Randy Dalzell - July 2007

There are people who live with the baby-killing stories on the tip of their tongue. They remember driving their Jeeps through tiny jungle roads, watching tiny children thrown into the street by Viet Cong soldiers. Their intention wasn't necessarily to sacrifice the babies. In Charlie's perfect world, Americans would stop their Jeeps to avoid the children – only to get ambushed by civilian warriors.

After word got around, Americans had no choice but to run over the babies, leaving nothing more than a stinky pink tire track over the wet trail. And coming home to the sounds of hippies yelling obscenities. "Baby killers!" It wasn't the kind of thing that made you proud to fight for your country.

It's something no one talks about. At the time, soldiers rationalized the murder with slogans like "Kill a Gook for God" and "Bombs for Peace." But if you press a vet hard enough, he'll tell you all about killing babies. That's how I met Kira.

It was in a smoky bar, a month before they passed the smoking ban in Philly. On the one hand, the smoking ban would force me to take myself outside, but on the other, my laundry would be cut in half.

The men in Berry Bar, their eyes were shades of yellow and pink. I'd taken the Broad Street line from Citizen's Bank Park into Center City and decided I'd spend the rest of the day drinking. I'd called a friend to meet me, but he was still in work. We'd meet for bowling around six.

I ordered a Guiness Draft from the clumpy bartender and grabbed the collar of my tee shirt, shaking it to let in some cool air. "You at the game today?" a man asked me, sitting across the bar. I looked down at my red shirt. "Yeah." "How'd they do?" "They were winning when I left. The heat was bad."

"Yeah. I hear 'ya." He got up from his seat, walked over to me with a

limp, carrying his key chain. Jiggling from his pockets.

"What's yer name?" he asked.

"Gerold," I said.

"Anyone call you Gerry?"

"No."

He took a long look. I liked his mustache. Nice and full, like a dark Brillo pad below his nose. His hair was black and gray. Say, salt and pepper. He nestled into his cushioned stool, moving his hips, trying to find a comfortable groove. "I had a buddy named Gerry, back in the service."

"When about?"

He brushed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger, looked away, and pulled out a pack of smokes. "Vietnam. Around then."

"Nice," I said.

He pulled one out of the soft pack, fingering it delicately. "…But I don't talk about that part of my life."

I shrugged. "What's yours?"

"My what?" he asked.

"Name."

"Oh, Martin."

I stuck my hand out. "Nice to meet you."

"You too." We shook. I took a sip of my oily-black beer, smooth like fatty milk. "You got a girlfriend?" "Yeah," I said. "What's she look like?" "She's hot. Real small and thin, big ass." "I got a wife. Skinny, great eyes. You like skinny girls?" "Yeah, I mean, my girlfriend is skinny, she's just got a big ass." The bartender wore black and squinted at me. She had a long tattoo of a black snake down her left arm. Her face was drenched in makeup, lips a wet red. I looked away up at the wood ceiling as she cleaned some pint glasses underneath. "So you live around here?" he asked. "Not really. I live right outside the city. Within city limits, I guess." He kept his hand in his pocket, fondling what sounded like seashells. I took another sip and licked the whiskers on my upper lip. The cool, thick liquid moistened my guts as it slithered toward my stomach.

"Me too," he said. "I'm actually a landlord, out in Flourtown."

"Can't argue with that. I bet you take in a good amount of cash."

"Yeah I do, but, I mean, it's not creative or anything," he burped. "'Scuse me."

I smiled. "Excused."

"Let me buy you a drink," he said.

I raised my glass and nodded.

"She's got some nice tits, ya think?" Martin said as the bartender waddled away.

"They're alright, but my girlfriend's are nicer, I think. And they're not old like those. She's still young like me, so her tits point outward instead of down." "My wife is skinny, especially for someone in her fifties," – The smoke in the room was burning my eyes – "By the way, what's the name of this bar we're in?" "I don't know. Wait I do. It's the Berry Bar." He took out a large cell phone. "Who thought'a name queer as that?" I snickered then drained the glass, licked my lips and got up. "Where you going?" he asked. "Eh, think I'm leaving." "Where to?" "Don't know. Meeting some friends. Bowling or some shit." I pulled a pack of Camels out of my thin jean pocket and seized one with my teeth. A small woman, light, soft face, gray braid down her back, came up and sat on his lap as I lit up. "Hey, babe, this is Gerold."

"Well, hello there." She had a southern accent.

Instantly went hard.

She pushed a lock of hair out of her face and smiled. Her teeth were bone white. I had to look away.

I put out my hand. She took it. "I'm Kira."

Even had a hot name.

