Purple Daze Read online

  I can’t believe they’d give me so much

  responsibility.

  Later, Mickey

  P.S. Last night I stepped into a card game

  and walked out with $54.

  Cheryl

  Yesterday, I showed my mom the short story

  I wrote as a makeup for Ms. Hawes’s class

  about a girl who stops taking crap from guys.

  I got a dollar for my A.

  This morning, Nuts & Chews set a gold

  foil box on my place mat. Neatly folded

  inside, an olive-green mohair sweater.

  Cardigan, my size.

  I think Mom’s and my story will

  have a happy ending, after all.

  His name is Lou.

  Ziggy

  Imagine a family that chops, cooks,

  eats their meals together?

  Maybe I’ll bake a cake today.

  Angel or Devil’s food?

  Phil

  Dear Cheryl,

  Mama mined it.

  Wrapped a bomb and

  a baby in a blanket.

  Blew two grunts to

  smither-fuckin’-eens.

  Whoever heard of a baby booby-trap?

  Capt’n says we’re fighting Commies

  so our sons and daughters can crap

  in a flush toilet.

  All I want to do is come home in one piece

  and make babies and live a quiet life in a

  time and place without war.

  With love, Phil

  P.S. I hope I never get used to this.

  Cheryl

  It’s unreal, like a movie, or photos in the newspaper, or Hollywood

  actors, although I know that’s not true, not really, but it’s easier, safer,

  to think of them as fake soldiers touched up with makeup, red-dye

  blood, it is easier, was easier, to pretend the war is a movie, but I know

  it’s real, because Phil’s real, and his letters are real, and now I wish I’d

  been paying more attention to all the Gunthers and Phils on the news,

  and I’ve decided to spend six months allowance on books of tickets for

  Disneyland and I’m going to tear out all the “E” tickets for Phil. ...

  Phu Bai Vietnam

  Cold C-ration breakfast.

  Pack up.

  Move out.

  Cold C-ration lunch,

  ham and lima beans,

  warmed on an exhaust

  manifold.

  March.

  Frag grenades.

  Body count.

  Another crappy meal.

  Mickey

  USS Hermitage LSD-34 DEEP SHIT

  Dear Cheryl,

  I’m up to my ass now.

  First, on the way back from Bermuda

  I got caught sleeping on watch. Second,

  I got in a fight in the chow line and was taken

  straight to the Executive Officer’s stateroom.

  He said, “This is it sailor. No more chances.”

  Then I got busted drinking on a phony ID

  and spent the night in jail. The next morning

  I was right back up here.

  Guess I won’t get liberty for a while.

  Love, Mickey

  P.S. My new girlfriend says I’m a godless alcoholic.

  That slays me!

  Ziggy

  cheryl,

  this is the last page in my journal and i wanted to tell you that i don’t

  know why i did it—it wasn’t about mickey or don or me—mostly it

  wasn’t about me because i’m nothing and that proves it because only

  a nothing would do what i did in the gas station and then something

  like that to her best friend—and i don’t expect you or god to forgive

  me because i’ll never forgive myself—but i saw your mom at the

  store and she looked so happy and i know it’s because she’s in love

  and married a nice man and i think it’s about time someone in our

  crowd was happy and i’m extra glad it’s you.

  me

  Phil

  Darvon Date.

  White powder buffers a tiny pink pill

  inside a red and white capsule. The infirmary

  prescribes them instead of aspirin.

  Supposed to be better for our guts, since

  we drink like fish and eat street crap.

  I split the hulls,

  stash the pills,

  trash the rest.

  Pretty and pink, she sinks into a

  red, white, and blue-edged envelope.

  I free her with my tongue, chase her

  down with warm beer.

  A perfect girlfriend who knows how

  to take my mind off everything that’s

  happening here.

  Nancy

  Professor James is wearing a Betty Crocker

  apron, brandishing a broom, lecturing on the

  general unhappiness of women in our society.

  He says television and movies, newspapers

  and magazines, schools and even our

  parents are manipulating us into thinking

  housewife is synonymous with occupation.

  He says women are victims of a false belief

  system that expects us to find meaning in our

  lives through our husbands and raising children.

