Purple Daze Read online

  I had this revelation and slit the bottom

  of the nylon shell, ripping out 6 pounds

  of Kevlar-type fiber.

  My helmet is a steel pot, about 5 pounds.

  Peace sign scrawled on one side. I put the

  camouflage cover over the lightweight liner,

  dumped the pot. Nothing can slow me down;

  I got it dicked.

  Can you believe Gunther dressed up for Halloween?

  Somehow he scrounged a red Santa suit.

  No “Ho! Ho! Ho!” though.

  He shouted, “Trick or Treat.

  Smell my feet.

  Give me something good to eat.”

  The guy looked like a big, fat,

  fur-trimmed blister.

  Guess the jungle was fresh out of candy canes,

  cuz he passed out grenades, pins straightened

  for easy lobbing.

  Love, Phil

  P.S. Are you seriously considering going to

  nursing school after graduation?

  You can take my temperature anytime!

  Cheryl

  Mom hardly dates

  since Daddy died.

  Now there’s this guy,

  seems nice enough.

  He picks her up on Friday nights,

  brings me Nuts & Chews.

  Mom wears lipstick and sling-back heels.

  “It’s a real date.”

  I say it’s okay to invite him over

  for English muffin pizzas

  and The Beverly Hillbillies.

  Will he sit by her on the couch,

  hold her hand like Daddy

  While I eat my Nuts & Chews?

  Mickey

  USS Hermitage LSD-34 Guantanamo Bay

  Dear Cheryl,

  QUESTION TIME:

  No, I never shot anyone swimming in the water.

  It’s a good thing I didn’t get the chance because

  I don’t know how to work the gun, swear to Buddha.

  No, I didn’t spend all the money I won playing cards.

  I still have 33 cents left.

  I definitely got some P***Y in Jamaica.

  That slays me.

  Love, Mickey

  P.S. Ziggy hasn’t written much lately—

  probably too stoned to hold a pen.

  Phil

  Dearest Cheryl,

  I’m sitting in my tent listening to the monsoon

  winds and rain ruin everything—including our

  morale, which is lower than a cockroach in hell.

  Zipperheads fight more fiercely in the rain.

  Paddy algae, jungle rot, spongy mold

  communicate in code. Damn leeches.

  Just chopped up one with my bayonet.

  Today we were supposed to go on operations

  down south. Now there’s a 5 day delay.

  We smoke.

  Drink Kool-Aid.

  No one talks.

  Not even Gunther’s bullshit to chew on.

  Man, I wish I could take in a drive-in movie. See,

  the trouble is, we don’t get any saltpeter in here.

  In the 10 months since I left, I’ll probably turn into

  the worst sex maniac to ever hit L.A.

  Love, Phil

  P.S. I started writing this letter on a box.

  Now I’m sitting in it. Damn thing broke.

  Cheryl

  The girl who shares my PE locker traded

  tight sweaters for Empire-waist dresses.

  Gym shorts tugged over a girdle.

  One Saturday her boyfriend drove her to Tijuana.

  Monday she returned to school,

  tight skirt, no girdle.

  Ziggy used a coat-hanger

  in a gas station bathroom,

  nearly bleeding to death.

  Mickey doesn’t have a clue.

  Mickey

  USS Hermitage LSD-34 Pussy Patrol

  Don—

  I thought we were friends, man.

  But you’re too goddamned busy

  to write one lousy letter.

  If you could spare a few minutes,

  I could tell you about all the bitchin’

  babes I’ve met.

  There’s one good thing about the Navy

  (two if you count all the pussy)

  and that’s I don’t have to listen to my

  old man anymore.

  He does write some damn decent letters though.

  But I wish he’d stop asking about medals, like

  he’s keeping score or something.

  Your ex-friend,

  “The Mick”

  P.S. I hope you rot in hell with double-boogies.

  Ziggy

  Everyone here’s asleep so I call Bubba,

  listening to his stupid phone ring

  off the stupid hook,

  unraveling threads on my cutoffs.

  I suck a roach on the porch,

  holding everything in.

  Maybe if I get high enough

  I can quiet my head;

  maybe then I can blink

  without seeing Mick’s flat-top,

  velvet freckles, his peachy skin.

