Sally Boy (15 page)

Plopping down on a bunk, Angel silently
watched Sal for several moments. Finally, his face broke into a
smile and he asked, “Hey, what’s up, gringo?”

Briefly, Sal’s eyes darted up and then back
to his notebook.

“I’m Hernandez. Angel Hernandez.”

Sal ignored him.

“And you’re Salvatore Scalise?”

Still, Sal remained silent.

“Man, you don’t say much. Do you? Look bro,
I didn’t come here to fuck with you or nothing like that. I just
wanted to talk to you for a minute. Anyways, I just wanted to say
thanks.”

“Thanks for what, cherry?” Sal asked
apathetically.

“So you can fucking talk.”

“Thanks for what, asshole?”

“You saved my fucking ass out there today.
Don’t you remember?”

Briefly looking him over, Sal said,
“No.”

“Me and four other dudes was pinned down on
a hill. You and some other dudes killed all the motherfucking dudes
shooting at us, and got us the fuck outta there. Does you remember
now?”

“I killed a lotta motherfucker’s since I got
here. What the fuck makes you think I’d remember your sorry
ass?”

“Look at me, bro,” Angel insisted, jutting
his chin. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful specimen of a man in
your life?”

“I remember you now. You’re that jerk-off
that was pissing in his pants instead of returning fire.”

“That was water from my canteen!”

“It smelt like piss.”

“It was water, motherfucker!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say FNG. How the
fuck did you end up over there? Youse was lucky to get outta there
with your brain housing group intact.”

“Symonds?” Angel shrugged. “I just followed
his stupid white ass like everyone else. Anyways, I just wanted to
say thanks. ’cause if it wasn’t for you, I’d be going home with a
flag draped over my pretty Puerto Rican ass. And believe me, all
the foxy mama’s back home would be crying on that day. So I thanks
you, and all my bitches back in the world thanks you.”

“You’re welcome. And by the way, you’re not
much to look at, so don’t go fucking fooling yourself.”

“Lighten up, bro. Shit, I just come here to
talk.” Angel lit a cigarette. “Yo Scalise, I gotta tell you, you
was like a fucking crazy man out there. You fight like this fucking
war is personal or something. What’s your story, bro?”

“You’re still fucking here?”

“C’mon, man. Don’t make me the fucking bad
guy. I was just thinking maybe we could hang out? You know, shoot
some stick. The least I can do is buy you a fucking beer.”

“You’re right. That is the least you can do.
But I don’t wanna be bothered. Understand?”

“Yo bro, I’m just trying to do the right
thing here and show you my appreciation for what you did for me.
Why you gotta fuck with me?”

“Fuck with you?” Sal slammed his notebook
down on his bunk. “How long you been in country, cherry?”

“Couplea weeks, almost a month.”

“You know what you are, fucking new guy?
You’re a dead man and you don’t even know it. You ain’t got no
friends. You ain’t got no family. You’re thousands a miles away
from home and nobody gives a fuck if you live or die. And you’re
gonna die. Screaming like a little-bitch with your fucking guts
hanging out.”

Angel swallowed hard and took a long puff of
his cigarette. “Look man, I ain’t no fucking punk-bitch, awright? I
ain’t scared a nothing. I’ve seen more fucked up shit and been in
more fucked up places than this back home.”

“Oh, yeah. Where’s that?”

Angel puffed out his chest and declared,
“Spanish Harlem, motherfucker! Born and raised.”

“So fucking what.”

“You know what that means, don’t you?”

“No!”

“We’re both from New York, bro. That makes
us homeys, ma man.”

“Homeys? We ain’t fucking homeys.”

“Shit yeah, we are. You’re from the Bronx,
I’m from Harlem. We’s like family,” Angel remarked, humorously.

Sal laughed. “Yeah, we’s just like brothers
from another mother.”

“Brothers, huh? That’s cool. Dig this,
hermano. We should be looking out for each other. You hear what I’m
saying? ’cause I’m telling you as sure as shit these backward ass
country motherfuckers don’t give a rat’s ass about you or me. Maybe
next time I’ll be the one to save your ass.”

“I fucking doubt it.”

“C’mon, bro. You gotta have at least one
friend you can count on over here. Right?”

