58,193 - Americans
2.5-3 Million Vietnamese
A plaque stands outside the city library commemorating those Americans who died in Vietnam. Two of the names I recognize. I didn't know the boys very well, more in passing than anything else but I remember what they were like. One kid was older than me by a couple of years and I remember him as a big man-boy. One of those large round kids who are perpetually the target of adolescent teasing and abuse but who is without malevolence himself, a Baby Huey kind of a kid. The other was my age, a timid soul neither academically bright nor with any athletic gifts. In P.E. I remember the ball bouncing off his chest and everyone calling his name and that scared half-grin and the way his arms were defenseless at his side as he nervously clicked his fingernails together. What kind of a community fails to protect boys such as these? What kind of a country dares to wage war with them as fodder?
A vet once told me long after the war, "They traded on our courage and our love for one another and when there was nothing left, they scoured the high schools for more." The veteran looked straight at me in a way that made me feel shame for not knowing what he knew and continued, "I wish my father would have told me the truth about what they wanted. When I have a son I will tell him. I will tell him what I know about them: They will come and ask you for your courage, they always do. They will come and ask you for your death, though it will not satisfy. They will wear bright colored cloths and bear shiny medals. And you will die for trinkets in some stinkhole you never knew existed crying for your mother. You will leave the promise of your girlfriend's breasts for the cold steel barrel because you trust it more. You will leave your job building houses and families and businesses to blow the shit out of people who before you came to their land were busy building houses and families and businesses. They will draw lines in the dirt and ask you to cross. They will come and ask you for your courage. Keep it for yourself."
We crossed over the border and on the radio I'd heard that the United States was dropping precision bombs painted with the Statue of Liberty on some desert swamp so that the inhabitants would love us.
I had to go north and east and Eddie was going due west to meet up with a cousin. I got out of the car to say good-bye. "You sure you can find a ride?"
"No problem. My cousin's girlfriend works somewhere around here. She said she'd pick me up."
I pulled out my wallet and gave him some money. Don't ask me why. I figured it meant more to him than me I suppose.
"Two hundred and fifty." It was just like him to count it. "Thanks. I guess I was pretty good company, uh?"
"Yeh. Take care and stay out of trouble and give my regards to your cousins."
I was outside my vehicle as I watched Eddie walk away. When I turned back to get into the car, he was at the passenger side door smiling to me across the roof. But this time I wasn't spooked. "You can ride if you want to," I said cooly.
"We have a funeral to attend," he said.
"I'm surprised you're up for it."
"How so?" I could tell he was not feeling his old self. I don't think he liked Canada.
"He saw your face, didn't he? That must have sent the pimps scrambling. But he was too quick. Too quick and sure-footed."
Vietnam War did not look well at all. Oh, he tried to keep up the front but I knew if he spoke, his voice would crack. I now knew much about him, how he had developed, how he had outgrown his handlers and I knew that Rallio had seen him for what he was.
"You're a whore. An old syphilitic whore. You stay in darkness, flash a little skin, and the boys come running. But not Rallio. He pulled back the veil, smelled the foulness, and turned you down flat. Right in front of your pimps, too. You, all made up in rouge and pancake. That sent all of you a twitter, didn't it?"
Sure enough, Vietnam War's voice was feeble, "You look like you're man enough to handle me."
"No. I know better. You raise your skirt and someone is always going to find you attractive but I too have seen your face and Rallio gave me a picture to hang onto."
Vietnam War didn't disappear but he didn't get in the car either. I drove off not even glancing in the rearview mirror.
I wound the car around the idling pathways of the green lawns of the cemetery until I found the other vehicles grouped together. Fifty yards off was about 25 or 30 people huddled against each other. I sat and looked at the dash of my car. I knew he did not die of a weak heart, no matter what the doctor's reasons. But other than that I had no certainty of his last years. I prayed now that he did not die a poor man, that he howled down the rails matching the screeching wheels tone for tone with the rave of his voice, that his wife's being quickened at the homecoming of his heels on the walk, that the kids and pets ran to drop their toys at his feet.
I had to walk at the gathering as they faced me and I hoped this was Rallio's service and not some stranger's I had mistakenly stepped into. I thought I recognized his widow and what must have been his kids now grown. Then I saw Damon and he saw me and curiously a grin passed between us as we avoided direct eye contact. I kept moving towards him and he stayed there. I was crunching my eyes tight doing anything to keep from sobbing. Tears don't fall for the present but for the distance between where we were and where we are. He went to shake my hand and the trophy was in the way. I hadn't even noticed that I had picked it up. We both laughed until the tears couldn't be held back anymore.
There is something I know about surfing but I didn't mention it. I didn't mention it because no one ever talks about it even though I've seen it happen up and down the coast. I've seen it take place amidst all the combativeness and competitiveness and the camaraderie and good-natured bantering that goes on in the water. When the surf is heavy and it breaks bigger than normal and a surfer goes down awkwardly or is pounded by the wave so that he is held down for a lengthy period everyone in proximity to him turns in his direction. The more experienced and less self-conscious may quicken a paddle his way. Until his head bobs above the surface we watch and wait. And if you're inside you may retrieve his board and push it out to him and watch him climb up and catch his breath. We paddle out alone, responsible only for ourselves and we like it that way. However, our finest qualities often go unsung.
This much I know because I have seen it.
06/2003