Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

it out the back door.” “And you don’t know what’s on it?” “How would I know that, Private? I got no fucking idea.” “But, I mean —just a general idea.” Jollet halted, his face toward the sky. “DEAR LORD. I HAVE NOT

BEEN TO SEE THE FUCKING THING YET.”

A broken-off sign out front of the place said FLOOR SHOW. It looked like a barn, only inside instead of goats and chickens there were people, mostly small women. Behind the plywood bar a green neon sign said LITTLE KING’S ALE. There were lava lamps. “Sit here,” Jollet instructed them. They sat at a table. “You, sir. Your name is what?”

“Houston.” Jollet said, “Buy me a beer, Houston.” “I’ll buy you just one, and that’s all.” ‘Tow, daddy! Yer scratchin’ my number.” “What does that mean?” “That means I need two dollars.” One of the women approached. “You want floor show?” She seemed

to guess Jollet was the one to talk to, maybe because he hadn’t sat down.

She smiled at him in her tight, short blue dress. She’d lost a front tooth. “No floor show. Beer now, floor show later.” “I be your waitress,” she said. “Give me two dollars,” he said. “Four beers.” James said, “Lemme have a Lucky Lager.” “No Lucky. Puss Boo Ribbon.” “Pabst? Nothing but Pabst?” “Puss Boo Ribbon or 33.” Jollet said, “Bring us 33.” “I want Pabst,” James said. “You want the cheapest,” Jollet said. “Bring it in the bottle. Don’t

bring me no dirty glass.” She took Houston’s money and departed. Looking terrified, Fisher said, “All righty, then!” “Fellers,” Jollet said, “I’m gonna sky on out of here.” “What?” “Got errands to run. You children stay put.” “What? How long do we stay here?” “Till I get back.” “How long is that, man?” “Corporal Jollet,” said Fisher, “please. We just came from the States.

We don’t know where we are.” “I know where you are. So just stay where you are till I get back.” The woman returned carrying four bottles by their necks, two in each hand. Jollett intercepted her, took one, said, “Thank you very much,” and disappeared.

And here they sat while the woman wiped the sweat off their beers with a bar rag. She was very small and wore a lot of makeup too white for her dark complexion.

“This beer tastes like pimple medicine,” Fisher declared. Evans said, “What was the name of this town again?” James tipped his beer to his mouth and guzzled and tried to think.

He drank half of it down, but no thoughts came. The beer tasted like any other. “We didn’t need them Yankees anyway,” he said. “J needed them. Fm lost” Fisher said. “I’m a Yankee too,” he pointed

out. The woman said, “You want floor show?” “Beer now,” Evans said. “Floor show later. Okay?” She leaned down and said directly to James, “You want bo-jup?” “What did she say?” ” ‘Scuse me,” James said, “did you mean to say, you know, blow job,

are you saying?” “Bullshit.” “That’s what she said.” “Oh, holy Jesus God,” Fisher said. “How much is it?” “One time right now two dollar.” “Can you believe this?” “Somebody loan me two dollars,” James said. “You’re the one with the money.” “I ain’t got it,” James said. “What’s your name?” Evans said. “My name Lowra,” she said. “That means Laura, right?” “I give you good bo-jup.” “Beer now, bo-jup later,” Evans said. He looked pale and amazed. Rapidly James finished his 33 beer, the only thing in this environ

ment he felt qualified to deal with. In a corner at several tables shoved together sat a gang of youngsters in white uniforms, sailors from a foreign land, all holding or wearing berets of a color indeterminate in this dimness, most of them with whores in their laps. Nearby the famous jukebox throbbed redly like a forge. In a central spot three couples slow-danced, hardly moving, to “YouVe Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’.” A tall GI kissed his partner in an endless, terrifying kiss, enshrouding her in his arms, hunched over her and devouring her face. The couples continued in exactly the same fashion while the machine stopped its music, while it whirred and deliberated. When the Beach Boys’ “Barbara Ann” came on, the foreign sailors sang along sloppily. James felt like joining in, but he was too shy. Whatever the rhythm, the dancers stood like zombies grappling in a trance. “I think those sailor-looking guys are French,” Evans said. “Yeah, they’re French.”

The three men of the infantry sat watching the dancers while the jukebox played some woman singing “Makin’ Whoopee” and then another doing “The Girl from Ipanema.”

When Laura came around and asked again about a floor show, Fisher said, “Voulez vous coucher avec moi?” and she said, “Mais oui, monsieur, boo-coo fuck-you,” and the three broke down in hilarious embarrassment, and she left them with a quick, dismissive air.

“Buy me a beer, Houston.” “I done bought you one. Buy me one now.” Evans said to James: “You dildo-sniffer.” “What’s that? What’s a dildo-sniffer?” “I think it’s fairly obvious.” James thought not. “What’s a dildo?” he asked Fisher. “You got any money?” “Where’s my two dollars?” “Ask them.” “Don’t I get no change back?” “Ask them.” “I ain’t asking anybody anything.” “Shut up,” Evans said, “let me count. You know what? In this room

there’s more women than guys. There’s fifteen women.” “Would you fuck one?” “What do you mean? Of course I would. I’d fuck all of them.” “They’re kind of ugly,” Fisher said. “Kind of, yeah,” James said, “but not exactly.” He stared at one across

the room—pug-nosed, sexy-lipped. Her flat, noncommittal gaze provoked him.

“I’ll buy, and then you buy,” Evans told Fisher. “Deal.” “Deal.” “So go get them.” “You go get them.” “You’re buying, so you get them.” “Fine, fucker,” Evans said. “Is everybody twenty-one? Can I check

your ID?” “Are you gonna get them beers or not?” James said. “Yes.” Evans crossed into the smoky gloom as if moving forward out

of the trenches, as if this were finally the war. When he got back he seemed happy with himself. “One more beer

and I’m ready to dance. But really. Houston. Hey. How old are you?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know? You don’t know? I’m nineteen. There, I told you, so

you tell me.” “Eighteen.” “Eighteen?” “Me too,” Fisher said. The jukebox started playing “Walk on By” by Dionne Warwick. A fat whore who seemed to be dancing all by herself nearby turned

slowly, and in doing so revealed a short man almost dangling in her embrace, his head on her breast. Two-inch heels on his cowboy boots made his rear end jut like a woman’s. Fisher started laughing at the couple and showed no ability to restrain himself.

The man disengaged himself from his partner and came to their table. He was smiling, but when Fisher stood up, the little man said, “Do you want to get knocked down?”

“No.” “Well, don’t stand so tall-up and so bloody fucking close, then. How

tall are you?” “Tall enough.” “Tall enough to get knocked down,” the man said, mainly to the oth

ers. He wore jeans and a madras shirt. He was short, wide, round-headed.

“How tall?” “I don’t know.” “How many feet and inches, Yank?”

“Six feet five inches.”

“Jesus bloody hell.”

“You couldn’t knock me down,” Fisher said.

“He’s just being friendly,” James put in.

“I’m just saying what I think,” Fisher said, “about knocking me down.” “Sounds like you’ve grown your beer muscles now, mate.” “I’m just stating a fact.” “Oh, yeah, he’s got his beer muscles right big all over him!” “Who are you?” “I’m Walsh of the Australian merchant marine. I’m nine stone in