  “Housework can be done by any 8-year-old,”

  he says, trading the broom for a paperback,

  The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan.

  “Who would like to borrow it?”

  I raise my hand.

  Cheryl

  Phil’s in Nam.

  Not Nancy.

  Not Ziggy.

  Not me.

  Why? Anatomy?

  Ejaculator versus baby maker?

  Does that make him expendable?

  Who hasn’t said,

  I wish he was dead.

  I’m mad enough to kill.

  If words were bullets

  he’d be pushing up daisies.

  I scream that and more about

  The-Dirty-Rotten-Two-Timer.

  Bang. Bang. He’s history.

  If thoughts are things

  a murderer resides in my head.

  Ziggy

  Bubba’s still asleep so I fire up a

  breakfast doobie and polish off a

  package of Lorna Doone cookies.

  I find Ms. Hawes in the phone book

  and call to tell her I’m still writing in

  my journal and ask if it’s okay to send

  her a poem sometime, but I’d understand

  if it’s not, because she has over 250 students

  a day if you count all of her English classes,

  plus homeroom and after school detention

  and,

  she asks if I can help her out on Sunday.

  I’m too stoned to come up with an excuse.

  Now what?

  Phil

  Gunther.

  Something gets his arm at the elbow,

  and he gives a funny little wave, like

  a flag salute, watching his hand crawl

  on the ground.

  Head down, he mutters, “Crap-ola,”

  as if he’d dropped his only glove.

  Then he passes out, real laid-back.

  Medic.

  Tourniquet.

  Whole blood.

  Morphine.

  I hold him, my fingers clenched into fists.

  He squeezes back, still alive, hanging on.

  Jesus, there’s too much blood.

  Cheryl

  Phil wrote about Gunther getting wounded, said it was nothing serious,

  that Gunther was one lucky son-of-a-bitch with his million-dollar

  injury, because the war was over for him and he’d be back in the world

  soon, but I wish he’d to
ld me what happened, because my whole body

  shakes when I think about him getting hurt, because I know Gunther,

  even though I’ve never met him, I picture this big, sweet guy in a Santa

  suit (so his buddies can have a laugh in hell) wearing his girlfriend’s

  garter belt (because he misses her so much) and I think about Pastor

  Brunner playing his guitar in Sunday school and how I used to think

  God was a musician and I was one of his instruments, and believing he

  was strumming me, keeping me safe for eternal life, and I can’t believe

  anyone could be so brainwashed, even a five-year-old kid, and before I

  know it I’m playing “Nowhere Man” on Mickey’s guitar....

  Mickey

  USS Hermitage LSD-34

  From: SECNAV P. H. Nitze

  To: All Ships and Stations

  Subject: WAVES (Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service)1. The following information will be of utmost interest to all sailors ashore and afloat.

  2. After a lengthy effort the WAVES began service in August 1942, thus avoiding a crisis at hand. Each vessel averages 125 lbs., 66 in. length, and is broad across the beam with dual forward mounts. Newer models are best launched at night, free and fast as hell.

  3. A creative, yet functional design supports a hatch at mid-ship that accepts a driving shaft between 6 and 8 inches, though her engine must be heated to the optimum temperature. If bearings are well lubricated the standard speed is 60 minutes, 15 minutes if full speed ahead.

  4. If operated according to the manual she will shudder and shake when backing off an all-out run, no matter who’s at the helm. Do not disclose secret maneuvers except in the line of duty. It is mandatory to report violations.

  5. Will raise an OFF LIMITS flag 3 to 7 days each month to unload disposable hazardous waste and repair damage caused by projectiles with loose screws. Reel in hoses and salute her colors to avoid a hostile disposition. Hull seldom needs scrapping or paint, though perfume is appreciated.

  6. With proper care these vessels will operate satisfactorily until every sailor receives his discharge orders.

  “The Unknown Chaplain”

  Dust-Off

  “Voodoo 10! Voodoo 10!

  This is Orphan 99.

  Request urgent dust-off.

  U.S. Marine ...

  mine ... mine.”

  “99, this is 10.

  Extent of injuries?

  Is landing zone secure?”

