No Time to Retreat

((1980s, Villa Rica, Peru) (part twelve in “The Loro Machaco…” saga))


Alcalde Vladimir Vargas, relinquished his dream to be sent to one of the United States prominent Military Academy’s in the 1980s for the sake of Peru—so he claimed to the media—to put Villa Rica (a dote on a the map, a small town in a valley, in the Andes of Peru) under the guillotine for the sake of mankind, peace, and to restore law and order—not in Villa Rica per se, because the township was tranquil compared to many others, and especially compared to Lima and Huancayo, —but because he felt that was where the Loro Machaco Cartel lived and hid their supply of guns, weapons and ammunition (thus endangering the entire country as a whole, this was all the doings of a green-eyed or spiteful—you might say—Commanding General); that the people of Villa Rica were harboring them, the cartel and its people in particular. It was all speculation of course, and some of it was true, but not all. And had the military or police done a better job on the highways from Lima to Huancayo, they would not have had to contain, or gone to such lengths, gone to the edge of the jungle to Villa Rica to try and accomplish a mission of terrorism that took place on the highways of Peru, not in the little hamlet or township of Villa Rica.

Here was a young man at twenty-three, with peasant and brittle bones, quite intelligent, who wanted to be known permanently in the annuals of warfare, be made general at thirty, who at sixteen had this obsession to go to West Point Academy in the United States—a man with a vast sick pale moon for a face and a deep set of eyes in sockets that looked hungry, who had told his mother at this youthful, and trying age, “Watch, I will be the general of the Peruvian Army some day,” then she died of Cancer.

He picked out a public figure for a wife, at the age of twenty-years old, she being seventeen (and just out of the stage of playing with paper dolls), was unconscious to his obsession; and he became a captain in the Army in two-years; her uncle being a general from Huancayo, assisted in that quick promotion.
His dreams of success was like a painted backdrop—in that he had it planned out, and now they were smashed and he accepted that with a fragile stride to go and root out the guns and terrorist in that impenetrable valley and township of Villa Rica. He knew nothing of the cartel, nor cared to, thus he was stepping into unreality, angry and his mind filled with the beauty of his new shapely wife, and a dream smashed, by a general higher up than Carmella’s, uncle.
Vladimir Vargas now had to prove himself, once and for all, and if intelligence did it so be it, but what he had at the moment was this unfutured, unuttered (by all the military), outpost, to establish himself.

●

Whether or not Villa Rica had ever been an actual threat once, is now a mystery, what actually took place, under Captain Alcalde Vladimir Vargas’ command, of which he had a company of 160-men, planted within the city’s limits, and the backing of the Commanding General, and his leadership in Lima, in due time, would bury its ostrich-head from the sight of it all, as the youthful Captain, started taking its liberties away, and throwing democracy into the sewers of Athens, where democracy was born. This atrocity took place for five-years in the 1980s, from that first day he arrived, to the beginning and end of that fifth involuntary year, and day which he had fallen in the eyes of every officer in the Army, and everyman in Peru everywhere, before he noticed it himself: So grave was his defalcating leadership, his wife buried her eyes in shame when she walked the streets of Lima.


Without warrants, or provocation, without the manual of war, he declared war on the township of Villa Rica, he, Captain Vargas, believed he knew the answer in getting all the guns and military paraphernalia, out of the hands of the cartel, by taking them forcefully out of the houses of Villa Rica, and its citizens.
Captain Vargas, he was looking different from what he had looked a year ago. No longer fragile, so much so as incurable, unblemished, by the ransacking of houses, ripping open matteresses at will, and in 99% percent of the search and attack procedures, they found nothing. He broke down house doors when civilians locked them, for avoiding confrontation was not possible unless you actually left the house, the premises, and then, they’d return, the military and question them why they had left, interrogating and torturing them in many cases to gain false information, and when they found out it was false, because there was no real condemning information to give the Captain (they had made it up to appease him), they’d be jailed (thus, building a jail five times the size they had witnessed when they arrived in the township, the only other escape was to sell their houses, or move); he even searched the classrooms to schools, he’d open up student lockers, and teachers desk drawers, In fact they, the soldiers under the captain’s command, if they had no more use for the untiring event, he’d allow his soldiers to rape a virgin at will, a housewife, even a student, he was more feared than the cartel itself, more ruthless, more insensitive, and this is what he thought would bring law and order.
He had his crucifix indeed, his amulet, his reliquary, his theater and boulevard to play his power game—but save that one, who gave the command for him to prove himself, the General, but he knew the answer to this, it was a gesture not to the youthful Captain, but to congress, one of those modest and discrete, but potent and powerful gestures, one they had been waiting for, for a long time, and he gave it to Carmella’s, uncle, in front of a congressional committee, as if it was his doings, plucking an Army officer before he could kneel as a candidate for consecration of saying he did what he did under the orders of the Commanding General.
And so now those who might have been jealous of this young captain, with a general behind him to further his career, who might have hid all his youthful wrongdoings, who might have named his coeval partner, this general who hated him for whatever reasons from the start, and used him to his bitter end, offered his wife’s uncle, the lower general, a pardon for his son-in-law, and should he not take it, god-forbid.

He was vanished to some far-off island (and this I cannot disclose, list I put his life in the hands of some butcher, and thus I become the infamous one, perhaps even claimed to be insensate to his impasse, with hungry eyes); his rank now reduced to sub lieutenant, none knew where he was sent to, except the commanding General (who is now dead), his wife didn’t even want to know; he was vanished from the knowledge of the Army, wrapped in wolf’s skin, to hide his identify, you might say, and to silence him, and those around him, once and for all, his last name was changed to sound more Napoleonic than Peruvian, for he became a villainous legend all wanted to forget.
At first, before they shipped him off to this island post, he even hid his name when he’d look at an Army list and someone was behind him. Now, as for the Army and his wife’s family, and his wife in particular, he was dead. His bones scattered and diffused about the perimeter of Peru, no flag to fly over his head when he’d be buried. And where would he be buried, this is yet too early to tell.

Note: Written after the author had gathered more information from a writer friend who lives in Villa Rica, and has for 35-years, came to stay with him a day in Huancayo . Written in his apartment 12-12-2008.

No Middle Ground

Kathy’s entry into the Loro Machaco Cartel (Part Ten)

“No, no!” Kathy cried. She had been leaning forward; he didn’t respond he didn’t hear her, he apparently was in some kind of thinking process or, trance, “Turn back, and don’t go on!” she insisted.
When Tony said what he said to Kathy, that he was going to take her, or rape her, or slay her, she almost slammed his foot on the brakes with her foot, now she knew why he was heading into the dark side of the highway.
“I was just kidding,” Tony said, “we’ll just park next to the river bridge (near Saint Jeronimo, in the Mantaro Valley, Peru; Kathy had been dating Tony going on a week now, she was twenty, him, thirty-five, both from Huancayo, it was the winter months of 1975, she was a student at a nearby college, him a professor from the same University).
Her face was pale, eyes blind with rage, hers mouth open, and him, he was in some kind of agony of despair, as if to surrender, but Kathy had taken the situation, at face value, and watched his hand set the lever back into gear, no longer about to stop the car and rape her, as she felt he thought he might; his foot came down on the gas pedal hard, and again he was racing down the valley road back to Huancayo, the throttle wide open.
“You said it yourself,” said Kathy, “you’re going to rape me or slay me…!”