"It's nice to meet you, Kira, but I was telling Marty here, I'm about to leave."

"Well, where're you going?"

"Think I'm going bowling or something. I'm supposed to meet my friend and some Germans."

"Germans?"

"Yeah."

She looked at Martin, then back at me. "Well, aren't you scared?" "No." She smiled. "What a brave boy we have here." She whispered in Martin's ear. He pouted his lips, and then looked toward the ceiling, nodding his head in agreement. "You like porn?" he asked me. "Yeah." She laughed. "What guy doesn't?" Kira got off his lap and stood next to me. She put her head on my shoulder, purred. "You've got such a nice strong shoulder." She put her lips on my neck and breathed. Martin looked away. I wedged my penis in the waistline of my pants. "You could go to our place instead." Her tongue went through the stubble below my jaw. Martin was right about her being skinny. I looked down her back and saw the outline of spine against shirt. Her hair brushed up against the side of my face. It was soft. A strand caught in my sideburn.

Martin raised his brows. "So?"

I smiled. "Can you get me back to the city later?"

"We've got a place around here."

The further we walked, the closer Kira got to Martin, the darker it became. Their place was at the corner of 12th and South. I stayed three good steps behind them and watched as Marty stuck his hand up the back of Kira's tight, black shirt. She had a tribal tattoo over the crack of her ass.

It was getting colder and I thought I saw my breath in the August air.

Suddenly, they stopped.

"We here?"

They looked at each other, then Martin spoke up. "Yeah. Here."

He juggled some of the seashells in his pocket, then reached in the other and fished out his keys, slipped the door open with a sharp crack. We got to his apartment, on the second floor, and Martin turned on the window air conditioning. "Make yourself at home," he said. Kira took off her pants. Over the next several weeks I'd meet Kira and Martin at their place. Jump on the 27 in Manayunk, ride over the Expressway and get off at Broad and Locust. South Street was about three blocks away. I'd be there mostly weekends. For the life of me, I couldn't get Kira's soft, warm body out of my mind. I'd spend the week sweating, wanting to call her to get together, one on one. - Martin always smoked afterwards. He sucked at the thing like he were in front of a firing squad, blindfolded. Kira'd get angry and turn on a fan. Martin could finish in four drags. I always lay in the middle of them, staring at the white ceiling. They'd take turns petting my wet hair. In a half hour, Kira would get up and make Pop Tarts – Smores. Then I'd leave. Head up high, but with a slight limp.

The last time I saw him, that's when Martin talked about the war. "I'm tellin' ya," he said, "if we had just once more year to take out those damned savages, they wouldn't look at us like killers. They'd love us. They'd love everything about us. They'd have thrown us a celebration like World War II. I tell 'ya."

I'd grown up apathetic, then after college, anti-military. I'd been under the impression that wars were started because world leaders couldn't put their egos aside. Everyone wanted to be famous. The best way was to order killings. "I respect your service," I said, leaning up. "I never believed any of that, I mean, those baby-killing stories from Vietnam. It was the media hype."

He took a long glance at me. He had become suddenly cold.

-

I knew Marty collected rent the fifth of every month, so I knew he wouldn't be home the first Tuesday of September. That's when I called Kira. "Oh, hey, Gerry," she said. "You comin' over this weekend?" "Yeah, definitely. But that's not why I called." "What's wrong?" I explained my situation. We only had a couple hours to be together. Long gray hair and worn-in face. She was beautiful. As we hugged, I never wanted to let her go. It was amazing having her without the presence of a husband looking over my shoulder. Petting my hair. A baby killer. My anus had become swollen over the weeks I'd seen them. It was nice to get a break from that. And I told her what needed to be said. That's when she said it. She and Marty had married a week before he went off to Vietnam, April 1967. He'd come back changed, like many veterans. But he never spoke a word about the war. She never thought he would.

She said she loved me, too.

--

Marty knew I was lying. I had a way of talking out the side of my mouth and clearing my throat when I fibbed. It'd been that way since childhood.

"Respect my service? I don't care if you do or not. You're the kind of kid who'd spit on guys like me in airports. The kind of kid who'd burn the flag in my face and tell me I should'a gone to fuckin' Canada. You don't respect shit because you don't know shit. So don't talk about it." He walked up to me, pockets jiggling. "Take off 'yer fuckin' pants."

