Dollard demanded the delivery dude give him his chocolate cake for free, but he refused. Dollard sent him packing. He fears the restaurant won’t deliver to his address. The plan is for Welsh to have the food delivered to the security guard in the lobby.
But Welsh runs into an unforeseen glitch. The woman taking our order doesn’t understand English very well. He tells her we are at the building on the corner of Sunset and Vine, but she doesn’t understand. Welsh holds the phone up. We hear the heavily accented voice of the woman on the other end. “Vane?” she asks. “Where is Vane Street?”
Dollard grabs the phone and shouts, “Vine, you dumb bitch!” He throws the phone across the room. Welsh collapses, laughing. Dollard broods. “There are all these people in this town I’ve been waiting to get back at. It’s going to start now.”
Dollard suggests the three of us go to the restaurant, hide out in the parking lot until closing time, and fuck up the delivery dude. “This whole war started with him,” Dollard says. “Fucking delivery dude was two hours late and wouldn’t comp me with a four-dollar slice of chocolate cake on a fifty-dollar order.”
Welsh punches his fist into the palm of his hand. “I’m down.”
Dollard rushes to the front door, then hesitates. “The thing is, this restaurant has gotten me through so many binges.”
They decide not to fuck up the delivery dude, and instead we go to the 101 Coffee Shop. Welsh leaves the next day.
AMERICAN JIHADI
IN MID-SEPTEMBER, Dollard screens Young Americans for Bob Greenblatt, the president of entertainment for Showtime. Afterward, Dollard leaves a message for me: “Hey. Dude. They fucking loved it, man. I was fucking shocked. They watched the whole thing. First thing out of Greenblatt’s mouth: ‘These Marines are movie stars!’”
Hours later Dollard evidently begins to crash from his emotional high. He leaves a string of messages with nothing but dead air before he finally says, “Dude, I’m just . . . I’m so fucking lonely.”
The next day I visit. He greets me at the door drinking root beer and ice cream from an enormous bowl. “You want a root-beer float?” he asks, nodding toward a quart of Häagen-Dazs vanilla melting on the counter. Dollard admits last night was a little rough. After the fantastic news from Showtime, he learned of a setback in his custody battle for his daughter. Dollard is particularly incensed that his ex-wife Alicia has been taking their daughter to Robert Evans’s house. Dollard fumes, “Alicia tells me that Bob bought a fucking bicycle for her.” (Evans recalls Alicia bringing her daughter to his home a few times, but laughs at the suggestion he bought her a bicycle.)
He stayed up all night writing letters to a therapist and a lawyer involved in his custody battle. Dollard insists I read some of these communications. He says, “You will uncover the fact that I am not a paranoid schizophrenic about all of these people. But