Winston
My life as a company clerk may not have been sexy, but it was the most sought after job in Vietnam. (Killer wanted it bad, but never got his chance.) Besides the full-time job of taking care of company business, I was mother confessor and personal vending machine. “Can you get me a Swiss knife?” “How about a Rolex?” “Any rings?” “Camera?” “A pipe?” If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. “I’ll give you a gook ear for an SKS.” “A TV?” “Chocolate covered cherries?” I’d been running around in a thousand different directions when I put away the typewriter and hit the sheets, tired. Sometime later, I began to dream: It was raining. My wife offered a ride in our Impala. I said, “I’ve been expecting you. I’m all right. I’m alive,” and got in. Her hair was mussed and she was wearing clothes she wore the day I left for Vietnam. We drove on and smoked cigarettes. Someone was in the back seat sleeping. My wife stopped outside our apartment and grabbed my wrist. I tried to pull away. She tightened