the military and returning from Vietnam. Police involved with Jon’s arrest in 1986 were told by informants on the street that Jon was known as a “psycho Vietnam vet.” Jon is an avid and skilled sky diver. Previously, as a reporter on military matters, I have encountered rare cases where records have been misplaced by the National Archives, but until Jon’s government records can be produced, his recollections of military service in Vietnam cannot be independently verified.
12
JUNE 2009—FORT LAUDERDALE
E . W .: Jon emerges from his session with a therapist at a Broward County mental health center. A few months earlier, Jon’s previous wife, the mother of his son Julian, filed a motion to alter their custody agreement so she could have more time with Julian. Jon countersued, and a judge ordered Jon and his ex-wife to undergo psychological evaluation. Now Jon meets the therapist, a woman in her thirties, two times a week. I watch from the waiting area as Jon shakes her hand good-bye. She is attractive in a slightly disheveled grad-student way. Jon smiles broadly and, as he releases her hand, says something that makes her laugh. As we walk out to his car, he says, “She’s completely on my side, bro.”
Jon tells me he has shared everything with the therapist, including highlights of his tour in Vietnam.
J . R .: She asked me, “Do you ever think you’ll be at peace with yourself?”
I said, “How could I ever be at peace with myself? I just want to make myself calmer for my son’s sake.”
E . W .: What did you talk about today?
J . R .: Self-esteem. She asked me how I define self-esteem. I told her it’s the values you have of yourself, and what others think of your values.
E . W .: Was that the right answer?
J . R .: Who the fuck knows, bro? She seemed happy. She likes me. Obviously, I don’t tell her everything. I didn’t tell her about skinning people in Vietnam or beating that guy who hurt Julian.
E . W .: What guy hurt Julian?
J . R .: Two years ago Julian came back from his mother’s with bruises on his leg. It wasn’t his mother who hurt him. He told me a man who visited her house had kicked him for making too much noise. I knew who this man was. I had some guys pick him up off the street.
E . W .: What guys?
J . R .: Two kids who work as bouncers at Scarlett’s. They do odd jobs for me. They threw this piece of shit in the trunk of a carand drove him on I-75. Every half hour they’d pull over, open the trunk, and hit him on his leg with a hammer. They did this many times but never said a word. Finally the dumb fuck got it. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll never hit the boy again.” *
They threw him in the weeds by the road, and that was that. He has not touched Julian since. So the doctors have their ways of doing things, and I got mine.
That’s one thing I learned in the mental ward after Vietnam. You need to get along with people. However much force you have, sometimes you need to play somebody else’s game. Other times force works best. You need to be smart about how to balance those things. I took that with me when I came back to the civilian world from Vietnam.
* Scarlett’s Cabaret is a strip club in Broward County frequented by Jon.
13
J . R .: New York was a different city when I came back in 1968. Girls on the streets wore flowers. The squares who worked on Wall Street were growing their hair out. The beatniks had taken over. Even Dominic Fiore had joined the hippie movement. After his overdose that got us arrested and me sent to Vietnam, he did no time in prison, because when they sent me into the army and expunged my criminal record, the case against him was ruined. While I was off fighting gooks, Dominic started wearing tie-dyed shirts and took up the flute. He’d sit in Washington Square playing his flute, preaching love. But anyone who gave him shit, he would knock their teeth out. He was the same guy underneath the flowers in his hair. When he needed
12
JUNE 2009—FORT LAUDERDALE
E . W .: Jon emerges from his session with a therapist at a Broward County mental health center. A few months earlier, Jon’s previous wife, the mother of his son Julian, filed a motion to alter their custody agreement so she could have more time with Julian. Jon countersued, and a judge ordered Jon and his ex-wife to undergo psychological evaluation. Now Jon meets the therapist, a woman in her thirties, two times a week. I watch from the waiting area as Jon shakes her hand good-bye. She is attractive in a slightly disheveled grad-student way. Jon smiles broadly and, as he releases her hand, says something that makes her laugh. As we walk out to his car, he says, “She’s completely on my side, bro.”
Jon tells me he has shared everything with the therapist, including highlights of his tour in Vietnam.
J . R .: She asked me, “Do you ever think you’ll be at peace with yourself?”
I said, “How could I ever be at peace with myself? I just want to make myself calmer for my son’s sake.”
E . W .: What did you talk about today?
J . R .: Self-esteem. She asked me how I define self-esteem. I told her it’s the values you have of yourself, and what others think of your values.
E . W .: Was that the right answer?
J . R .: Who the fuck knows, bro? She seemed happy. She likes me. Obviously, I don’t tell her everything. I didn’t tell her about skinning people in Vietnam or beating that guy who hurt Julian.
E . W .: What guy hurt Julian?
J . R .: Two years ago Julian came back from his mother’s with bruises on his leg. It wasn’t his mother who hurt him. He told me a man who visited her house had kicked him for making too much noise. I knew who this man was. I had some guys pick him up off the street.
E . W .: What guys?
J . R .: Two kids who work as bouncers at Scarlett’s. They do odd jobs for me. They threw this piece of shit in the trunk of a carand drove him on I-75. Every half hour they’d pull over, open the trunk, and hit him on his leg with a hammer. They did this many times but never said a word. Finally the dumb fuck got it. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll never hit the boy again.” *
They threw him in the weeds by the road, and that was that. He has not touched Julian since. So the doctors have their ways of doing things, and I got mine.
That’s one thing I learned in the mental ward after Vietnam. You need to get along with people. However much force you have, sometimes you need to play somebody else’s game. Other times force works best. You need to be smart about how to balance those things. I took that with me when I came back to the civilian world from Vietnam.
* Scarlett’s Cabaret is a strip club in Broward County frequented by Jon.
13
J . R .: New York was a different city when I came back in 1968. Girls on the streets wore flowers. The squares who worked on Wall Street were growing their hair out. The beatniks had taken over. Even Dominic Fiore had joined the hippie movement. After his overdose that got us arrested and me sent to Vietnam, he did no time in prison, because when they sent me into the army and expunged my criminal record, the case against him was ruined. While I was off fighting gooks, Dominic started wearing tie-dyed shirts and took up the flute. He’d sit in Washington Square playing his flute, preaching love. But anyone who gave him shit, he would knock their teeth out. He was the same guy underneath the flowers in his hair. When he needed
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