Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

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head and leave him laying, doesn’t he know that?” “J esu God!” Fisher shouted. He kicked viciously at the wall of the cabin. The truck stopped again. “Now see what you done!” Houston cried. “These bastards are gonna kill us now!” Only one—Flatt—popped up at the rear. “GI!” he shouted. “GI motherfucker! Incoming!” One at a time he tossed in three cans of Budweiser beer. “That was a stupid gag,” he admitted.

“Goddamn right,” Fisher said. “Well, anyway, those are real-ass stateside cans of Bud with pull tabs. Eat up them beers, and no hard feelings.”

Fisher continued as spokesman: “Yes hard feelings! Jesus God! What are you, a goddamn NVA Vietcong spy?” He popped his beer and foam sprayed everywhere and he cried, “Fuck!”

“We’re taking an R-and-R detour,” the man said. “Have you ever had sideways pussy?” The three had rearranged themselves now on the benches. Nobody

replied. “I repeat: Have you ever had sideways pussy?” They continued pondering the question. “I believe I have your attention now,” Flatt said, and he hopped off

the bumper and they recommenced their travels. “Jesus God!” Fisher said. “Don’t say Jesus God no more,” Evans said. “What am I supposed to say?” “J don’t know. How am J supposed to know?” James held his beer can down by his feet as he popped it. He dropped

the tab into the can and turned it up to his face and guzzled warm Budweiser till the tab hit his tongue, and still he sucked at the opening.

A storm came over, fell like a cataract for five minutes, and subsided. Then it was foggy, hard to breathe. James slid himself along the bench to the end of the carrier and ventured to look out at the Vietnam War— rain dripping from gigantic leaves, deformed vehicles, small people—the truck gearing down, engine bawling, mud boiling under the big tires — barefoot pedestrians stepping away from the road, brown faces passing, rut after rut after rut, the beer lurching in his stomach. He mopped his face with the hem of his shirt, shielded his brow with his hand, and watched the sunset, as it fell below the level of the clouds, turn the colors of the world both somber and powerful. They’d joined a highway. All the roadside vegetation looked dead. The concrete pavement had acquired a reddish tint from all the mud rubbed into it. All kinds of vehicles used this road, bicycles and motor scooters and larger contraptions apparently created out of exactly such two-wheeled conveyances, and oxcarts and pushcarts, as well as half-naked pedestrians in conical hats, bent down by large bundles. The truck pushed east along the road with much honking, much zigging and zagging, braking and gearing. For a while they moved so slowly a cart behind them was able to keep pace, and James stared for a long time into the stupid, deeply sympathetic face of a water buffalo.

The dark came abruptly. For a while the traffic got very sparse, and then it appeared they were slowing, they were in, or near, some kind of town. The carrier stopped before a structure made mostly of bamboo, with a sign out front dimly lit by a red bulb and saying COCA-COLA and LONG BRANCH SALOON. Floating in its red cloud, the place looked hot, damp, mysterious, lonely. Music thudded within. Houston leaned out and peered frontward and could see quite a lot of doings ahead, shadowy structures and the tiny moving lights of bicycles. Between here and there, however, lay a long patch of darkness.

Their hosts, or captors, approached. Flatt said, “Get out of my truck.” “Really?” Houston said. “Give them a break, Flatt. Come on.” “All right,” Flatt agreed. “Fm sorry I been fucking with you. You guys

are the best thing happened all week. Your ride coming in so late means we should really, really in the interest, you know, of the wisest judgment, spend the night here in Bien Hoa. So you and Jolly entertain yourselves, and meanwhile, I gotta go in here to the Long Time and see a couple important enemy spies.”

“We’re coming with you, right?” Evans said.

James said, “Well, ain’t you going in yourself right now?” “I’m on officiai business,” Flatt said. “You guys better just find an

other spot up the street there. Go over to the Floor Show.” “Up the street?” Fisher said. That’s not a street. It’s dark.” “Corporal Jollet will escort you into town.”

“All right—shit. Fine. Shit. I’ll take over,” said Jollet. “All aboard,

let’s go.” “Oh no you don’t. The truck stays here.” “It’s near a klik to anyplace else!” “Men,” Flatt said, “carry on. Move in single file and pray your asses

don’t get ambushed your first night on the ground. You got any money?” “Shit,” Jollet said. “They don’t have any money.” “You keep saying ‘Shit’ like it’s my name,” Flatt said. “Stop saying

‘Shit’ like it’s my name. How much you guys got? Because in this wacky-ass modern world where we’re living,” he explained, “you can’t get laid without no money. You got enough for a beer?”

“How much is a beer?” “I got a couple bucks,” James admitted. “U.S. cash or MPC?” “Regular dollar bills.” “Corporal Jollet, take these new guys to the Floor Show.” Flatt and Jollet, both bumping into each other and getting in each

other’s way, giving off an aura of mutual dependence and resentment, like brothers, placed their M 16s in the carryall’s tool compartment. Jollet said to the privates, “Where’s your weapons?”

“Jesus God!” Fisher cried out. “I TOLD you!” James said, “We don’t have no weapons.” “How bizarre,” Flatt said. “Are we gonna get some?” “Yes, I believe we can furnish you all the weapons you want,” Jollet

assured them. “This is a war.” Flatt went into the Long Branch Saloon, leaving them with Jollet,

who said, “I’m not actually gonna say it, but I feel like saying, ‘Shit.’ ” He turned and headed toward the town. They could only follow. “Where are we?” “Bien Hoa. We don’t go past the edge. It’s all air force in there.” It was dark. This was Vietnam. “Goddamn,” James said, trying to

keep his voice as soft as the darkness. “The point being?” “The point being is, it’s darker’n hell.” “They should show you a picture of how dark it is here before you

sign up at the recruiters,” Evans said.

“I didn’t sign up,” Fisher said. “They drafted my ass. And I qualified

for chopper training.” “Then what are you doing here?” Evans asked. “What are you doing here?” “I volunteered,” Evans said. “Why? Two things: curiosity plus stupid

ity. What about you, Cowboy?” Having mentioned that his mom worked on a ranch, James Houston had become a cowboy. He said, “Just stupidity all by itself, I guess.” Fisher said, “You think they have any mines around here? Mines on

this road? Booby traps or anything?” “Shut up, all of you,” Jollet said, and instantly they shut up. James smelled cook-smoke, greasy vapors. They walked toward the

vague dim lights, not very far off now, their boots creaking and their canteens ticking. He would never top this feeling, he was sure of it: scared, proud, lost, hidden, alive.

Fisher broke the silence. “Can you please just tell us where we’re going?”

Jollet halted to light a cigarette, sending over the region a glow from his lighter. “To this place called the Floor Show. The floor shows used to be very weird, due to a lack of music.” He waved the lighter and the flame went out. “See? No snipers.”

“What do you mean ‘floor shows’?” “They should be improved considerably. I heard they got a jukebox.” “What’s on it?” “Songs, man. Tunes, you know?” “Where’d they get a fucking jukebox?” “Where do you think? Some NCO club someplace. Somebody sold