Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

such a headache right now he couldn’t make out any of the words. After a while the officer came in wearing a gigantic Hawaiian-print shirt, accompanied by the young Asian. “Colonel, they caught him,” Sam told the officer. “His name is Oswald.” The colonel said, “What kind of name is that?”—apparently as out

raged by the killer’s name as by his atrocity. “Fucking sonofabitch,” Sam said. “The sonofabitch,” said the colonel. “I hope they shoot his balls off. I

hope they shoot him up the ass.” Wiping at his tears without embarrassment he said, “Is Oswald his first name or his last name?” Houston told himself that first he’d seen this officer pissing on the ground, and how he was watching him cry.

To the young Asian, Sam said, “Sir, we’re hospitable as hell. But gen

erally Philippine military aren’t served here.” “Lucky’s from Vietnam,” the colonel said. “Vietnam. You lost?” “No, not lost,” the man said. “This guy,” the colonel said, “is already a jet pilot. He’s a South Viet

Nam Air Force captain.”

Sam asked the young captain, “Well, is it a war over there, or what? War?—budda-budda-budda.” He made his two hands into a submachine gun, jerking them in unison. “Yes? No?”

The captain turned from the American, formed the phrases in his mind, practiced them, turned back, and said, “I don’t know it’s war. A lot people are dead.”

“That’ll do,” the colonel agreed. “That counts.” “What you doing here?” “I’m here for helicopters training,” the captain said. “You don’t look hardly old enough for a tricycle,” Sam said. “How old

are you?” “Twenty-two years.” “I’m getting this little Slope his beer. You like San Miguel? You mind

that I called you a Slope? It’s a bad habit.” “Call him Lucky,” the colonel said. “The man’s buying, Lucky. What’s your poison?” The boy frowned and deliberated inside himself mysteriously and

said, “I like Lucky Lager.” “And what kind of cigarettes you smoke?” the colonel asked. “I like the Lucky Strike,” he said, and everybody laughed. Suddenly Sam looked at young Seaman Houston as if just recogniz

ing him and said, “Where’s my rifle?” For a heartbeat Houston had no idea what he might be talking about.

Then he said, “Shit.” “Where is it?” Sam didn’t seem terribly interested —just curious. “Shit,” Seaman Houston said. “I’ll get it.” He had to go back into the jungle. It was just as hot, and just as

damp. All the same animals were making the same noises, and the situation was just as terrible, he was far from the places of his memory, and the navy still had him for two more years, and the President, the President of his country, was still dead—but the monkey was gone. Sam’s rifle lay in the brush just as he’d left it, and the monkey was nowhere. Something had carried it off.

He had expected to be made to see it again; so he was relieved to be walking back to the club without having to look at what he’d done. Yet he understood, without much alarm or unease, that he wouldn’t be spared this sight forever.

Seaman Houston was promoted once, and then demoted. He glimpsed some of Southeast Asia’s great capitals, walked through muggy nights in which streetside lanterns shook in the stale breezes, but he never landed long enough to lose his sea legs, only long enough to get confused, to see the faces flickering and hear the suffering laughter. When his tour was up he enlisted for another, enchanted above all by the power to create his destiny just by signing his name.

Houston had two younger brothers. The nearest to him in age, James, enlisted in the infantry and was sent to Vietnam, and one night just before the finish of his second tour in the navy, Houston took a train from the naval base in Yokosuka, Japan, to the city of Yokohama, where he and James had arranged to meet at the Peanut Bar. It was 1967, more than three years after the murder of John F. Kennedy.

In the train car Houston felt gigantic, looking over the heads of pitch-black hair. The little Japanese passengers stared at him without mirth, without pity, without shame, until he felt as if his throat were being twisted. He got off, and kept himself on a straight path through the late drizzle by following wet streetcar tracks to the Peanut Bar. He looked forward to saying something in English.

The Peanut Bar was large and crowded with sailors and with scrubbed-looking boy merchant marines, and the voices were thick in his head, the smoke thick in his lungs.

He found James near the stage and went over to him, holding his hand out for a shake. “I’m leaving Yokosuka, man! I’m back on a ship!” was the first thing he said.

The band drowned out his greeting—a quartet of Japanese Beatles imitators in blinding white outfits, with fringe. James, in civvies, sat at a

little table staring at them, unaware of anything but this spectacle, and Bill fired a peanut at his open mouth. James indicated the performers. “That’s gotta be ridiculous.” He had

to shout to make himself even faintly audible. “What can I say? This ain’t Phoenix.” “Almost as ridiculous as you in a sailor suit.” “They let me out two years ago, and I re-upped. I don’t know—I just

did it.” “Were you loaded?” “I was pretty loaded, yeah.” Bill Houston was amazed to find his brother no longer a little boy.

James wore a flattop haircut that made his jaw look wide and strong, and he sat up straight, no fidgeting around. Even in civilian dress he looked like a soldier.

They ordered beer by the pitcher and agreed that except for a few strange things, like the Peanut Bar, they both liked Japan—though James had spent, so far, six hours in the country between flights, and in the morning would board another plane for Vietnam—or at any rate, they both approved of the Japanese. “I’m here to tell you,” Bill said when the band went on break and their voices could be heard, “these Japs have got it all plumb, level, and square. Meanwhile, in the tropics, man, nothing but shit. Everybody’s brain is boiled fat mush.”

“That’s what they tell me. I guess I’ll find out.” “What about the fighting?” “What about it?” “What do they say?” “Mostly they say you’re just shooting at trees, and the trees are shoot

ing back.” “But really. Is it pretty bad?” “I guess I’ll find out.” “Are you scared?” “During training, I seen a guy shoot another guy by accident.” “Yeah?” “In the ass, if you can believe it. It was just an accident.” Bill Houston said, “I saw a guy murder a guy in Honolulu.” “What, in a fight?”

“Well, this sonofabitch owed this other sonofabitch money.” “What was it, in a bar?” “No. Not in a bar. The guy went around back of his apartment build

ing and called him to the window. We were walking past the place and he says, ‘Hang on, I gotta talk to this guy about a debt/ They talked one minute and then the guy I was with—he shot the other one. Put his gun right against the window screen, man, and pop, one time, like that. Forty-five automatic. The guy kind of fell back inside his apartment.”

“What’d you do?”

“Just about filled my britches with poop. He turns around and sticks his gun under his shirt and, ‘Hey, let’s get some brew.’ Like the incident is erased.”

“What was your comment about all this?” “It kind of felt like I didn’t want to mention it.” “I know—like, shit, what do you say?” “You can bet I was wondering what he thought about me as a witness.

That’s why I missed the sailing. He was on our rig. If I’d shipped out with him, I’d’ve gone eight weeks without closing both eyes.”

The brothers drank from their mugs simultaneously and then sought, each in his own mind, for something to talk about. “When that guy got shot in the ass,” James said, “he went into shock immediately.”