“You got it all figured out, huh. I’ve seen
your act before, fucko. You ain’t fooling nobody with your tough
talk and bullshit. You’re just another dumb fucking spic going home
in a bag.”

“I ain’t trying to fool nobody. On the real,
I thought maybe I could learn something from you. Maybe enough to
get outta this fucking place someday. Alive! Now, I don’t think
that’s too much to ask from a homey. Is it?”

“Well, I guess I can’t blame you for wanting
to live.”

“That’s all I’m saying. Just give me a
chance. Awright? Let’s go have a few pops over at the club? And if
you still think I’m just another dumb fucking spic, I’ll disappear.
Cool?”

“Well, since you put it like that, what the
fuck. One drink can’t hurt.” Jumping to his feet, Sal and Angel
exited the tent and headed over to the NCO Club.

* * * * *

Sal and Angel stood in the doorway looking
around. This was the first time Angel had been inside and he felt a
little out of place, but he would never admit that. Having been
there several times, Sal knew what to expect. MPs were summoned
almost nightly to the NCO Club to break up fights, crap games, or
poker marathons that had grown violent.

Being a grizzled combat veteran, Sal’s
instincts took over and he scanned the room for potential problems.
The joint was swarming with young, rowdy soldiers dealing with the
mind-blowing reality of being in ‘Nam. Combat-fatigued boonie rats,
cherries just in from the “world,” burnt-out chopper pilots, and
overworked medical staff topped the list of the heavier drinkers.
This hodgepodge of problems clad in olive-drab partied every night
like there was literally no tomorrow.

The Club was basically one large
recreational area supported by two load-bearing columns with two
separate rest rooms. It had hardwood flooring, ceiling fans, and
brick walls covered with the neatly framed insignias of the various
units serving “in country.” It had several pool tables, a cigarette
machine, a jukebox, and a host of tables. Many of the men played
darts, cards, or pool, and they bet on everything. The bar was
festively decorated with white Christmas-type lights. The liquor
selection was better than anyone would expect, and every soldier
was routinely over-served to the point of being stinking drunk.

Sitting by himself at a table with a
half-empty bottle of Dewar’s and six full shot glasses, Sal tossed
down the shooters one after another like they were water, chasing
each one with a sip of beer. Shooting pool alone, Angel played on a
table several feet from Sal. Drunkenly leaning over the table to
line up his shot, Angel slowly drew back the stick and then shot.
He missed completely.

“Ah, fuck it! This stick don’t work so good,
anyways.” Lobbing the pool-cue onto the table, Angel staggered
toward Sal and purposely dropped to his knees. Gazing up at his new
friend, Angel proclaimed loudly, slurring his words, “I want you to
know, amigo. That no matter wherever you go, or whatever happens,
if you ever need me, I am your brother for life.”

Downing a shot and taking a sip of beer, Sal
turned to the drunken fool kneeling beside him. “Yeah, yeah, you’ve
been telling me that all night. Change the fucking record,
huh?”

“I swear! Someday, if I had to, I would lay
down my life in place of yours. You hear what I’m saying,
hermano?”

“I hear you, but I gotta tell you something.
I’m really not...the truth is...I ain’t never had any friends like
you before.”

Cocking his head as if confused, Angel
blurted, “You ain’t got no friends?”

“No, asshole. No friends like you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means friends that wasn’t...you know,
Italian, or at least white.”

Climbing up off the floor, Angel fell
heavily into a chair next to Sal. “What are you trying to say,
hermano?”

“I ain’t trying to say nothing. I’m just
saying.”

“You don’t like spics?”

“I’m trying to say I don’t trust spics or
nigga’s. But ever since I came to this shitty place, I’ve had to
trust a lotta fucked-up motherfuckers. Motherfuckers, who if I was
back home, I wouldn’t piss on if they was on fire.”

“Si amigo, I understand what you trying to
say now.” Angel smiled.

“As much as I didn’t wanna like you, you
seem like you’re an okay guy. So lemme just make one thing
perfectly clear to you. Don’t ever, and I mean ever, fuck me
over.”

“You got nothing to worry about. I ain’t
never fucked over nobody in my life.”

“Come here!” Taking hold of the back of
Angel’s neck, Sal pulled Angel close to him. Speaking directly into
Angel’s ear, Sal yelled trying to talk over the music. “Angel, I’m
fucking serious. If you ever fuck me over, I’ll kill you. It’s as
simple as that.”

