The Memory of Running (14 page)

thought we should drive directly there from Rockville, but Mom held her tight in the
backseat and would not hear of it.

That night I went to bed early. I could hear Mom rocking in the chair next to Bethany in
my sisters room. She was singing In

Dublins Fair City, and she was singing it as slow as she could. I imagined she stroked
Bethanys hair and wondered how something this familiar seemed so unfamiliar. I felt as
though the things I had here werent mine anymore, or that I didnt want them. I suppose I
was going away then, and not waiting for the bus to Fort Dix to make it official.

The rain had gone the other way, east from where I had come, and the roll-downout of
Pennsylvania, into Maryland, and on up through West Virginiawas warm and dry. My little
road map showed Route 50 to be the longest somewhat-connected smaller road that eventually
dropped into the Los Angeles area, so I followed Route 11 until I picked it up.

Plans just happen, I have found out. I was someone whod never had a plan, so it shook me
up to see how simple they were to make and how often they just made themselves. First I
found myself checking my tires every fifty or so miles, and then I realized I was es-
sentially eating the same thing all the time and actually taking Father Bennys stress
tablets, and finally, each evening after I set my tent off the road, I would read some
Iggy. Maybe thats not a plan, maybe thats a habit. Whateverit was comfortable and gave me
a feeling I sort of knew what I was doing.

I finished Iggy in Hoagland, Ohio, eight days after I left the Gettys- burg Motel. I had a
wonderful day on the road. It was easier, a lot easier, for me to ride, and I had what I
call a Shad Factory feeling. A kind of tingle to get going every morning. The only
difference, really, was, Id known that the pickerel and perch were in their riffs waiting
for me at Shad, and now I didnt know anything, which was, like I said, wonderful. Every
morning I had an orange and a banana, then a big tuna sandwich for lunch, and more apples
and bananas for dinner.

Anyway, Iggy. So good I was sorry I finished it. It was his whole life right until he was
an old black man eating an apple under a Colorado cottonwood. Everybody would think that
he was just an- other old black man, but all of us who had read the book knew that he was
a giant. A great man at the end of his life. It was a tender kind of a secret, and I loved
knowing it.

In Hoagland that night, it thundered and flashed enough to light the cornfield that my
little tent was nestled against. I finished Iggy just as it started to rain. I brought my
saddlebags into the tent, then stretched out and listened to the rain ping all around me.
I began to think, and I guess the thoughts took me away. I was thinking about Norma, and
in my head I kissed her and felt her hands go around my back, and it was a powerful
squeeze. We kept our lips together, and I returned her squeeze and picked her out of that
chair and lay down with her in the long, warm, dewy grass of Ohio. I guess it was a love
dream, or thought, and I dont have many of them. A dream, maybe a hope, I dont know.

And I dont know about other things. Whenever Id felt a thought or something like an idea
or a desire creeping through my ice-cold Narragansett beers and tall screwdrivers, I could
always turn on the television and get away from me. In Scouts, before the beers and the
seventy channels on the TV, Id lie in my tent, awake all night with hopes of happy
grapefruit breasts and worries about tomorrow. Theyre here again. The breasts, the
worries, the hopefulness. How strange it is to feel a childs feelings again. This man full
of holes. This bicycle-pushing, knapsacked old man. I felt my face, the thick- ness of my
beard. I traced the lines of it over my cheeks and lips. Maybe I could trim this. Maybe I
could shave my neck. Maybe if I combed this high hair back. Maybe the dog thats howling
outside in the rain is hurt. Maybe its laughing or crying. But that was a country howl
there in the dark. A big mutt, somewhere. God, I love those big, sloppy mutts. Why dont I
have one? A big, sloppy friend who would shake himself apart for me. He howls again, and I
am satisfied its a good howl and hes not hurt. But this is how I think, away from the tall
drinks and remote control.

I weighed 121 pounds when I stood for my induction physical. A marine doctor was doing the
examining at the draft center and was convinced I had tried to starve myself to avoid the
war.

Not gonna work, little man, he snarled. Whats not gonna work? Im just gonna write down one
hundred thirty-one pounds. Got

a problem with that, little man? Anyway, here it is. I did basic training at Fort Dix,
went to Quar-

termaster School, Fort Leethats Virginiaand after eight weeks I had demonstrated I could
pass out supplies and mark ten sheets of paper each time I did. Then they sent me to
Vietnam in the infantry. I replaced a guy who was killed in advanced infantry training.
Dur- ing some exercise he had wandered onto the mortar range. I didnt know any of the
guys, and really I only got to know Bill Butler pretty good because he had the bunk under
me. Everybody called me Slim. I didnt tell anybody it was Smithy.