  Damn it, I’m thinking about him again,

  little heartbeat bombs.

  My bare feet collect street grit,

  counting the steps to Don’s house

  three blocks away.

  I tap on his window,

  choking on smoky giggles.

  “Wake up!”

  He’s angular behind the glass like one

  of Golden Dragon’s fortune cookies.

  “Can I come in? It’s freezing out here!”

  Mickey

  USS Hermitage LSD-34 Guantanamo Bay

  Dear Cheryl,

  I don’t think Don would lose respect

  for you if you went all the way with him.

  But just between you and me,

  I wouldn’t do it.

  I don’t care what he or anybody says.

  If he went all the way with you he would

  definitely have the urge to brag.

  All it would take is for him to tell one

  guy and you would be screwed

  in more ways than one,

  if you know what I mean.

  Make him marry you first.

  Love, Mickey

  P.S. Tell Ziggy she’s got 90 days

  to get to 110 pounds.

  Ziggy

  The Fire

  Between My

  Thighs Cries

  For Mick

  My Heart

  Tick Tock

  Has Stopped

  Without Him

  There Is

  No We

  No Me

  No ...

  Cheryl

  “WHY’D YOU DO IT?”

  “It’s not like I love her.”

  “I KNOW, IT WAS JUST SEX.”

  “She tapped on my window.”

  “YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO OPEN IT.”

  “She was stoned.”

  “SHE’S MY BEST FRIEND—WAS.”

  “I don’t love her, Cheryl.”

  “I’LL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!”

  Don

  Cheryl,

  I don’t know how it happened—

  me and Ziggy.

  I promise to pay more attention

  to what my dick is thinking,

  if only you’ll forgive and forget.

  I love you!

  Ziggy

  Sometimes I think about that girl,

  sixteen and still in Jr. High,

  a greaser transferred from East L.A.

  Razor blades in her hair.

  Camels taped to her binder.

  Black eyeliner,

  thick as licorice whips.

  She didn’t talk to anyone but me.

  Maybe she thought we weren’t so different.

  Bubba liked the black-blue ink x

  she needled under her s
kin.

  I like the idea of razor blades.

  Cheryl

  No one’s home so I put West Side Story

  on the stereo.

  The Rambler pulls into the driveway, the hood

  ornament at half-mast. I pull down the shades,

  lock the door, crank the volume.

  “A boy like that wants one thing only,

  And when he’s done he’ll leave you lonely.”

  I

  leap

  lunge

  plunge

  sweat

  Phil

  Dear Cheryl,

  Our troop carrier breaks down so me and Gunther

  thumb a ride on a rag-top tanker with a zippered

  back window. FTA painted on the guy’s helmet,

  Fuck The Army. We figure he’s hauling water

  to some remote outpost.

  Man, his rig’s tuff. An M-16 hangs on a windshield

  “T” handle, muzzle down. The metal plate on the dash—

  advisories on how to maintain your vehicle,

  in case the driver forgot—holds grenades:

  6 frags, 2 smoke, 2 white phosphorus.

  A radio is the headrest behind his seat,

  tuned to the armed forces network.

  A 3-gallon jug of Kool-Aid with cup inside,

  a cooler on the floor, full of Pabst.

  You can tell this guy knows the road—

  can tell he’d spot a new divot from

  exploding devices.

  I ask about the hole in his door. “Lucky bullet,” he

  says, caressing the wheel. “This truck’ll never let me

  down. It’s true love, man.”

  “What’re you haulin’?” Gunther asks,

  dipping Kool-Aid.

  “Fuel.”

  Gunther just about shits his pants.

  “This here’s a fuckin’ 5,000-gallon

  Molotov Cocktail. Pull over, dude,

  we’d rather walk.”

  Love ya, Phil

  P.S. Spent my 20th birthday in a bar listening to

  “I Got You Babe” with a Vietnamese accent.

  International Day of Protest

  October 15, 1965. After lunch at the Catholic Worker, David Miller takes the IRT to the Armed Forces Induction Center in lower Manhattan. Police barricades line the streets, separating war protesters from hecklers.

