Bring Out the Dog by Will Mackin comes out today! It’s a debut story collection by a writer who was deployed with a special operations task for in Iraq and Afghanistan. It’s blustery, unsettling, observant, absurd, and all too real. We asked the author how he’s celebrating.
The Navy is organized in such a way that no matter what you achieve in terms of assignment, qualification, or rank, there’s always something more to achieve. Early in my career, therefore, I figured out how to set goals for myself and I learned to break those goals into manageable pieces by which I could measure my progress. If I fell behind target I might adjust my priorities, or my level of effort, or both, and if I managed to succeed in reaching my goal I would never celebrate. Instead, I’d inevitably shut down.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to celebrate. As the culmination of a goal approached, I’d imagine drinks with friends. I’d envision us in a happy place, where laughter flowed as easily as beers. Where I’d find the right words to properly thank those whose advice and encouragement were essential. I’d even make what I thought of as ironclad plans, booking reservations, swearing oaths, and betting against myself to keep me from backing out at the last minute. But after achieving what I’d set out to do, I’d completely run out of steam. Offering lame excuses, I’d cancel all plans, concede all wagers, and break all promises. In the wake of my about-face, I’d stay home and vegetate.
I’ve come to think of this phenomenon as some kind of disorder. During my shut-down phase I am lethargic, aimless, and, frankly, a danger to myself and others. Once, for example, I forgot to set the parking brake in my truck and as I was walking away from it, it rolled downhill and banged into a tree. Another time as I was burning weeds in our rock garden, I set a yucca plant ablaze. Even if I manage to avoid catastrophe, I walk around in a peculiar state of restless agitation during which I mistake strangers for friends, and friends for strangers. I open my mouth to speak and words don’t come out, just some odd croaking sounds. Motion-sensor doors fail to open for me. Little kids point and laugh.
Writing a book has been a lifelong goal of mine. During my 23 years in the Navy, I kept this goal on the distant horizon. Since I retired in 2014, I have been able to put my full effort behind writing. Finishing the book was a dream come true. On the eve of publication, I’d like to throw a huge party with a live band and an open bar, and I’d like to invite all my friends and family. But I know myself better. Prior to the book going on sale, therefore, I will make a trip to the grocery store. I will double check the parking brake before getting out of my truck. I will wait for someone else to approach the motion-sensor doors and I will follow them inside. On top of the essentials—milk, coffee, cereal—I will buy lobster tails and filet mignon. My wife will operate the barbeque. I will crack open a bottle of champagne that we’ve been saving for the occasion. We will toast the future, go to bed early, and tomorrow I will wake up at dawn to start whatever’s next.
A veteran of the U.S. Navy, Will Mackin served in Iraq and Afghanistan, first as a weapons system officer aboard a carrier-based jet, then as a joint terminal attack controller attached to a SEAL team. His writing has appeared in The New Yorker, GQ, The New York Times Magazine, and Tin House and been anthologized in The Best American Short Stories 2014. Originally from New Jersey, he lives in New Mexico with his wife and their two children.
Photo credit: Elisabetta Mackin