Carry Me Home by John M. Del Vecchio

between gushes of laughter. “Pussy pipe.”
    “Let go.” Annalisa tried to free herself. She was too stoned to make it sound convincing.
    Shep rolled back onto her legs forcing her knees to the floor, grabbed the mouthpiece and sucked. “No,” Annalisa began to plead but Roy had grabbed her hair above her forehead, pulled her head back and jammed his mouth over hers. Shep blew her up, rocked back again, again the noise and smoke.
    “A smoking cunt.” Shep laughed uncontrollably. Don came to and clapped his hands. “Smoke it, Donny Boy,” Shep bellowed. “You too, Tony. Smoke it.”
    Don began to crawl to Annalisa. Tony put his hand out. Don stopped. Annalisa had closed her legs, pulled her knees up, but she couldn’t break free from Roy.
    Then Tony moved. He grabbed Roy’s hair and ripped his head back. Annalisa gasped for air. Tony grabbed her arm, squeezed. “You wanta fuck around like this”—he snapped; His voice came high, dope high, then lower—“that’s your business.” His brain was muddled yet he was pissed. “But if I ever hear that you’ve led Maxene into this shit, I’ll—”
    “Aw, cool it, Man.” Shep rolled to his knees.
    “Fuck you. You’re a disgrace. You’re a fuckin pimp junkie.”
    “You smoked my dope,” Shep said defensively. “You smoked my dope.”
    Annalisa stood, pulled up her pants, snapped them closed. “Where’s my top?” She was angry, hurt.
    “Not like you people,” Tony said. “I’ve been so fuckin high I’ve needed navigation equipment, but I never made a cult of it.”
    Tony continued to smoke dope in the evenings but he smoked alone. The old friend-family network—Donny, Jack, his Pop and Aunt Helen, all of them—had changed, unraveled. He retreated within, retreated into a world that was still sane, that was still the same world he’d left. His nights remained sleepless, his morning sleep was wired, restless. He was physically, emotionally spent. And he wanted to get laid.
    How he wanted to get laid. He was a returning warrior. A hero. He felt virile, at the peak, at the prime. He felt pressure—physically, hormonally, to have a girl; culturally, amongst his peers even if they weren’t present, to be successful with women, a woman. He needed to make love to someone, but there did not seem to be a single unattached woman in Mill Creek Falls except his cousins.
    A week before his cousin Jimmy returned, Tony received a letter from his father, a letter his father had written and mailed at the end of March, sent to him halfway around the world, only to arrive at his unit station after his unit had moved north in country, and then forwarded again and again never catching him before his DEROS, finally completing its earth orbit in ninety days. It took him back to Nam, to his perceptions of the World from Nam. He read it while he sat, alone, in his room.
Dear Tony,
    It is Palm Sunday. We went to the monastery for Mass this morning and it was real nice. They celebrate Mass a little differently there. Instead of palms they gave us pussy willows. After Mass we lit some candles and said some prayers for you and Jimmy. I’m looking at your last letter. You sound pretty good. I’m sure, as you say, you’ll “look back on this time with a shit-eating grin.” I pray to God that you do. Maybe I wasn’t in the right units. I never felt that I was “in the best fighting force in the world.” I’m glad you’re having an experience like Uncle Joe’s and not like mine.
    The weather has been real cold and we’ve had a lot of snow. Mark’s been home two days this week with no school. Your friend Steve is finally going overseas. He came by and we gave him your address. The war news has been all about Khe Sanh but it sounds like it’s tapering down. It doesn’t look like the president is going to do much to them bastards. He should just keep bombing their cities until they smarten up.
    I’ll write again soon. Until then know that even if I don’t write I