It was about an hour after sundown, Tony stopped the car, and she got out, and he watched her disappear down the road toward the township of St. Jeronimo, where her uncle owned a silver shop, by the name of Jesus, she figured she’d get a ride home from him.

He honked his horn at her to return, she made no reply, it was as though she had not heard it, but he knew she had, then with his headlights, he saw her in motion, descending the dark street into the township, her skirt lifted from her trim, ankles and feet, he wanted her even more now, perhaps that was why her voice was no longer quiet, and she yelled at him to leave her be, and she picked up a large stone, it overlapped her palm and hand and as the car came closer to her she swung the stone at his window, and he lost control of the car, and Tony Jose Martino, hit a post, and just died, just like that. She did not telephone anyone she just went on down the road to her uncle’s, shop and house (combined) and stayed the night.

●

Kathy Delia Herrera, met Juan Diego Martinez, at a house party in Huancayo, the following month, it was near Christmas. He had stopped there, before heading back to Villa Rica, to join his gang of thugs.
He had planned to stop in Merced on his way back, and he stayed there in Huancayo a full week gathering information from a few of his police friends on busses, that being, which ones would not be watched and so forth, those would be the ones he had intentions of robbing.

Juan was a little on the drunk side, which he often got, but was yet consciously aware of, and when he saw Kathy, a passionate sense came over him, if not belief in immanent romance, and expectations.
Kathy was at this time under suspicion for the premeditated murder of Tony Jose Martino. Court dates were set up, and a trial was in place, and she was seeking relief, she was at first impervious to it all, but now the strain had hit her, and she was in a state of intoxication often, if not escape, apparently he was not wrong, when he asked her to dance, and drink with him, she did immediately. Even before they had introduced themselves to one another formally, meaning, they didn’t really know each others names at that point and time.
It was no more than twenty-minutes after they left the house and its party, and they spoke to each other as old friends, and slipped into a taxi and Juan supplied the address for the hotel he was staying at.
She had learned in those twenty-minutes, when he went to the bathroom, his reputation, who and what he represented; and it didn’t seem to matter to her, matter-of-fact, to the contrary.
She didn’t talk, nor even look at him, sitting in the back set of the taxi on the way to the hotel. She was with him, and that was that.
Juan knew something was wrong with her, a kind of depression, aloofness, yet wanting to hang-on to him, a small tenseness to her lovely eyes, and long black hair; the taxi stopped. She turned to face him, who had been sitting tightly in the corner of the cab, “I’m sorry she said,” he looked at her strange, “it’s a rotten trick I’m playing on you, I need your help?”
“I don’t mind it at all,” said Juan, “just mention it, and I’ll see if I can help you?”
“Come into the hotel with me,” replied Diego.
“Yes,” she said.
“It’ll be all right.”
He looked at her face, “I believe you really do need help,” he guessed, “I won’t let you down,” he added.
And they spent the night together, and she explained the following day, what her problem was. And he asked her, “Do you trust me?” and she replied, “Yes,” and that was that, he fixed it with the judge to drop the charges of premeditated manslaughter, indicating, she was fighting for her life; furthermore, the report was totally rewritten by the police. And for his assistance, she had to agree to a year with his organization. And accordingly, this is how Kathy got involved with the cartel (The Loro Machaco); and for a while after, they dated. And after the dating stopped, they remained close friends.


Written December 10, 2008, at my apartment in the night, in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru

Last Visit to Acopalca

(Part nine, of “The Loro Machaco Villa Rica,” saga)


Johnny, a journey to Huaytapallana (White Mountain)


Before Johnny Urdanegui went on his last job with Juan Diego, the Boss of the Loro Manchaca cartel, he spent a day visiting with his father, who lived in a little hamlet, on the dusty dirt road that led to Huaytapallana (White Mountain), near Huancayo, Peru, the hamlet called Acopalca, known for its fat and tasty trout. Little did he know, this would be his last visit? Kathy, Carlos and Juan Diego, stayed at a quant hotel down by the Plaza de Arms, in Huancayo, awaiting Johnny’s return.

“Sure enough,” the old man said to his son Johnny, “it’s about time you come home to stay…!”
Not knowing it was only for a day, not knowing he was part of the recent kidnapping but knowing something, but not completely sure of anything.
“Yes,” the young man said.
“I haven’t smoked since you left a year ago, been waiting to tell you, it was hard after forty-years.” The old man boasted with pride.
Then the old man took his boy by the hand, “Behind the house,” he said, “let me take you behind the house, I got something to show you!”
(The old man thinking, and hoping he’d settle something.)
“What confused me son for a long time,” he started to say, standing in one particular spot “was you hanging around with them outlaws, I hear you joined the “Loro Machaco Gang,” and I thought all the time all the money in the world wasn’t worth losing you, so I thought when next I saw you, when you come back home like you did today, I’d do what I planned on doing, unburying my money I’ve been saving for ten-years, I got 10,000 soles ($3500-dollars), it’s all yours just don’t go back to the cartel please.”
The old man tried to catch his breath, and then asked, “Who is this man called Juan Diego?”
“I can’t tell you,” exclaimed the boy.
“I wanted to give up and die if you didn’t come home,” said the old man, his voice shaking now, then adding, “I always expected you to out live me, not sure if I could take you dying before me.”
Again the old man tried to catch his breath, his heart pumping faster than a wheelbarrow in fast motion.
“Are you in trouble?” asked the old man.
“What kind of trouble are you talking about,” replied he boy.
“The law type!” exclaimed the old man.
“Don’t get me wrong pa,” said the youth, “I’m no wilder than the other youth around Huancayo.”
“Alright,” said the old man.
“No,” said the youth, “I’m not going to take your money, nor stay around here, matter-of-fact, I got to be leaving in the morning.”
It seemed the old man didn’t want to hear what his son was saying, and started digging into the ground with his hands, and the boy tried to stop him, because he was breathing hard, and sweating, and he wouldn’t stop, and then he pulled out a tin box, held it up to his son, and tried to give it to him, but he wouldn’t take it, yet the old man insisted. Then the old man fell flat on his face, the tin box fell out of his hand, and there he lay, stiff as board.


Note: “Last Visit to Acopalca” written in the afternoon of 12-8-2008, at the café La Mia Mamma, in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru.