“I hear you, hermano. Can I ask you a
question that’s been bothering me?”

“Why not?”

“Why the fuck did you re-up? I mean you was
done with all this shit. I can’t wait to go home, and I just
fucking got here. What the fuck made a guy with smarts like you
wanna do a second tour, huh? Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I like the action,” Sal said smiling.

“C’mon, hermano.” Angel sipped his beer. “We
drank together. Shared stories. We’ve become amigos. I wanna
know.”

“About a month before my first tour was up,
my girl sent me a ‘Dear John’ letter. She said something about her
friends in college making her realize that she couldn’t go on
seeing someone like me and claim to have a soul. Can you fucking
believe that shit?”

“Is that the reason? Some fucking cunt?”

“Nah, that’s not it,”

“C’mon, I really wanna know.”

“I had this friend, Adam Horowitz, a Jewish
kid from Brooklyn. He was a great fucking guy, one hell of a
soldier, too. The best jungle fighter I ever seen. We used to call
him ‘Moses’ ’cause he always wanted to be out on point. He used to
say it was his job to lead his people safely through the
jungle.”

“He sounds like a crazy motherfucker to
me.”

“I still remember when I first shipped in. I
was greener than a motherfucker. Just like you. Moses could see
that my life expectancy was short. Just like yours. So Adam, he
kinda took me under his wing, and taught me everything he knew. How
to call in air strikes, artillery fire, and go out on point and not
get the shit blown outta me. He gave me a chance to make it outta
here alive. I’ll always love him for that. I still remember the day
they sent his ass home.”

“He went fucking home? You should be happy
for him.”

“Yeah, he went home, awright. In a fucking
body bag! Adam got zapped two weeks before he was supposed to ship
out on that freedom bird.”

“Damn! That’s fucked up.” Angel downed a
shot.

“Me and Adam really got to be good friends.
We talked about going into business together when we got home. We
was gonna open up the first Jew-Talian restaurant in history. Matzo
ball soup and manicottis! What a fucking combo, huh? Moses thought
it woulda went over really big in New York. To be honest with you,
I think he was right.”

“It’s too bad your friend got wasted, Sal.
But that’s the way life is, I guess. You lose a friend, you make a
friend.”

“I guess. But a guy like Adam? He didn’t
fucking deserve to die.”

“So he’s the reason you re-upped?”

“Nah, I already told you.” Sal winked and
smiled. “I like the fucking action.”

Out of nowhere, a very large soldier
purposely barreled into Angel’s chair trying to knock him over.
Standing well over six-feet, the big dumb bully was three
hundred-plus pounds of mostly muscle, but his over-indulgence in
alcohol had produced a spare tire. Well-known as a brawler, most of
the men stayed out of his way. They knew that the punk got off
beating up on his fellow soldiers, preferring to spend time in the
stockade, rather than risk his life out in the bush. Momentarily
stunned, Angel quickly regained his senses. Staring up at the human
Mac truck in combat boots, Angel shouted, “Hey, what’s your fucking
problem, cabron?”

“What did you just call me, asshole?”

Setting his drink down on the table Sal
slowly stood. “He called you a ‘cabron.’”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing good.”

“Oh, yeah? That little fucking wet-back
better apologize or else.”

“Or else what?” Sal fired back in a menacing
tone.

Though the soldier dwarfed Sal, he
hesitated. He could see in the eyes of the smaller man the gaze of
a deadly human weapon. Sal’s time in Vietnam had taught him that
fear only got men killed. Sal swore a long time ago that he would
rather die than ever back down, or surrender to anyone, ever. In a
show of support, the soldier’s companions gathered around him.

“McLaughlin. That’s your fucking name?” Sal
asked as he checked his name tag.

“Yeah, that’s my fucking name.”

“Well, McLaughlin, I think you owe my friend
here an apology.”

“I don’t apologize to no wet-backs.”

“Wet-backs are Mexicans. Angel’s Puerto
Rican.”

“I don’t apologize to no spics, either.”

“Look, you’re a big, tough Irishman. We get
it. Awright? Why do you wanna pick on this little guy? He’s what,
like a-hundred and sixty pounds, soaking wet with a fucking
hard-on. Just do the right thing and say you’re sorry. Then we can
all get on with our fucking lives.”