  Dressed in a dark pinstripe suit, a white button-down shirt, narrow tie, and short hair, David climbs a ladder onto the platform of a sound truck. “I am not going to give my prepared speech,” he says, pulling his draft card and a book of matches from his pocket.

  One match, then another blows out in the breeze. Someone offers him a lighter. David raises the burning card as a group of Hare Krishna chant, “My Sweet Lord,” dropping it when flames singe his fingers.

  Three days later David Miller becomes the first activist arrested under the new Selective Service law for “knowingly destroying” his draft card. The FBI apprehends him at St. Anselm’s College in New Hampshire where he’s talking to students about pacifism and universal peace.

  Ho Chi Minh Trail

  For centuries, this trail meandered through sparsely

  populated jungle, facilitating trade in Southeast Asia

  a basketry of truck crossings, river systems, primeval paths.

  Barefoot hordes drove oxcarts and heavily-laden bicycles,

  human pack animals.

  1959 Armed conflicts escalate between the National

  Liberation Front (NLF), also called Viet Cong,

  and the first president of the Republic of Vietnam,

  Ngo Dinh Diem.

  1961 The People’s Army of Vietnam works on

  the trail and the use of motor transports escalates.

  1965 The trail develops into an intricate network:

  dirt roads peppered with supply bunkers, barracks,

  hospitals, control facilities, and tunnels: hard-packed,

  underground living areas with field hospitals and

  command centers.

  Motto: Build roads to advance.

  Fight the enemy to travel.

  Mickey

  USS Hermitage LSD-34 Pussy Patrol

  Don,

  Now that it’s daylight savings I can start playing

  golf after I knock off ship’s work. With some luck

  I might get on the ship’s team.

  I don’t like to think about what I’m going to do

  when I get out of here—besides throw a bitchin’ party.

  Guess I’ll take the GED. If I don’t pass

  I’ll be the oldest guy in high school.

  I’m sending you a fag from Tortola,

  but that’s it, man,

  I swear!

  Your ex-friend,

  “The Mick”

  P.S. Cheryl said you might bag that

  assistant pro job at the country club.

  Prick!

  Phil

  Hi Gorgeous,

  Five days of nonstop rain and I’m sick

  of watching my yo-yo walk-the-dog,

  tossing cards into my helmet,

  sharpening my Kabar blade,

  so I started translating the Olyhay Iblebay

  (Holy Bible) into Pig Latin:

  Inay ethay eginningbay, Odgay

  eatedcray ethay eavenhay anday earthay.

  That’s Enesisgay. 1:1.

  Love, Phil

  P.S. Did you really break up with Don?

  Mickey

  USS Hermitage LSD-34 San Juan, Puerto Rico

  Dear Cheryl,

  HICKORY, DICKORY, DOCK.

  TWO MICE RAN UP THE CLOCK.

  THE CLOCK STRUCK ONE,

  BUT THE OTHER ESCAPED

  WITH MINOR INJURIES.

  WHAT’S RED AND SITS IN A CORNER?

  Hold up to mirror:

  SEDALBROZAR GNIWANG YBAB A

  I didn’t write all the stuff I thought

  to write about but I guess this will do.

  Love, Mickey

  P.S. The cords to “Nowhere Man” are

  hard to play if you don’t use bar cords,

  especially in E flat (Eb).

  Cheryl

  The needle sticks on “A Boy Like That” and his I love you but I slept with your best friend doesn’t mesh with my idea of love, so I grab a pen holding it like a dagger over my journal, slashing the page into confetti and ripping it out and wadding it up and tossing it in the toilet and flushing and starting over, writing to Don, telling him how much I hate him and how he branded my heart and that I’ll never forgive him for what he did, not ever, and then I drop it in the toilet and pee all over him.

  Don

  Hello again—

  I’m home now and can’t stop

  thinking about you, about us.

  I’ve told you I love you many times,

  and I truly mean it, even if I’m not

  so hot at showing you.

  I know you don’t want to talk to me

  right now. But maybe you could write

  a letter and give it to Nancy?

  Things could be perfect, Cheryl,

  if you’d give us a second chance.

  All my love, Don

  P.S. I miss you!!!

  P.P.S. I’m sorry!!!