  “Urgent!

  Repeat ... gent!

  Marine bleed ...

  Chri ... mighty . . .

  get that damn bird. . . .”

  “You’re OK soldier.

  Say again, 99.

  Slowly.”

  “10, this is 99.

  LZ secure ...

  ... no enemy fire.

  Need ...”

  “Roger that.

  Choppers airborne.

  What’s your position?”

  “Zebra 109-271 ...

  Repeat, Zebra 109-271.”

  Dust-off complete:

  19 minutes.

  Marine dies over rice paddy.

  Ziggy

  Outside L.A. Mission:

  Old men sleep on sidewalks.

  Cardboard mattresses.

  Pockets inside out.

  Stolen shoes.

  Ms. Hawes says,

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  I’m not.

  Phil

  Cheryl,

  All I’ve done for the last 42 hours

  is wade through muck and mud.

  Every inch of exposed flesh

  is sliced up from busting jungle.

  The fever blisters on my lips are

  scabbed over with rot.

  Tomorrow we’re going on a seek-and-destroy

  patrol. We don’t like these skinny Commies

  using us for target practice.

  If we have to, we’ll take the village apart one

  straw at a time. Shoot a few dogs and chickens,

  maybe a water buffalo.

  Right now my cartridge belt has

  1 Bowie knife + 180 rounds of ammo on it.

  I have a rifle that shoots 20 rounds

  in less than 2 seconds

  plus 6 grenades.

  Fragmentation type. 14 ounces.

  I pity the poor gook that crosses my path.

  I want to get at least one for Gunther.

  Thou shalt not kill—Fuck that shit!

  I want to come home, Phil

  Cheryl

  I can’t get out of bed, strangling in sheets, soaked with tears, drool, snot—

  screaming louder than when Daddy died and I wore white gloves and a

  black headband like Caroline Kennedy at her dad’s funeral—I’m crying for

  Daddy and Gunther, and I can’t even imagine how Phil feels—and I’m

  tearing at my pillow until my fingers are raw and I’m numb inside trying

  to understand, How can someone fucking bleed to death in nineteen minutes?

  Mickey

  USS Hermitage LSD-34 Pussy Patrol

  Don—

  Check it out: More than 1,000 sailors

  lined-up on deck with our flies open

  and our dicks hanging out.

  Master Sergeant says, “What’s the gag?”

  We salute, all serious.

  “If we’re gonna work like horses

  we’re gonna look like horses, Sir!”

  “The Mick”

  P.S. Man, I’ve been off my game.

  Can’t sink a stinkin’ bar of soap

  in the drain with the butt of my rifle.

  P.P.S. I hear you got that job.

  Better let your peeps play free!

  Ziggy

  Ms. Hawes shows me around the Mission,

  where women stay up all night taking turns

  at an ironing board, pressing work clothes

  for the next day.

  An older lady reminds me of Nana,

  rhinestone clips in her silver hair.

  She got laid off from J.C. Penny,

  then evicted from her apartment.

  “A neighbor brought me here,” she says,

  but not like she’s feeling sorry for herself.

  “Tomorrow I’ll look for a another job.”

  She smiles and pats the blanket on her cot.

  I settle on the edge. She smells like Ivory Snow.

  She shows me pictures of her kids, grandkids,

  too ashamed to tell them what happened.

  “I’ll wait until I get back on my feet,”

  she says.

  Nancy

  I told my parents I’m spending the night at Cheryl’s house,

  but I’m really taking a bus to Berkeley with my Psych class

  to join thousands of protesters. A 10-hour ride.

  My suitcase is filled with rag dolls I made out of socks

  in red, white, and blue. Uncle Sam hats cut from cardboard.

  I want you!

  Professor James says he’ll dress up like a soldier in the

  American Revolutionary War. We’ll march behind coffins

  filled with copies of the Declaration of Independence.

  Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness

  I’ll burn my rag dolls, standing with draftees burning

  induction orders and draft cards.

  Hell no! We won’t go!

  No one knows what we’re fighting for!

  Hell no!

  Cheryl

  Hi Ziggy,

  I got your letter and I can’t believe I’m writing back, but so much bad