A Cross for Bridgette

(Part seven of “The Lore Machaco Villa Rica,” saga)


I

When Miss Bridgette Martinez, died, a large portion of our town’s folks went to her memorial service: the men seemingly went to see a legend behind a legend, the women, to see how she had lived, for it was said among many of us, after her uncle died, the store and house—which was one building structure—remained as it was, and that was thirty-years prior (in 1978). No one—save the old renegade, Fernando, her uncle’s spiritual leader—had seen her face to face—other than by a window profile, or a shadow walking in the backyard of her now empty and vacant store, in at least ten-years.
It was a large, corner adobe brick store, and the living quarters was up a floor, it had not been painted in nearly a generation. Built, with a Spanish style architecture to its doorways and windowsills, built around the turn of the century (1899), with a balcony, over the front of the store—that when standing on it you could get a good view down both of those, dirt roads meeting at the corner, it had once been the busiest grocery store in Villa Rica. But “The Lore Machaco,” gangsters and their reputation to the Martinez family, had eaten, if not wiped-out the once good name they had, even her good name, Bridgette’s was smeared in our hamlet, or small town, of Villa Rica: only Miss Bridgette’s store was left, the other family members went to Huancayo, and Lima to live, and here the old store lay in decay among the gravel streets, newer built hotels and gas stations. Not a pleasing sight for the new generation’s perception, rather a blemish. And now Miss Bridgette had gone to visit her old family members, long deed—in the nearby mountain-valley cemetery, among them her uncle Juan Diego Martinez who raised her after her parents were killed a bus accident near La Merced (a township two hours by dirt road from Villa Rica, and nearer Huancayo, the large of the three cities); her uncle who was the Boss man of the ‘Loro Machaco,’ cartel, killed on the streets of Huancayo, for trying to rob a bank.
Living, Miss Bridgette had become a legend of sorts, the one who endured, and remained worried for her family name—or so it appeared to us, a sort of inherited compulsion, that now the town had forgotten about; her family dating back fifty-years, prior to the township’s officially becoming a district, sixty-four years earlier (1944), when General Martinez (her great uncle), became the first unofficial mayor of the town, and built the store for his son to inherit, Juan. He made a law back then, that no Chilean could enter the township, without a paper of recommendation from a member of the hamlet’s Committee, and there were only two members on the board, himself, and a writer. Thus, if no such paper was submitted at the time of entry, the allowance dating from the moment he entered the town’s limits, he could be jailed, time without end, although they only had a one cell jailhouse, and one had to have a relative nearby, or a mighty good friend, to feed the prisoner, for the township didn’t have the money to do so, or was unwilling to do so.
The General had documented that his store had paid for the town’s jail to be built, and in doing so, the town would compensate him by allowing his store to be tax free, not of duty tax, but land tax. A way to repay him, true or not, he never paid land tax, nor did his son, Juan Diego, nor Miss Bridgette, Diego’s niece. No one believed it, but everyone in the Martinez family lived by it, and so did Villa Rica.
She was no longer young, a short, thin woman, with deep dark eyes, who wore no jewelry, no rings, or earrings, or necklaces, her face once bronze and smooth, now pale and vanishing into her bone structure. She used no cane, but leaned on everything, everywhere as she walked, seemingly much older than what she was. Her once wavy black hair now streaked with white. Her frame, petite and unused—she had never married, merely (we town folks all guessed), because she was so fussy.
She looked skeletonized, almost deboned, likened to a body frame crushed by a tone of coal, pressed tightly against her every pour, and as she stood in the cemetery, she looked from one headstone head to the other, as if recalling earlier days. Nearby, there were other visitors, visiting gravesites, once they caught a glimpse of Miss Bridgette they stared at her as if she was the mystery of mysteries, their duty to bring home the gossip.
She did not ask them to stop gawking, she just quietly looked about, faltering from one headstone to the next, as if undetectable like, her heart ticking like the solid silver watch, that was attached to along intertwined silver chain, her uncle once gave her, and Fernando polished now and then.
A murmur, perhaps more on a whisper, came from her voice box, slight and iced,
“You’ve been dead a long, long time Juan, they haven’t forgotten!”

●

Consequently she, Bridgette, left the cemetery, Fernando helping her by foot to his old 1950s Chevy, passing the small groups of visitors to the cemetery along the dirt path; just as she had done thirty-years prior, when they buried Juan Diego, and ten-years prior to that, when they buried the General. Her last visit was ten-years ago, a short time after her lover, the one everyone thought she’d marry, had run off with another sweetheart, he had charmed—they say—we didn’t know for sure of course—but we figured we had guessed good, he having charmed half the town’s unwed girls, and a few of the married ones. That even isolated her more, and Fernando, who had promised Juan Diego to take care of her, kept his word, and like his uncle—a young man back then—kept a close eye on her, and anyone and everyone, who had ideas to possess her, were subject to his scrutiny.
Several of Bridgette’s schoolmates, had tried aimlessly to get a hold of her, to call on her to join them at the church, or poetry readings her uncle had started back when, but she never gave them the time of day, and Fernando did all the market shopping for her and him.

The house was unkempt, upswept, the grass uncut, the weeds as high as the fence posts, neighbors complained, and the cities officials decided to trim the premises up free of charge, knowing Miss Bridgette wouldn’t, and Fernando could care less, his duties were to Bridgette not to gardening and we all figured that to be the case, he was afraid to leave her alone. And the judge knew her uncle, Judge Franca, now in his 90s, and he would not lift a finger against Juan Diego’s niece, nor allow anyone else to do so, they—Juan Diego and the Judge—were compadre to one another, at one time.
As Fernando, and Miss Bridgette, crossed the dirt street, she saw in a window, a café underneath it, curtains opened, behind them an old man, she saw mostly his torso as he stood up from a chair to get a better look at her— (an old schoolmate she thought); unbelieving his eyes, still as the frame of the building, she walked slowly across the street, a shadow of a dog ran past her, she saw it only by the blink of an eye, then the shadow, or silhouette, once in the window was gone, went away.
That was when people started to remember her, and her uncle’s terrorist gang; people in our town, remembering how he brought scorn to us, not necessary her great uncle, the general, but Juan Diego Martinez, known as the ‘Loro Machaco,’ the deadly snake killer. They started to think the Martinez family, and perchance Bridgette, held her status a little too high, for what they and she were.
Miss Bridgette’s parents, were really way back in the background, no one remembering them for the most part, a shadow in the foreground, their daughter hanging onto their memory though: a shadow and infamous legend: two father figures framed in a decaying adobe store, vacant for twenty-years.

When she got to be middle-aged, and still not married, the town was suspicious, but blameless, so they felt, perhaps allowing her a tinge of madness, that of which her uncle and great uncle portrayed long ago, she may have inherited—perhaps a family trait. Chances now were nil to nothing, that she’d ever marry—perhaps at one time they thought it might materialize, but of course it never did.
When her uncle died, she inherited the store that was all that was left of his so called empire of terrorizing the land from Lima to Huancayo. I think we all were glad she got something from her uncle; it made him look more humanized in our eyes. If anything, thereafter, she learned the thriftiness of spending and saving.
After her uncle’s death, many town folks went to give their condolences, and assistance, verbally anyways, it was traditional in our small town, there was much grief in her face, and she couldn’t or wouldn’t believe he was dead, not until Huancayo sent his body to be buried in the local cemetery of Villa Rica, a week later. She kept the body in the house for another week, until it reeked, and Fernando had to insist the body be removed, and it was, painfully for her.
None of us called her mad, not to he face anyhow, it was not the thing to do, he fathered her for many years, we all knew that, and she really had nothing left, especially after the few relations she had in the town left shortly after. And I suppose we all felt, she was robbed, just like all those other victims by the gang called ‘The Loro Machaco.’