One night after dinner, we were reading the posted orders. Our company was going to the
war. We were told to get our shit short, straight, and clean, which meant pack up neat.
They lifted us up from Fort Lewis in Washington (state), and before we knew any- thing, we
were in the Alpha Base about twenty-five miles from Saigon and maybe one mile from a
village called Hee Ho. This was sort of our village, where Alpha would spend time and
drink and stuff. And, as I said, there were a lot of prostitutes. In America, from what
Ive seen in movies and magazines, its not hard to tell an American prostitute. They have a
certain way, a certain talk, like that. In-country prostitutes were like any of the other
women. Also, you didnt get a sense that the other women blamed them. For ten months of my
eleven-month tour, I did not seelet alone shoot atany enemy troops, so my real memories
are of Hee Ho and es-

pecially the three times I was with a woman. And, of course, of Bill Butler, who knew my
name and saved my life.

Bill was the blackest human I had ever seen. His skin was like a ripe eggplant. He had the
slightest mustache and short, flat hair. He was a little taller than me, maybe six foot,
and was a really muscular 180, 190 pounds. He was very mature for being only a year older
than me, and he called himself hep to the jive. Everybody liked him. He was cool and tough
in the way some people are cool and tough and never have to prove it.

Ya understand the shit I am laying down? he said under his sun- glasses, relaxing on his
cot.

Sure, I said.

Ya understand, see, that the women have the need, too. You see the muthafucks say, Shit,
jack, bitch dont need shit! See that? Oh, she need shitshe dont need your shit.

Bill threw back his square head and laughed and laughed. Bill loved to laugh at himself,
at how funny he could make the world look.

Now you, Slim man, you got to pop it here or you may never. I say Bill find you some fine
young thing. Im saying we all probably gonna die.

I laughed. Some of the other guys laughed. Anybody could die but us. Orlando Cepeda
laughed. From our tent we could hear mu- sic drifting over the tall grass from Hee Ho. The
music was Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. Every now and then Bill threw back his head
and sang a high accompanying scream. We laughed. It was be- yond hot outside, and we
pulled our tent flap down tight to escape a breeze that was actually hotter than the
stilled air. Even in the heat, Bill jumped up and danced with the backbeat. Sweat popped
and dribbled and pressed through his olive T-shirt.

Got to move. We got to move, baby. Bill gonna find all the fine young things.

Bill glided across the plywood-hinged flooring with an imaginary girl we could almost see.
He smiled at her tenderly.

You with Bill now, baby. There we go. Oooooh, look at how pretty you look. You fine, baby.
You Bills fine girl.

The music stopped, and Bill lay back down, sweating, on his cot. I was writing to my
family, only I had nothing to say. I knew they were worried, and it bothered me. So I kept
writing them pretty much the same thing. I was fine. I was safe. What an interesting jun-
gle this was.

We would go on perimeter patrols about every third day. Wed go for about three hours. Most
of the time, wed stay in the tent or play softball. At night wed walk over to Hee Ho.
Thats where I had my early beers and vodka, only it never tasted perfect until after
Bethany had gone and I discovered the pretzels and fresh orange juice. The village was
filled with bars. Our noncoms all had a piece of one bar or another, so they were pretty
much the same except for the Sandy Beach and the East St. Louis. The Sandy Beach was a bar
where the Vietnamese women were really men. A lot of soldiers went there. Bill and I never
did.

Its their thing, Bill would say, its their thing, thats all. But Jeeeee-sus. Man. Shit.

The East St. Louis was a black bar. There was a sign outsidetwo signs, actuallyand they
both said no whites allowed. If I was with Bill, which I usually was, I would wait outside
while he went in.

Got to see the brothers. Oh, sure. Ya know. Sure.

See what goin down. Sure. Uh-huh. One nightI remember it was a cool nightBill and I went to

this bar, and we were standing in a corner drinking something, be- cause the place was
packed and the seats were taken. I was kind of unsteady.

You swayin, Bill laughed. I dont know, I laughed. You one drunk muthafucka. A very little
girl came over and nuzzled Bill. She was maybe eigh-

teen or twenty, but she was so little her face didnt go with the rest of her.

How you doin, baby? Smith man, this is Faye. Dont she look like Faye Dunaway?

She looked over to me and smiled. I couldnt tell who she looked like. I smiled back. I
made a stupid face, and she giggled.

