serve cheap Vietnamese "33" beer
in American bottles.
One other place remained, farther away than the enlisted man's club
but closer than Manly's shack and somewhere between them in official
status. About twenty minutes away, at the curve in the steeply
descending road to the airfield and the motor pool, stood an isolated
wooden structure called Billy's. Billy had gone home long ago, but his
club, supposedly an old French command post, had endured. When it was
open, a succession of slender Montagnard boys who slept in the nearly
empty upstairs rooms served drinks. I visited these rooms two or three
times, but I never learned where the boys went when Billy's was closed.
Billy's did not look anything like a French command post: it looked
like a roadhouse.
A long time ago, the building had been painted brown. Someone had
once boarded up the two front windows on the lower floor, and someone
else had torn off a narrow band of boards across each of the windows,
so that light entered in two flat white bands that traveled across the
floor during the day. There was no electricity and no ice. When you
needed a toilet, you went to a cubicle with inverted metal bootprints
on either side of a hole in the floor.
The building stood in a grove of trees in the curve of the road, and
as I walked downhill toward it in the sunset, a muddy camouflaged jeep
gradually emerged from invisibility on the right side of the bar,
floating out of the trees like an optical illusion.
Low male voices stopped when I stepped onto the rotting porch. I
looked for insignia on the jeep, but mud caked the door panels. Some
white object gleamed dully from the backseat. When I looked more
closely, I saw in a coil of rope an oval of bone that it took me a
moment to recognize as the top of a painstakingly cleaned and bleached
human skull.
The door opened before I could reach the handle. A boy called Mike
stood before me in loose khaki shorts and a dirty white shirt too large
for him. Then he saw who I was. "Oh," he said. "Yes. Tim. Okay. You can
come in." He carried himself with an odd defensive alertness, and he
shot me an uncomfortable smile.
"It's okay?" I asked, because everything about him told me that it
wasn't.
"Yesss. " He stepped back to
let me in.
The bar looked empty, and the band of light coming in through the
opening over the windows had already reached the long mirror, creating
a bright dazzle, a white fire. Pungent cordite hung in the air. I took
a couple of steps inside, and Mike moved around me to return to his
post.
"Oh, hell," someone said from off to my left. "We have to put up
with this?"
I turned my head and saw three men sitting against the wall at a
round table. None of the kerosene lamps had been lighted yet, and the
dazzle from the mirror made the far reaches of the bar even murkier.
"Is okay, is okay," said Mike. "Old customer. Old friend."
"I bet he is," the voice said. "Just don't let any women in here."
"No women," Mike said. "No problem."
I went through the tables to the furthest one on the right.
"You want whiskey, Tim?" Mike asked.
"Tim?" the man said. "Tim?"
"Beer," I said, and sat down.
A nearly empty bottle of Johnny Walker Black, three glasses, and
about a dozen cans of beer covered the table before them. The soldier
with his back against the wall shoved aside some of the beer cans so
that I could see the .45 next to the Johnny Walker bottle. He leaned
forward with a drunk's well-guarded coordination. The sleeves had been
ripped off his shirt, and dirt darkened his skin as if he had not
bathed in years. His hair had been cut with a knife.
"I just want to make sure about this," he said. "You're not a woman,
right? You swear to that?"
"Anything you say," I said.
He put his hand on the gun.
"Got it," I said. Mike hurried around the bar with my beer. "Tim.
Funny name. Sounds like a little guy—like him." He pointed at Mike with
his left hand, the whole hand and not merely the index finger, while
his right still
in American bottles.
One other place remained, farther away than the enlisted man's club
but closer than Manly's shack and somewhere between them in official
status. About twenty minutes away, at the curve in the steeply
descending road to the airfield and the motor pool, stood an isolated
wooden structure called Billy's. Billy had gone home long ago, but his
club, supposedly an old French command post, had endured. When it was
open, a succession of slender Montagnard boys who slept in the nearly
empty upstairs rooms served drinks. I visited these rooms two or three
times, but I never learned where the boys went when Billy's was closed.
Billy's did not look anything like a French command post: it looked
like a roadhouse.
A long time ago, the building had been painted brown. Someone had
once boarded up the two front windows on the lower floor, and someone
else had torn off a narrow band of boards across each of the windows,
so that light entered in two flat white bands that traveled across the
floor during the day. There was no electricity and no ice. When you
needed a toilet, you went to a cubicle with inverted metal bootprints
on either side of a hole in the floor.
The building stood in a grove of trees in the curve of the road, and
as I walked downhill toward it in the sunset, a muddy camouflaged jeep
gradually emerged from invisibility on the right side of the bar,
floating out of the trees like an optical illusion.
Low male voices stopped when I stepped onto the rotting porch. I
looked for insignia on the jeep, but mud caked the door panels. Some
white object gleamed dully from the backseat. When I looked more
closely, I saw in a coil of rope an oval of bone that it took me a
moment to recognize as the top of a painstakingly cleaned and bleached
human skull.
The door opened before I could reach the handle. A boy called Mike
stood before me in loose khaki shorts and a dirty white shirt too large
for him. Then he saw who I was. "Oh," he said. "Yes. Tim. Okay. You can
come in." He carried himself with an odd defensive alertness, and he
shot me an uncomfortable smile.
"It's okay?" I asked, because everything about him told me that it
wasn't.
"Yesss. " He stepped back to
let me in.
The bar looked empty, and the band of light coming in through the
opening over the windows had already reached the long mirror, creating
a bright dazzle, a white fire. Pungent cordite hung in the air. I took
a couple of steps inside, and Mike moved around me to return to his
post.
"Oh, hell," someone said from off to my left. "We have to put up
with this?"
I turned my head and saw three men sitting against the wall at a
round table. None of the kerosene lamps had been lighted yet, and the
dazzle from the mirror made the far reaches of the bar even murkier.
"Is okay, is okay," said Mike. "Old customer. Old friend."
"I bet he is," the voice said. "Just don't let any women in here."
"No women," Mike said. "No problem."
I went through the tables to the furthest one on the right.
"You want whiskey, Tim?" Mike asked.
"Tim?" the man said. "Tim?"
"Beer," I said, and sat down.
A nearly empty bottle of Johnny Walker Black, three glasses, and
about a dozen cans of beer covered the table before them. The soldier
with his back against the wall shoved aside some of the beer cans so
that I could see the .45 next to the Johnny Walker bottle. He leaned
forward with a drunk's well-guarded coordination. The sleeves had been
ripped off his shirt, and dirt darkened his skin as if he had not
bathed in years. His hair had been cut with a knife.
"I just want to make sure about this," he said. "You're not a woman,
right? You swear to that?"
"Anything you say," I said.
He put his hand on the gun.
"Got it," I said. Mike hurried around the bar with my beer. "Tim.
Funny name. Sounds like a little guy—like him." He pointed at Mike with
his left hand, the whole hand and not merely the index finger, while
his right still
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