II

She had isolated herself for a long time after her first lover had left town, some fifteen-years prior to her death, thereafter her second lover came into the picture, she had gained some weight, and even darkened her gray hair with coloring, bought new cloths, we were all happy for her in town, thinking and finding out our thinking was correct, she and Gunderson, a European had been dating.
The township had just paid for the paving of the dirt roads in what was turning out to be a little city. There was lots of machinery on the sides of the roads now—sitting idle during lunch times and at night, but running steadily during the work day, and a new sewer system was being put into place also, here and there, alongside the buildings the road was parallel to…
Gunderson, was a tall white European, with a deep rustic voice, charming green eyes, white to reddish cheeks, and a large face, perhaps he was twelve-years her junior. The young kids would follow him, and watch him torment his workers, as they built a small house along Wetland Lake, a sort of gatehouse; likened to the one her uncle had purchased, but one forth the size.
Alex Gunderson would be working right along with the help, the Cholos, people from the mountains surrounding the valley. It was during these days, we folks of the town saw them both on weekends, Saturdays and Sundays, walking in the park, and down around Wetland Lake, and up and about Divine Mountain.
We were all glad for Bridgette, or at least for the on-start of the ongoing relationship, but some of the folks stated,
“I’m sure Bridgette is not seriously considering marrying a foreigner, especially a gringo, I mean, what would her uncle think?”
It would appeared to us, she forgot her noble name at this juncture, and so we just felt sorry for her, and let her go along her own life path.
She had some relatives in Huancayo, and they came to visit her during this period (about fifteen-years prior to her death), two young men, who wanted to do work in the coffee orchards that surrounded the countryside, and so she allowed them to stay in an upper room above the store, in the back section of the house, the lower section had been vacant now for about five-years.
Oh we all talked about Bridgette and her affair with Gunderson, but we pitied her more than favored her for her selection. I mean, some of us at the bar asked each other,
“Do you think it is so? …what else could it be but marriage?”
This wasn’t jealousy or envy, nothing like that, just plain old curiosity and being nosy, meddlesome you might say.

She was back to being a proud woman, not that she ever lost it, we just kind of pushed it aside for her, hoping for the best. And we started to see Gunderson fooling around with other women in town, and thus, we knew it was going to be another fallen relationship, in due time that is. But as she walked around town, she seemingly radiated a demand for more recognition, or at least that is how a few of us saw her equanimity. At least that is how Mr. Valentin saw it when she visited his hardware store, and demanded he make a cage for her, out of wood and iron bars, and the top being of strong wood with a hole in it, with a circumference that would allow her thigh to fit through it. She wanted it to be three feet high, two feet wide, and she wanted handcuffs. He asked her,
“What is all this for?” and she said, point blank, “Is it against the law?” adding, “is it really any of your business, just make it.”
“Yes, Miss Bridgette—” Jose Valentin said, avoiding her cat like, angry eyes.
He remembered Bridgette asking “Is this sturdy rope?”
“Yes,” remarked Mr. Valentin, “…the best you can get!”
“I want it also,” responded Bridgette with a stern look—not at Mr. Valentin, she was too intense looking down at the rope.

●

We all thought, she was going to hang herself with the rope, but couldn’t figure out what the box was for, or the handcuffs, unless he, Gunderson, wanted kinky sex with her, but she didn’t seem that kind, and we all wiped that from our minds.
Gunderson sat in the bars many a night when she and he got into a fight, and I over heard him, as did a few others say, he liked men as well as women—bisexual, we thought, what a tragedy for Bridgette in the making.
As weeks passed we saw less and less of him, he was living with Bridgette, along with the two young boys working now in the coffee orchards nearby, up in the mountain area, in particular the one her uncle used to own, but was sold to a author and journalist, shortly after Diego’s death.
Valentin had given the cage to the young boys to deliver to Miss Bridget and that was the last we heard of the cage. But shortly after that, the boys left, and went back to Huancayo, never to return.
Gunderson we started to dislike, because of his so called preference towards both men and women, and the women at the Catholic church wanted the priest to confront him on his preference, and about living with Bridgette. He refused to talk to Bridgette on this matter, but would confront the man, and he wrote him a letter.
It was right about this time, he decided to go, so he was bragging in the bars, and so we thought he did go, for that was the last time we saw him in town. We were glad for the town’s sake, and for Bridgette, and the priest was happy also, the perfect storm that was building, was over for the most part—and I suppose you could say, we were not surprised, a little sad for Bridgette, whom seemed again to get the harshness of it all, a backlash of shame and pity, and loss.



III

The next time we saw Miss Bridgette, perhaps a year later, she had grown thin again, gray hair, wrinkles she was just getting, had now dug deep into her face, and she had now shut her windows, locked them, closed the curtains, locked the front and back door, and Fernando would not give out any information to anyone about her.
During the following years, those of us who saw her, it was usually when she was picking up her mail, or emptying garbage, her frame and hair was thin and sprinkled with white, her skin pale, and there was an odor to her house, she had fifteen cats, and we thought maybe it was that. Up to the day of her death, at sixty-one years old, she remained secretive in all her affairs; especially the downstairs where the store used to be.
During these same years, we watched Fernando grow older and older, and thinner and thinner, yet he remained active, and healthy, he was to our understandings, twenty or more years older than Bridgette, yet he looked younger than she.
And so she died, it was said of double-pneumonia, she had evidently gone out in the rain, and fell to sleep in a chair, downstairs, in a corner of the store.

●

The sheriff and I met Fernando at the front steps of the door of her store, and he let us in, it reeked with a stink of death, We walked right into where Bridgette had fallen to sleep in her chair, the funeral was the following day, and perhaps two-hundred folks came to see the mysterious lady, reflecting intensely at her last moments before being put underneath the earth. Perhaps recalling seeing her when she was youthful, at the poetry contests her uncle started so many years ago, or buying something at her store, that had been closed for decades, or seeing her walking down the street before they were paved.
We all knew, and we all kind of felt sad, that we knew, this was the last of the mystery behind the uncle’s saga, the Loro Machaco, gang. After they put her into the ground, the sheriff and I went back to her house to investigate the reeking smell; we figured, silently figured that is, and spoke little of what we were thinking, or might be guessing at, of what the smell was or could be, hoping it was just the cats and the long enduring years the smell festered into the woodwork and furniture, and floorboards and rugs, until it circled the outside of the premises, but we knew it was more than the cats…
In a backroom, we found it, the smell, it was in the wooden cage, with the iron bars around its square frame, that stood three feet in height, a body was in it, its head outside of it—through the hole that had been made for that very reason, the man’s neck between inner part of the wooden cage and its outer space, his hands handcuffed behind him, and a rope around his neck, a hook was wrapped round a upper beam above him, and his knees were cramped into this three by four space—he had to kneel, and all that was left was bones and cloths that hung on his skeleton, but the sheriff and I knew who it was, it was Gunderson.
It seemed like hours we stood there and stared, yet it was perhaps no more than five-minutes, we held our breath off and on, covered our mouths, lowered our heads in emotions, and tried not to show a grin, just blank faces. What was left of him was paralyzing to see; rotted blood stains on his shirt and pants, his skull looked fractured, perhaps from hitting it on the iron bars, or the edge of the wooden frame.
We saw Fernando leave, as if his duties, or obligation, was complete, the last we heard, was that he went back into the mountains, and that was the last we saw of him.