Hello, Faye, I said. This is my man, Slim. Hello, my man Slim, she said in imitation of
Bill. Fayes gonna come to America one day. Be an actress. Thats great. Shes gonna be a big
star. Thats great. San Diego, Faye said. Ive never been there, I said stupidly. San Diego,
she said again. Bill slipped his hand onto her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. So, Faye,
want to pop Slims cherry? Oh, sure. Faye smiled at me. Sucky, fucky. Come on. She grabbed
my arm and started to pull me toward the door. I

looked at Bill, and I knew my face was ridiculous because he laughed and shook his head.
Outside were empty oil drums stacked two high, arranged to create a maze of little rooms.
Each room was covered with canvas or oilcloth. You could hear other people in other rooms,
their voices and noises made louder by the hollow metal walls. An echo chamber where
private sounds bounced around the barrels. The floor was packed dirt, but there were
sleeping bags spread around it. Faye pulled her little brown dress over her head, and she
was naked except for her sneakers.

This is a . . . a . . . interesting room, I said. Pussy, she said pointing to herself. Its
very . . . pretty. . . . We dont . . . Faye unbuttoned my belt and pulled down my pants in
one mo-

tion. She pulled down my shorts. My penis was shrinking. It wasnt Fayes fault. It was
actually going back up inside me. I was afraid it would just disappear.

Where cock go? she asked me, concerned. Well, I never . . . Faye took my hands and put
them over her breasts. Tits, she

said. Now, you know whats clear about this time? This first time?

Clear enough so I can recall it exactly? Nipples. They went from brown, wide, and flat to
pointy little erasers. It was wonderful to feel them change under my hands.

Ooooh, she said. Mr. Cock come back.

And okay, it was silly and only lasted about a minute, and after- ward, when I paid her,
she had that look of nausea or something at having been with mehate, too. But I still see
it clear. Me and Faye Dunaway under the oil barrels.

Theres a girl on the Goddard assembly line, working doll-eyes quality control. She looks
like Faye. Shes little, too, and her hair is the same, but she speaks perfect English and
might be Japanese. I just dont know. What I do know is that Ive seen her working and chat-
ting with her friends and laughing out loud when one of the guys tells a joke, and I wish
I had been shot before I used a girl that looked like her. The way we did. I did. Money
being what it was.

I just dont know.

I had never heard of Lovella Loveland, which wasnt a surprise, be- cause Iggy was the
first book Id read in years. But there were her books arranged on a spin rack at a little
grocery store on the Ohio- Indiana border. Shed written a lot. I counted forty titles.
Savage and Silk, Se–or Sundown, Orbs and Opus. Like that. Each cover had a draw- ing of a
beautiful woman, her full breasts ripping and pushing to escape her shirt fabric, and
standing over her was a man, a bulging, hearty sort of man. In the picture, it was clear,
the woman was going to be okay. The cover of one particular book had a woman kind of
sprawled on the ground with a lot of her bottom showing, a big V of flesh between her
enormous breasts, and Normas face. Hair, too. It was called The Incidental Iconoclast
andIm not kiddingthe girl looked like red-haired, high-cheeked, dark-eyed Norma, right
down to that defiant face she makes. I didnt look like the Iconoclast or whatever standing
over her, but I put the book with my bananas and grapes and water and bought it.

The sun was out after four full days and nights of rain, so I was very careful to spread
my sunblock thick and wear my hat. My clothes also seemed to be stretching from all the
moisture in the air, because they seemed too big, and my neat Father Bennys shorts slipped
down when I walked.

I pedaled an easy rhythm over flat country that day. I made real progress and, for the
first time ever, didnt stop for lunch. I had my bananas and water while I rode. I had some
crackers. I sang some songs I remembered from Yawgoog, the Boy Scout camp. I talked to
myself. I saw Bethany under a huge tree and on top of a horse trailer. I saw her on the
water of a small pond and in the shape of a cloud. Hooks here, I would say. Hooks coming.
And I would say those things without sadness, because I was not sad with the poses she
showed me and the long smiles she threw.

Between Hartford and Dillsboro, Indiana, I slowed and stopped. It was getting night, and I
hadnt even noticed. It was my best bike day yet. I thought of Norma and wished Id called
her earlier, because there was no phone around, only a huge field of sunflowers. All the
flowers faced the setting sun. All the rows of flowers waved in a warm breeze. I had never
slept in a flower field before, and I said out loud, What a lucky man Hook is.

Thats when Carl Greenleaf s pickup truck hit me from behind.