To Saigon

 J. R., the battalion mail clerk, was obsessed with Australia. “I'll arrange it. The girls are unbelievable and there’s steak every night.”

“I think I’ll pass.”

A few weeks later, we were lifting weights. “Hey man.”

“What’s up?”

“Business in Saigon. You might like it.”

I had a bug for Saigon, source of all the trouble at the defense department. “What’s the plan?”

He dropped the weights and wiped his face with a towel. “Job for the Bird. You better bring your .45.”

We typed up trip tickets, drew a jeep from the motor pool, and got out onto Route 1, a road somewhat less than thrilling. Occult symbols carved on stone markers sat along the sides. “Buddhist swastikas,” J. R. explained, “for good luck.” Blew my mind.

Everything changed an hour later on Tu Do Street, clogged with taxis, bicycles and scooters of every imaginable type. Hard to believe that a war was being fought next-door.

“You won’t find this in Minneapolis, mate. Look at the life!” exclaimed J. R. He was groping for 2nd gear when he passed a Moped and missed the mark, breaking the parking light, spitting glass into the street. The Moped pulled off onto the sidewalk. J. R. slammed the brakes and stopped amidst panicked children, mothers and old people. “What’s up everybody?”

An angry mob formed screaming bloody murder, smelling money:

“Dịt mẹ.”

“No place like Nam. War never end for you, G.I.”

“Get Lost.”

I calmly worked my gun belt around and the jostling stopped out of respect for Smith & Wesson.

J. R.’s eyes swept the crowd and landed on a girl in a miniskirt and dark glasses smoking a cigarette in a long holder. He stared as he reached for his cheroots. “Whore.” The girl’s shoulders shook under her light-green shirt: “Thằng Mỹ!”

MPs arrived in a jeep. Starched fatigues and polished boots. “What have we got here?” came from the passenger seat.

“We got orders,” said J. R. through a gush of smoke.

“I don’t give two shits about orders. Get the fuck out of here before the White Mice (Saigon police) and the Cowboys (gangs of armed teenagers) show up!”

“Damn slants could learn a lesson in gratitude,” said J. R., pulling out with one hand on the wheel.

I followed J. R. into the decaying urban sprawl as if in a Hollywood movie, stopping often, fascinated and a bit scared. We went fast enough, through buildings, rooms, hotels and alleyways in every quarter. Viet war-wounded, street kids, refugees, GI junkies in doorways breathed realism into my ideation of Saigon.

My orders didn't cover an overnight, but I agreed to stay. He took a room and a girl; I had a wife at home.

The next day I was sitting in the warm morning sun alongside J. R. on Route 1, a satchel on my lap, rolling past armed convoys and goofy buses, families with a goat inside and a water buffalo outside.

Life was everywhere.