Note: Part one to “A Cross for Bridgette,” written the night of 12-7-2008

Eyes without Edges

(Carole’s’ story and dilemma: entry into the Loro Machaco Cartel)



I


When she looked at him, Carlos, it appeared to his mind, she had eyes without edges, hair intertwined, as if it was unkempt wool, she had been ill for along while now, and he took care other, when the nurse was not around, she was incapable of walking, yet she could move her hands, and if need be, when Carlos and the nurse was gone, crawl to the bath room, across from her bed.
She had been ill since 1965, five years to date. Her bedroom was on the third floor, top floor of the mansion, her face today rosy and hands rosy from the heath, on the left side of the bedroom. She was inattentive to his mindset, and his will, conspiratorial to keep him in her home and life until she died; it was almost like a mission, her last mission in life. She tried her best and succeeded, in chasing all his women guests out of his life, once they found out how unaccommodating she was, rude and indifferent, they left Carols, knowing he’d never leave her, and she’d never release him.

“Good night!” Carlos, told his mother.
“Yes,” she affirmed at once, her expression on her face told him, even at forty, which he’d be next month, or at fifty, or at sixty, she had no intentions of letting him go, it was a healthy look, as if she’d live to see ninety.
He couldn’t leave her though; her pupils were like needles to his inners, as he looked at her and turned about, and walked out the door, his face ferocious for allowing himself to be as he was.
There was an immobile moment then, Carlos could feel her eyes looking right though his back at him, she had lost her breath, and said through her silent weeping, choked the words out, a low but surrounding voice, “Are you going to ever leave me?” adding, “Oh Carlos, answer me truthfully?”
She still stared at her back with a curiously rigid face:
“No mother, I will not leave you until you are dead!” answered Carlos.

●

—Now reflecting in each others pupils (he had turned around and walked back to her bedside), he stared at her dirty white hair, she at his blank look, and sheepish-colored face—a crucified quality encircled the room, the mother’s mascara streaked her face, she looked at her photograph of him and her, on a dressing-table, she once used, before she was bedridden, it was in a silver frame, he was three-years old, the best year, and years to her was those when formal reasoning was developing in him.
There she laid in the bed, he thought, the very bed she’d lay in until she died: there she lay unless dead.



II


The window to her bedroom being on the third floor was open, he walked over by it, in a dresser-draw she kept a bottle of whiskey, he opened it, took a drank, a large gulp, then two and then three…(she sometime needed two shots of the whiskey to help her sleep).
He stood there musing, thoughtfully musing there was a pistol in the drawer he looked at it, he looked abut, it was all within a glance, a millisecond, he put his had on the windowsill, she said something, her voice was muffled to his mind, something that sounded like, “What are you up to…!” during that muffled state, those words not quite seeping completely into his mind, his mother pushing her body up against the two pillows to see what he was up to, propping herself, he, Carlos leaped out of the window, like a giant grasshopper (in an attempted vigor of suicide).
Then he heard nothing, but she heard his body thump on the sidewalk below, cold and impotent, she knew she could not live without him, and she fell from her bedside, purposely, and crawled to the dresser-drawer where the gun was, and pulled out some cotton socks along with the gun, put the socks to her forehead, and the muzzle of the pistol, and pulled the trigger.

●

The ambulance came and two aids, picked up Carlos, moving him swiftly to the hospital before he suffocated because of a punctured lung, he would survive (to join the ‘Lore Machaco,’ cartel).


At the Hospital

“Why?” asked the doctor to Carlos, after he had spent a week in the hospital—and after he was well enough to speak and listen, “did you try to commit suicide?”
The doctor standing at the side of his bed looking down at the recovering patient, it was an April morning in 1970.
Carlos hesitated to answer, not because he didn’t know the answer, or have the answer readily available, he knew quite well what it would be, why he did what he did, he know it all too well, but he hesitated because he was unsure why the doctor wanted to know, I mean, he was a stranger to him, yes a doctor, but was it out of curiosity, or concern, and that mattered.
“Why do you ask?” asked Carlos.
“We get many suicides here, the young because of confusion and perhaps high expectations from their parents, and the older folks seem to have had to tolerate the impact of being neglected too long, bored with life, and little family to assist them, and they end up eating dog food or cat food, and shame comes and devours them, and then suicide prevails. And still there are some because of mental illness, depression, not able to function very well, work a job as they’d like to, and you, I just can’t figure you out, I mean, you have a rich mother—had (he repeated, he had explained the day before she also had committed suicide), and you have freedom, food, youth, education, everything none of these others had. How can I help people like you?”
“Because,” he said, “I felt like Abel, you know the one in the Bible, the one man damned to be alone on the face of the earth, be it his own fault, by his own makings, it doesn’t matter, likened to me, like to like. I no longer heard the beautiful sounds of the birds, only the imperious sounds of my mother’s voice, her will; I seemed to have been trapped in a world of unhappiness, that is why—and when you put a tiger in a cage, it dies little by little, and if it has a chance to escape, it takes it, and this was my only way of escaping, unless I killed my mother, and I couldn’t directly do so, and I knew—I suppose I knew, she’d kill herself, if I did, and I didn’t care, I mean I am happy I survived, and I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance to survive, but if I didn’t it was better than being a fixture in her home.”

Written December 10, 2008, in the morning, at my apartment in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru

The Little Russian Twins (Yulie and Anatolee)

Poetic Prose Narration

No children ever looked so scornful, so undignified—than Yulie and Anatolee, the little Russian twins, gossiped the neighbors as they passed through Prince Lane, a rich neighborhood, on their way to Pleasant Elementary school each morning. But no matter who peered from their windows, porches or lawns—they would have to admit, Yulie and Anatolee walked splendidly together: chatting along the way, and showing very much interest in what one another had to say, not noticing the onlookers.
Yulie, the youngest of the twins by nine minutes, wore oversized shirts, short pants and a jacket—with three shades of colorful dirt: sandals that were made to fit his little feet by squeezing them in. Anatolee, the elder, wore basically the same except for a hat which he found some months past and never seemed to take off. Both wore the same cloths—it seemed—: winter, spring, summer and fall, except for trading with one another every so often. And for lack of a comb—their hair seemed always to be messy.
At school, the well-to-do children often ridiculed and teased Yulie and Anatolee for their broken speech, dirty cloths, and messy hair. But the twins never laughed back, got angry, or gave it much notice.


