Stephen Wright - Meditations in Green

“Well, it isn’t easy finding out what’s going on.” Griffin indicated the silent figure in the corner huddled over a day-old copy of Stars and Stripes whose pages had remained unturned for more than an hour.

“Vegetable,” called Griffin.

After a long pause Vegetable lifted his head. Spokes of golden fire stood erect in the backs of both eyes, as if the corneal grates which normally screened the delicate Self from the raw full rush of the Real were now chemically wrenched open, allowing a peek into that holy furnace where outer meets inner and bursts into wild combustion upon the charged wall of the retina. Griffin was surprised by an appealing intuition: perhaps in the sweep of those beacons playing over fields of newsprint Vegetable truly could divine the arcane pulse that manipulated the world. Such knowledge, of course, would remain private, unspoken, lost to memory, because Vegetable, for all his fine shamanistic air of preternatural wisdom, was ripped totally out of his gourd.

“Huh?” he said at last. A smile slipped off his bright teeth and dripped onto his chin.

“Never mind.”

Suddenly the dog came awake, froze facing the door, ears stiffened. Boots began to stumble down the corridor outside. Griffin clutched the bag of marijuana and, bending backward, held it cautiously over the hole in the floor behind his bed. A moment later a soft knock sounded on the door. “Who is it?” he answered.

“Creighton Abrams, asshole.”

Griffin relaxed and sat up. He placed the bag against his pillow. “Let him in.”

Simon reached over and drew the bolt.

Beaming with the untranquilized delirium of an escaped lunatic, Triplett entered the room accompanied by a pale chubby PFC draped in brand-new but badly wrinkled fatigues several sizes too large. CLAYPOOL read the shining name tag.

“Lookee what I got,” he announced, clapping his arm about the rounded shoulders of the open-mouthed boy. “A fucking new guy.”

Griffin experienced a dreary film buff’s satisfaction. The single character lacking from their B-war had finally arrived: The Kid. His past, his future were as clear, defined, and predictable as the freckles on his smooth face. He had never left home, would write his family once a day, sob himself to sleep each night. He becomes an abused mascot of the company, is kidded relentlessly until the brusque hero (Griffin?), brimming with manly tenderness, takes pity and shelters him from an apparently good-natured but actually quite cruel reality. Friendship cemented, acceptance complete, the next morning The Kid trips a land mine and blows his guts out, anointing his new buddies with a moist spew of panchromatic gore, his large colon, floating in a nearby lotus pond, spelling out good-bye among the fronds. The hero, a tear streaking his muddy cheek, ships The Kid’s meager possessions (six comic books, a stringless yo-yo, a smudged photo of Betty Lou) home to a Nebraska farm to be wept over, no doubt, by a pair of simian parents and a bereaved hog. Inflamed by vengeful hate, the hero then goes berserk, slaughtering a division of godless gooks and half the allied general staff before being subdued by a foxhole presentation of the Congressional Medal of Honor at precisely the moment Griffin’s dazed mind always congealed to jelly.

“I thought I’d bring him over for the usual orientation,” said Trips.

Claypool nodded shyly in acknowledgment.

“Have a seat,” offered Griffin, pointing to an empty five-gallon water can. “Sorry we can’t do any better, but our furniture’s out being reupholstered. The humidity is murder on material.”

“Is it always this hot?”

Everyone laughed.

“Enjoy yourself,” said Trips. “You don’t know what hot is.”

“Where you from back in the world?” Simon asked.

“Indiana. New Harmony, Indiana.”

“That anywhere near Shit Creek?” asked Trips.

“It’s about thirty miles northwest of Evansville, right near the Illinois line.”

“What about snow?” Griffin inquired. “You had any snow yet?”

“There was four inches on the ground the day I left.”

“Snow,” said Simon.

“Where the hell’s the weed,” Trips demanded. “You ladies can chat about the weather later.”

Griffin handed him the bag. He immediately plunked down on the footlocker next to Simon, pulled out a packet of licorice-flavored Zig-Zags, and began rolling a joint as thick as a cheroot. “What’s with famous Vegematic there?”

“We figure he got another shipment of blotter acid from his brother,” said Griffin. “He’s been like that since mail call.”

“Thank God for mail call. Packages and goodies from our loved ones.”

“Did you hear,” said Simon, “that Noll got Sergeant Ramirez to let him use one of the mess hall ovens so he could bake some cookies to send to his folks.”

“How cute,” Trips said. “He should have mixed some grass into the dough, too.”

“He did.”

“Oooooooo,” Trips crooned. “I love this war. Soooo much. I ain’t never going home.”

He lit the finished joint and, smiling wickedly through a curl of smoke, brandished it triumphantly under Claypool’s nose. “Welcome to Vietnam.”

“The Magical Mystery Tour,” added Griffin.

Claypool took the jay gingerly between his fingers and puffed delicately as though he were sucking a hot coal.

“You ever smoke before?” asked Griffin.

“Oh yeah… sure… a couple of times.”

“You’re in the big leagues now, sonny,” Trips said.

Claypool grinned self-consciously and forced himself to inhale. “Gee, that’s strong,” he gasped, breaking into a fit of spasmodic coughing.

“Again,” said Trips.

Gamely, Claypool tried again and succeeded in holding his breath without gagging. “I don’t feel anything, maybe it’s not working.”

“Again,” said Trips.

Joints passed from hand to hand and soon the small room was filled with ragged bands of drifting haze, the distinctive scent of disassembly, burning, penetrating, and gosh, Johnny, Indiana is so far away, twelve thousand miles far, day there now, a whole wide ocean away, never saw so much water and sky, guess you either swim or fly.

Claypool looked around as if he were just noticing everything for the first time. “What do you guys do here?” he asked suddenly.

“You’re doing it,” answered Griffin.

“This and that,” said Trips. “Supersecret spy stuff. You cleared for rumor?”

“I’ve got a secret, if that’s what you mean.”

“He’s got a secret,” Simon said.

“Tell you,” Trips explained, “we got so many secrets around here they got to run our shit through a shredder. There’s nothing we don’t know. Why, we even got itty-bitty bugs trained to sniff out Charlie’s farts. This is a high-class operation you’ve dropped into, buddy, dukes of the spooks.”

“Does anybody ever have to go out into the field?”

“Ssssshh.” Trips raised a cautionary finger to his lips. “Don’t give them ideas. What do you think we got all these fancy toy planes and cameras and radar for. We bring the field to us. Only crazies leave the company area. Don’t you know what can happen Out There?” He waved his fingers at the walls. “A person could get his head squashed like a grape.”

“It did not retain its natural firmness, that is true,” said Simon.

“So we just sit right here all comfy and cozy and hope we never run out of dope.” He handed another joint to Claypool. “Who was the fool dumb enough to go up with him?”

“Nobody knows,” said Simon. “Some new pilot the CO was flight-checking. He only got here this morning.”

“Great epitaph for his stone: I only got here this morning.”