by Joseph D. Milosch
Jungle trees walled the sky. The wind was the voice of the dying. It twisted wide leaves in dreams of this Viet Nam veteran. He was in the Army’s drug rehab program. He would help me prepare for a white glove inspection.
Dexter took steel wool to the hooks on which we hung hammers and pipe wrenches. He taped the tips of the hammers’ claws, spray painted their heads. The hammers gleamed black and steel.
When Dexter talked his voice reminded me of a one-wing fly trapped in a jar. He was saying, “There are Sergeants who think my life is just a joke. They think they know me by watching me come and go. They don’t know shit.
If I hadn’t declared myself, they wouldn’t have a clue.” Dex, you’re an addict, you can’t hide shit. “Screw you! Joe! If it wasn’t for me, you’d still think a Jefferson Airplane was an aircraft.”
Dex, look at this fucking tool room not a single speck of dust. If a real plumber or carpenter came here he’d think he’d died and went to hell. A bird’s head appeared black in the window’s shadowed outline, which crossed the floor.
It disappeared, leaving six squares of sunlight, as silence gathered like birds in a tree. I could tell by the flush of his cheek and the way Dex hung his head that I hurt him. I told him of my dream of playing right field for the Detroit Tigers.
I wanted to leap high over the right field fence stealing a home run. I wanted to throw a runner out from deep in the right field corner. Told him the truth that my arm had the strength of punky wood.
I listened to his dream. On his diamond he chewed gum and acted bull-like tearing grass with his spikes. In his dreams he caught long flies and believed he’d replace the Braves’ Hank Aaron.
These dreams were as real to Dex as the laughter of medics and MPs on his first night stateside, when I delivered him in a heroin withdrawal to the infirmary. That night, the bald M.P. stood with his elbow on top of the counter. That night the bald MP nodded at me as he eyed Dexter. He smiled. He twisted his club like a hitter expecting a fastball.
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
His story about army life, although, not one I would ordinarily choose, still, had me wanting to read more.
Thank you for your comment.
Sometimes experiencing combat is onething. What happens in a war zone is another, and the experiences that await the soldier at home still another.
Joe M.