One day during class, Mrs. Rightbird, Yulie and Anatolee’s teacher, asked Yulie,
“Can’t you and your brother afford a simple comb to groom your hair with before coming to class?”
“We have very little money,” replied Yulie, “and what we do have must be used for food, paper and pencils so we can eat and learn; because of this, we feel a com b is less important, and used our fingers, which cost nothing.”
This angered Mrs. Rightbird to the point of stomping her feet and yelling:
“How disrespectful you are! I will surely have to talk with your parents about this.”
Anatolee exclaimed, “My brother simply answered your question. I’m sure he is not trying to be—as you say—disrespectful!”
Angered again, Mrs. Rightbird yelled,
“You both are disrespectful and out of place! Have you no manners at all? I would never let my children dress or be seen the way you two are!”
After school that day, Mrs. Rightbird went to the main office to check Yulie and Anatolee’s records, hoping to get their address and telephone number. But to her surprise she found the records contained only their first names, grades and the date they were admitted into school. How mysterious she thought, for the twins had been at Pleasant Elementary going on two years.


As the children arrived back at school the next day, Mrs. Rightbird pulled Yulie and Anatolee aside and questioned them about the odd files she had found, demanding she be given an explanation promptly. Yulie quickly explained that at the time of admittance into school they had no residence and was in search of one—but, that they had one now. She then demanded it be given to her.
“One Riverside Lane,” replied Anatolee.
“Is this an apartment?” questioned Mrs. Rightbird.
“No,” said Yulie, “it’s kind of an old castle.”
Having heard this, Mrs. Rightbird left Yulie and Anatolee to their studies.
That day after school—uncertain the twins had given her the proper address—Mrs. Rightbird followed them on their journey home. They walked through the rich neighborhoods, the inner-city, down to the riverbank, and then alongside the Mississippi River, and its neighboring ancient tall cliff walls, which gave light to many caves.
After walking a short distance further, Yulie and Anatolee entered a small inlet that led into a vast inner cave. Mrs. Rightbird followed close behind.
Inside the cave, Mrs. Rightbird hid behind a hug rock that looked like an ancient pillar, while observing the twins. Yulie went quickly to the center of the cave where a fire was barely burning. He picked up a few pieces of driftwood—gathered the day before—and set them in the center of the fire to feed it. Anatolee joined his brother. Both of them, then sat down harmoniously on separate wooden fruit crates—resting form the long walk and absorbing the fire’s warmth form the brisk fall air.
They gave thanks to God for the day, the food they were about to eat, the chance to learn, for His presence and love. After a moment of silence, they gave thanks for their loving and caring parents who had brought them to America for freedom—although deceased now.
Mrs. Rightbird leaned tiredly against the wall of the cave. She thought of the humiliation, shame, and disrespect she and others had tried to inflict upon these two young immigrants. Then with a tear gazing at the twins, she thought how fulfilled they appeared to be, how simply pleased, how noble.


Notes on the story: “The Little Russian Twins (Yulie and Anatolee)” Originally published in the book “Reading for Little People”; 1983 © Dennis L. Siluk; written in 1982, and published in a chapbook form of 100-copies, in 1984 © under, Dennis L. Siluk, printed by Four Winds Press (Edited y Donna Reading) Out of print for 25-years (reedited and translated into Spanish, 12-2008)

A Soldier to Another

(The summer of ’61)

Hank, me and the Cayuga Street Gang

Part I

Then one day, Hank Gardiner, whom really had very little to say, I had met him the summer before, a relative of one of the gang members (The Cayuga Street Gang, also called ‘Donkeyland,’ by the local police who combed the neighborhood daily), who lived near our neighborhood, knew most of the guys, six-years older than I, said something in an almost whisper, after we had walked from the small neighborhood ‘Pitman,’ grocery store, near Granite Street, heading down towards the church steps, off Jackson and Sycamore Streets. He had parked his 1956 green Oldsmobile across the street from the church steps, by my friend, Bill Kapaun’s house (by twilight the whole gang would be there.)
He said, “I’ll be going soon!”
“Going where?” I asked.
“To Vietnam, the war, I’ll be a soldier, I volunteered.”
“Oh,” I said with a surprised tone to my voice, adding, “that war over, by China? Maybe you’ll not end up there?”
“No, the recruiter said I would,” replied Hank, “yup, tomorrow I go, can’t wait around here, nothing going on but drinking, fights, Chick, nothing for a man my age to do but drink, and I can get some college in the Army also, I think I’ll take advantage of it. Just think, before school starts, in September, I’ll be fighting in Vietnam.”
“School, hick with school, I’d like to go with you now, tomorrow, I just as soon be gone, then sit around here.” I said as if wanting to follow him.
Then I hesitated, looked at his face, he was there already, so it appeared, daydreaming of his Army career.


Me and Hank would go down to his green Oldsmobile, occasionally—prior to this day—and he’d turn on the radio, and we’d sit, usually with a few other guys, he, usually being more inclined to talk to them, than me, except for today (perhaps because of my age, at fourteen), and we’d be listening to Elvis Presley songs, Rick Nelson, Johnny Cash, singers like that, tapping our feet on the asphalt street, leaning lightly against his car.
Just prior to dusk—just like today—we’d head on down to those church stops, that faced Jackson Street, the church being of red brick, and its tall steeple on the other side of us, the steps actually led into an addition to the church, perhaps the chapel, or hall of some kind, I never saw anyone go through those doors, they usually went to the back side of the building to get in it.
Anyhow, most of us guys in the neighborhood heard about he war in Vietnam, but up to now, now one went, and the war was not called a war, it was called a ‘Conflict’ perhaps to lessen the stigma. In consequence, Hank would be the first one to go, if indeed he went.

And we sat there, listing to a small battery radio, on the steps this pre-evening—it was a warm late afternoon, Oakland Cemetery across the street, they were locking the gates, and I could see Roger’s girlfriend, Shelly, she was walking about the Caretaker’s premises, she lived there with her mother and father, the old child to my understanding; she was the first girl I ever kissed, at the age of thirteen years old, Roger made a bit with her to do so, and after she did, I wanted a second round, and she and the guys laughed. But I was serious.
Well, there we were, Hank and I on the church steps, and a man walks by, “You know where Cayuga Street is?” he asked, and I said, “Down three blacks,” he was a stranger and we knew everyone on the block, everyone by Smiley’s friends, a guy who moved in a year prior, and Doug was going to get into a fight with him, but it never took place, maybe he was his friend, so I got thinking. Then down the block, I noticed several bodies coming, Jackie, the girl I was kind of dating was with them, she was Chippewa, dark hair, about five-foot one, cute, with dark eyes, she and her family lived up the block, on Sycamore Street. I noticed Doug and Larry, and Karin, with John were among the group, and behind them, Big Ace, Jerry, was trying to catch up, he was all of six-foot five inches tall, two-hundred and fifty-pounds, and a tinge slow, he was about ten-years older than I, and bought the booze for everyone, that is, he never had much money, and drank free off us, but we got the booze.
Jackie was the same age of me and she hung around near what was called the turn-around, next to my grandfather’s house, where me and my brother lived with our mother and grandpa. Next to that was an empty lot, and a hill called ‘Indian’s Hill,’ Jackie and I would go up there and kiss, oh not much more, just necking.


