Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

The noise of a single gunshot stopped his thoughts, and he ran to the café to look at the disaster, but nothing had happened. The towheaded boy sat alone there.

“HEY EVERYBODY,” the boy cried, though nobody was around. “This guy thinks he’s figured out some shit!” James stood in the entry and went no farther. He would have liked a

beer, but the lady had run off. “You want to play ‘Spin the Browning’?” James said, “No.” “You better get your shit-proof Playtex pants on, senor.” James took the chair across from him and sat with his hands at his sides. The boy stopped playing with the gun and scratched the puckered

end of his stump with his fingers, then resumed ejecting the clip into his palm and slapping it back in. “Don’t sit at my table if you don’t want to play my game.”

He’d obliterated the name on his name tape, apparently with the burning end of a cigarette. Instead of dog tags, from a string around his neck hung a rusty-pointed can opener.

He set the gun before him on the table next to a pack of Parliaments

and a Zippo lighter. “You like these things? Parliaments?” “Not much,” James said. “More for me.” He tapped out a cigarette, put it between his lips, and fired it up,

using only his right hand for these proceedings, resting the left on top of

the gun. James told him, “I can’t watch this.” “Fine. This ain’t the circus.” “How do I get a ride out of your insane asylum?” “Just start humping down the road.” “I can’t walk to Saigon.” The boy scratched his scalp with the gun’s muzzle. “No, man, no.

First motherfucker who sees you, he’ll be right up your ass with his scooter. Or his cousin will.” He kept the gun pointed at his scalp.

“Put that sucker down, would you?” “We all die, man.” “Ain’t you even got a name?” “Cadwallader.” “What about just putting it down for a minute? Then I could have a

beer with you.” “I told you my real name. Big mistake.” “Why is it a mistake?” “People know your name,” he said, “and it hurts.” “I realize you got tore up,” James said. “It’s the shits.” The towheaded boy closed his eyes and sat without a twitch, breath

ing through his nostrils. “Oh, man,” he said after a long time, “all you zombies.”

The buzz of a two-stroke engine approached and stopped outside. Cadwallader lowered the pistol to the tabletop. “The French have arrived.”

In came a skinny man dressed in Scotch-plaid Bermuda shorts, zoris, and a long-sleeved shirt. A white man, blue-eyed and bald-headed. Pulled up a chair as if to sit, but hesitated, noticing the weapon.

“It’s for you,” he said, and set down a cardboard packet next to Cadwallader’s hand.

Cadwallader dropped his cigarette and let it burn on the floor. He stripped a side away from the packet and spilled a dozen or so large tablets onto the tabletop. He plunked four down the spout of his 33 beer, and the mixture began to foam. He toasted James. “Time for a change.”

James said, “Frenchie.” “C’est moi.” “You speak English?” He shrugged disinterestedly. “This motherfucker’s fixing to do himself harm.” This time a complete body shrug—hands, shoulders, lifting himself

on his toes—with a little grimace of the face. “Why don’t we get us a couple of girls?” James suggested. Cadwallader watched the tabs fizz and dissolve in his beer. “You can’t

just paint everything with your mind to make it look like it makes sense.” “Don’t pussy make sense no more?” Frenchie swung his seat around, straddled it backward, and sat with his stringy legs sticking out and his forearms resting on the back of the chair.

Cadwallader floated his hand above his leg as if conjuring up the missing portion. “This is the only thing in the world I’ve ever seen that isn’t bullshit.”

“I hate to be the one telling you,” James ventured to say, “but that shit ain’t nothin’. There’s guys with a whole lot worse been done to them.”

“Here’s the explanation, Frenchie. We all die, right? Fuck you.” Cadwallader swirled his potion and drank it off in several pulls. He sat back and began cleaning under his fingernails with the pointed end of his church key. “Go ahead and go for that gun.”

The old man didn’t move. “Do you say I need a gun? Don’t you know I’m French? Our war is lost.” “There’s only one happy ending, man. If I don’t blow this world away, then I’m a coward and a bullshitter.” “Catch you later.” James got up slowly and with, he hoped, a harmless air. “I didn’t hurt nobody. So don’t tell me about karma.”

I wasn t. “Then don’t.” “I don’t even know what karma is.” “You’re better off.” “I’m going somewheres. I’m going for a swim. So if you end up doing

something, there won’t be nobody here to care.” “Frenchie’s here.” “Frenchie don’t care,” James said, and went back down the path to sit

on the seawall.

In only a couple of minutes the towheaded boy came after him. Having jammed the index finger of each hand into the mouth of a 33, he was able to carry two dangling bottles while humping on crutches. He stopped. Hung on his struts like a scarecrow, flicking drops from the mouth of one of his beers, with his thumb, directly into James’s face. “As the recipient of a Purple Heart I can fuck with you all I want, and it’s tough shit.”

“The fuck it is.” “You can’t attack a pitiful cripple.” “The fuck I can’t.”

“Hold these 33s for me.” He dropped the left crutch, and lowered

himself down the other to sit on the sand before letting it fall. James gave him back one beer and kept one. “Peace and love, my fellow Americans.” “All right, then. Peace and love.” “I got all sideways.” “It ain’t nothin’.” “Sorry ‘bout that, I guess.” “Is your leg hurting you?” “I can call you a dumb fuck for asking a dumb-fuck question, and

you can’t do shit, because I’m crippled. You want some pills?” “Not just now I don’t.” “There’s thirty milligrams of codeine inside every one of these

things.” “I tried pot a few times … Hell, I been drunker’n that.” “My invisible foot hurts.” “What area is this?” “We’re in Phan Thiet. Or Mui Ne.” “I never seen boats like that before.” “Those are dinghies. The real boats are out fishing.” “They look like bowls for soup.” “What are you? Absent without leave, missing in action, or deserter?” “AWOL, some.” “I’m a deserter.” “I’m just AWOL. Anyways I think.” “Thirty days and it’s desertion.” “I ain’t up to thirty yet.” “My leg deserted. So I followed the example. Cut out from China

Beach.” “Didn’t you like it?” “That smiley gung-ho physical therapy? Fuck no. I like to drink and

cry and take pills.” “I don’t need telling.” “Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that, GI. I got seized up in a mood.” “So this is Phan Thiet, you think?” “Yeah. Or Mui Ne.”

“And this is really the worl’ famous whorehouse? I heard this place jumped.” “It’s been like this for the last two weeks. It don’t jump since the big

push. The enemy triumphed over Frenchie.” “Where’d everybody go?” “Mostly people went back to their units, or somewhere else, I don’t

know. You’re coming the other way.” “I guess I am.” “You bug out at the height of the action, boy, that’s desertion.” “Why are you trying to convince me that I deserted?” “I’m philosophizing, brother, not convincing. Hey, if they were shoot

ing at me, I’d leave too—Wait! I already did!” “I didn’t desert for that.” “Then why?” “I had to see a feller.” “Who is it?” “A guy supposed to be at Hospital Number Twelve over there.” “So you cut out to go see him?—or you cut out so you don’t have to?” “Yeah, funny. What’s your name again?” “Cadwallader.” “Don’t rag on me, Cadwallader. I got twice as many legs to kick