“Yes,” I said, “tomorrow I guess you got to go then!”
He, Hank, heard me, he put his hand on my shoulder, and it was a different kind of stillness.
“You?” he questioned “cannot go in the military for another four-years, if the war lasts that long, maybe I’ll be a sergeant then, and we’ll meet one another, it’s not all that long.”
“You’ll be killing all those…” I didn’t know what to call the enemy, so I left it at that…

The he explained in depth to do something, anything, but get out of this neighborhood he implied, when I was capable of doing so, that here there was only a dead end, a road that lead to no other roads. It made me think, planted a seed to be harvested later on. Oh I didn’t quite understand all the rudimentary that went along with that statement, we seldom do when your so close to the forest, it is hard to see it is a forest, likewise, it was hard for me to see, the dead end (but one person did say it correctly, some twenty-years after this day, when I was clean and sober, and becoming a counselor, he said at a meeting at the hospital to a group of recovering alcoholics, while I was taking an internship at Ramsey Hospital, “There are two corner bars in this neighborhood I went to, and I discovered the folks that live there, started drinking there since they were teenagers, and they are now older men, and still there, dying slowly of the alcohol…” he was talking of my neighborhood, and he didn’t of course realize it, and I never told him to my knowledge, but I did mentioned after the lecture I was aware of where, and whom he was talking).
Nonetheless, Hank went on to say, the Army was offering him opportunities to go to college (something that was foreign to me, I would hardly make it to High School, I felt, thus college was the forest thing from my mind, yet the goal of going to college, coming out of my neighborhood—as Greek, and as far fetched as it sounded, it would be an afterthought that would come back a throughout my teens, and even into my early twenties, perhaps Hank planted another muster seed in my subconscious, because it would grow, and someday I’d get my Ph.D.)

I was back then, too young for the Army, and Hank knew it, and as impressionable as I was with Hank, and the adventures the Army were starting to offer—travel and education—I didn’t fully understand it all, I was too young, and then one day, the next day he was gone, disappeared.


“I’ll write you,” I said to Hank.
“No,” he commented, “just finish school, I’ll be back on leave to see you and the gang, now and then!”
Anyhow, he was listening to me attentively for the first time it appeared, until the gang got to the church steps.
He punched me in my left arm, he was on that side of me, sitting on the stops, leaning back against the cement back of the upper step, my chin in my arms, my elbows on my knees, and I almost fell over,
“Yup,” he said, “You only got to stay here a while longer then join the Army and see the world.”
“See what?” I asked, then I noticed my brother Mike coming down Jackson Street, he was two years older than I, with Gary, whom was called Mouse, they had been working on his go-cart.
It was now a matter of minutes before the gang members were climbing up the steps “Shut up now,” said Hank, “you’re the only one that knows this…that I’m going tomorrow.”
“All right,” I answered back, as if to confirm my hearing him.
He then put his hands behind his back, leaned back more onto the upper step,
“Well, Chick,” said Jackie, with a smile, “anything goin’ on?”
“Nope,” I said, and she sat down beside me.
(I didn’t want hank to go, I didn’t hear Jackie, what she was saying, she was talking lightly, I seemed to have been in a fog, something like in a state of disassociation, in her world, but outside of it, like in a fish boil looking at everyone around you, she nudged me, slightly—the Vietnam war was running through my head—“are you alright?” she asked, perhaps thinking she did something wrong, and she hadn’t, and I moved my head right to left, and she sat quietly, talking to Karin below her whom was sitting with John, who would marry her in a number of years; after he and I would take off to Long Beach California, although that was years ahead, and when we’d come back she and he would marry.)

Jackie’s sister showed up, Jennie, her and Larry were going steady, and Larry was the tough guy of the neighborhood, whom I lived with a number of times, upon my return from several long trips. I lived for a summer in his attic, another summer in his garage, and had party after party, booze and girls, and I lived in a duplex he rented the upper apartment.
Well, Larry and Jennie were there, and my brother was dating Carol, and she showed up, and Ace was not dating anyone and dancing about as he often did.
“Jackie,” I said.
“Of course I’m all right, I’m just thinking.” she chuckled as if it was a delayed reaction, she had already forgotten she had asked how I was doing, and onto other things with the gang, talking about getting some cases of beer and either going to ‘Indian’s Hill’ to get drunk, or jumping the Cemetery fence and drinking among the ghosts and gravestones there.

I now looked at Hank, perhaps one of my last looks, and he said in a spirited voice, jumping up, pulling out the keys to his green 1956 Oldsmobile, in my ear, “Hush,” and I did not disclose his secret.
He stood up talking to a few of the guys, as then; Jackie asked if I would later go for a walk with her, down to Indians Hill. I could hear Mike talking to Carol, and Larry and Doug talking, and then Rick came up and sat with the guys.
Jerry, otherwise known as Ace, was singing a song called ‘Twenty-four Black Birds…” and everyone started laughing.

“Everyone pitch in two dollars, Ace is going to buy us two cases of beer, and a bottle of wine,” said one of he guys.
Ace looked at Doug, said, “I didn’t say I was going to!”
Roger and Ronnie, his brother had shown up, said, “Come on Ace get with it, you one of us or not!”
And so Ace, Doug, and Roger went to get the liquor up on Rice Street, on the other side of the Cemetery, “We’ll meet you guys down on Indian’s Hill,” said Roger, and he drove Ace and Doug up to the store to pick it up.
Hank was still standing, looked at me, “See…!” he said to me, nothing more, he figured it was a neighborhood affair, he seldom drank with us anyway, and so him not showing up at Indian’s Hill would not be any surprise.

I sat back down, watched Hank go to his Oldsmobile, not realizing this would be his last time I’d see him…
I saw Jackie pull out two dollars, gave it to me to give to Roger, to give to Ace to get the booze, and I did likewise, as everyone did, and they went to get as much booze the money would buy, Ace didn’t have a dime, as often he didn’t but when he did, he was generous with his money.
“I forgot my false teeth,” said Ace to Roger, and Roger replied, “you don’t really need them, but we can stop by and pick them up,” he lived on Sims, street, his father a Captain of the Fire Department of St. Paul, Minnesota. In a year or so, I would take a liking for his sister, she and I, like Jackie attended the same High School, Washington High on Rice Street, Kathy was her name, and she’d show up in the neighborhood and we’d hang out, we kissed only a few times, and it seemed it kind of fizzled away, although we were friends for the next twenty-years, until she got hit by a car. She had gotten married, and lived close to the two bars on the corner of Jackson and Acker.
And so Ace, Roger and Doug jumped into their cars, and Hank, into his, as Jackie and I headed with the rest of the gang to Indian’s Hill.

Now Hank was gone, and the first thing I knew was Jackie and I were on Indians’ Hill drinking with the gang, then it started to rain, and everyone ran for cover with a beer bottle in their hands, and four cases of beer up on the hill, by a large thick tree, Jackie and I with a blanket over our heads, down by my Grandfather’s garage—not sure where we got the blanket, I think I slipped it out of my house, and we kissed a bit, not much, and we held each other, lightly, and we could see the guys walked to and fro crisscross across the empty lot, everyone getting drunk, and the police driving by, shinning lights up into the thick of the bushes onto of the hill.

I thought about writing Hank, but I never got his Military Address, and so I stopped one day at his house, his brother, older brother came to the door, and I introduced myself to him, “Oh, yes!” he said, “Hank had mentioned your name a few times…!”
“I’d like to write him,” I said, it had been about nine months since I had seen him, I was all of fifteen-years old, plus a few months, date freely, no one in particular, although Jackie was still around, and Kathy, and I had met a girl called Sheila, I was in the second year of High School, she one year below me, and we danced at a lot of the park and school dances, and she always wanted me to make love to her, but I wouldn’t and she told me so, that I was missing something, and I suppose I was, but I was getting into drinking and quicker affairs, but she was popular in High School, and we dated that fall.
Anyhow, this visit accrued during the time I was seeing Sheila, and his brother took a second to say what he needed to say right, “He was killed in action in Vietnam, a few months ago.”
You really do not know what to say at a time like that, you just stand still numb, absorbing the substance of those words, as if you would like him to reconfirm what he said, although you know what he said. I was not prepared for that, a tear came to my eyes, I had no control over it, an automatic tear. My inners became disrupted, and I had to catch my breath.
“Oh…ooo!” I said, looking down at my feet to find words and all I found was zigzagging emotions.
And so I left it at that, what more can a person say, the brother tried to put a smile on his face, but couldn’t. And I couldn’t and I left as strangely as I had appeared.

I told myself, ‘…go get drunk,’ perhaps that is where I picked up some of my avoidance of stress: drink it away. I knew I was growing up fast, and the world around me would change, and I’d soon be making choices, like Hank did.

((In 1969, on my way back from San Francisco, and after visiting Mexico for a day, I’d head on up to Grand Forks, North Dakota, and thereafter, be joining the Army, more like drafted into it, and head onto Augsburg, Germany, and then onto Vietnam. Then it would be, a solider to a soldier as I had imagined it to be in the beginning, but it would have to be in a secret kind of world of our own, my own, because of course he was gone: but not forgotten. I would be heading on down to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, for Basic Training, and then over to Redstone Arsenal, Alabama, for more training, and to Fort Lewis for Jungle training. This was just the beginning of my world, my adventures to be, the ones he sadly did not get a chance to, but then, perhaps I did it for him, as they said in the neighborhood when I’d return, and I did return several times, they lived through my adventures) (or by proxy.))


(The fall of ’69)

From Minneapolis to Chicago to…

Part II

“Where does one go to take his physical?” I said to a military man, who was called ‘Sergeant,’ I had a paper I showed him, confirming I was the person who was to take it, along with my Minnesota Drivers License, confirming the paper, it had a picture on it (I had just come back from San Francisco, it was October, of 1969).
I was a bit afraid when we got to Chicago, from Minneapolis, that we might catch the wrong bus, in a town as big as Chicago, I figured it would be easy, for the Sergeant had left once he dropped us off from the first bus—the one that drove us out of Minneapolis to Chicago, not sure where he went, perhaps to go get drunk.
But we caught it all right—the first bus, I never had to ask the bus driver if it was the right one, he knew who we were—because the Sergeant was there, and in a way I was darn glad he did know, because here we all were, cars and busses rushing by us like birds in the air— Minneapolis was twice the size of St. Paul, and Chicago was three times the size of Minneapolis, thus, movement was everywhichway, and a few shoving folks here and there to boot, and it was early afternoon, and by the time we would get to Chicago, it would be pre-dusk, and the spell of night would be falling over the city, me and my companions, were hopeful another sergeant would be there to guide us onto the next bus, but this was just hopeful think, not reality.

I thought about Hank, had he not been killed in Vietnam, he would have most likely wanted to see me before I seen him, at some location, perhaps even at the distant Military Base I was headed for, and given me so pointers, but those were just thoughts as I waited for the second bus. He wasn’t there, or never would be, I was on my own, and doing what he and I talked about me doing so long ago.

My family, Aunt Ann, her husband George, and Betty, and Grandpa Anton, Colleen and Sally, all relatives, along with my brother, and the rest of my relations had thrown a party for me before I went on this voyage, I am not convinced why they did, perhaps for my mother’s sake, perhaps because I was the only one in the family drafted, but I had told myself, ‘If I’m not drafted, I’d join, although I was now 22-years old, and most of the young-men with me, and those I’d meet in Boot Camp in a day or so, were between seventeen and twenty. I would be the second oldest in the platoon of some 44-men.

Standing there in the mist of twilight—in Chicago, I seen all the tall building surrounding me, it was like being in the Rocky Mountains, or the Andes, crushed inside of them, I wanted to get out of Chicago, and fast.

At the Gates of Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Then a bus stopped, near the corner, one I never saw before (hired just for this purpose to take us down to North Carolina, so I’d find out), a heap bigger than the one I was put on in Minneapolis, Minnesota, I thought, and me and several others would be soldiers thought I’m sure, as we stood together, looking at the Greyhound Bus already holding our tickets in our hands (the Sergeant on the previous bus had said this one would take us to Fort Bragg, and we’d be met at the gates, and another bus would pick us up, bringing us to our Company area.) we, all thought, and saw the driver signal with his arm to move onto the bus, for us to get on the bus, I was wore out for sleep, but I couldn’t risk getting on the wrong bus, so I stepped out and up onto the first of three steps—blocking the door entrance, ready to find a seat noticing the bus was half full of young fellows like me already, “Is this the…” I started to say, and the driver seemed as if he knew me, and simply said, “Yes…! You’re on the right bus, take a seat!”
And so I walked the isle to find one.
I saw all the towns from Chicago, to Fayetteville, as more young would-be soldiers, come onto the bus, at small stations, and brought tickets, like me with them, and then we were gone again.
I seen a number of trains go by along side of us, some more towns, and I just fell to sleep somewhere along the way.

I knew I was right to be on that bus, or so it seemed like to me, it went on forever that ride, but would be a new beginning for me. I had already crisscrossed the country, living in Omaha, Nebraska, Seattle, Washington, Long Beach California, and San Francisco, “That’s right!” I said to myself, “I’ve got to get out of this country to see the rest of the world now, today…” then my drifting subconscious spoke back to me saying , “Of course you must, you can find friends anywhere in the world,” and I told my subconscious, “I guess I can, I guess I’m not missing a thing, I haven’t got but one life to live, I mean the person you meet might have lived anywhere in the world, people in the Army were folks scattered all over the place, and overnight you got to meet them, from California to Main, from Europe to China (places I would visit in the future).
“Yes,” my subconscious confirmed to my conscious, on that bus ride, “That’s what I already told you, you don’t need a case history to see the world, this is a good start…and you’re lucky, at that.”
The bus driver said, “Youall goin’ to be met by another bus once we git to the Fort Bragg gates, I mean, jump off fast enough to suit the sergeants, they like that.”
“I ask you,” another man said on the bus to the driver, “are we officially soldiers now?”
“Yup,” he said, “since you got on that bus back there in Minneapolis son, so good luck to yaw-all.”

Written 11-25-2008