Kira stayed in the bathroom, sobbing. The more I screamed, the worse her cries were. The white pillow was creased and wrinkled, and had obviously lay in the dryer for too long. It was hard, like thick plastic. My vision impared and I'd see nothing but the backs of my eyelids. Do it for God. He would have wanted Kira and I to be together. More sobbing from the bathroom. After he finished, he walked into the thin kitchen. "You wanna drink?" he asked. My face was buried in pillow. Soaked in salty sweat and stiff tears. I pushed my hair up on my face so the sweat wouldn't burn my eyes. My hands were shaking, hard. But I got up and hobbled into the kitchen, after slipping my jeans on. He hit me in the chest with a smelly, thin brown liquid. "Drink up." The first sip was vile. I coughed and he laughed at me. Kira began knocking on the bathroom door. "Please, Marty," she said. "Please." I gagged my way through the glass of Scotch. My eyes watered with each sip, and with the last ounce or so, I tilted back and let it drain down my throat. Just to get it over with. I leaned over onto the cool counter, skin erect and bumpy. "I should probably go," I said, my voice nearly gone. "Come on," he said. "You just got here."

"Please," we heard from the bathroom.

"Is…is she alright?"

"What the fuck do you care?"

"She doesn't sound good," I said.

I looked down and my pants had stained purple down the side and onto the bleach-stunk tiled floor.

"You like fucking my wife, Gerry?"

I wasn't sure how to answer.

"C'mon," he said. "You like fucking her?"

I forced a side-smile. "What do you mean, man?"

He took a step closer, Scotch-breath warming my face, Brillo poking my nose. "It's a question. Do you enjoy fucking. My. Wife?"

His hair was crisp and drying on the ends. Wet bangs had fallen over his ears. "Yeah, man. I love it." A flash. I was on the ground, grabbing my nose. It felt like someone had shoved shattered hard candy up one of the nostrils. I leaned down on the floor and pulled myself, crawling with my right hand, holding my face with the left. Hard footsteps became softer as they crept through the apartment. I was a good ten feet from the front door. I'd planned on flailing myself down the stairs, through the street door, and would scream for help once there. Bangs from the bathroom. A sharp crack of a door opening, screams. Clear as an abortion. "Get out of here, Gerry," she said. The ring of her voice. The southern drawl. Had to have it. Had to save. It. I leaned up on my knees and felt a sharp pain in my back. Fell flat on my face. Screaming. I reached back there. A scissor on the floor. Back soaked. "Oh God!" she screamed. I had to have been crying. "You think you're a fucking hero, little man?" he screamed at me. I turned over and saw her. Head shaven, a large cut across the top of her chest. Fat lips. Eyes swollen and beaten black. "A fucking hero?"

Coughed and coughed. Wiped my mouth with my forearm. Coughed. He'd bought a drink for me. For what? "You like fuckin' her so much, here, fuck 'er!" He threw her on top of me. Walked away. We could smell gasoline and a lit cigarette. Her hands were tied together with a bandana. Her face in my soaked neck.

"Are you okay?" I asked, spitting.

She cried. I lifted my head and her pants, too, were stained purple. "He's…he's a monster."

"I know," I said. "I know."

I tried to get up but it was no use. "Here. We've gotta get out of here. Hold me and I can crawl to the door."

"No, he's over there. He's still in the place."

"I can get past him. I know I can."

So she put her arms around my waist. Head on my shoulder. Tears streaming. She spit up on my tee shirt. "We're not getting out. Why…" "We're getting out of here," I said. "I know we are, because God wants us to live." "Oh, God doesn't want shit, Gerry. God wants what God needs." I crawled through the blood and the stench of potent gas lingered, strong. "Why, Gerry?" "Why what? We're getting out of here." "Why did you have to call me when he was gone? Why couldn't we just have things the way they were?" "Because, I thought you…you know." "I know, yeah," she coughed and coughed. "You should have known how he gets." We made it to the hallway. The blood trail I left on the ground was hovering below the gas. "We're going to make it," I said. "He's gone."

I saw him in the doorway. An old, sorry man. Wet Brillo below his nose. Hair back in a ponytail. He took a long drag of the smoke and let out a relaxed gray cloud. He took a look at us, bloodied, defeated. Flicked the cigarette to the ground and closed the door. The flames came toward us, fast as anything I'd seen.

I looked at Kira, whose eyes were swollen shut. But God wanted us to live. We were meant to be together. An old woman. A young man. Introduced through a war hero. Fucking storytale. Fucking storytale ending. Everything becomes clear when the flames surround you. Orange faces of death.

Kill a gook for God.

Bombs for peace.

It's something no one talks about. Because there's nothing to say. It is what it is. The horrors of war are left on the battlefield. When the battlefield comes home, that's when war becomes Hell. And as the orange faces of death surround you, it's clear as day. Clear as the baby God brought into this world, just to get run over, embedded into the mud, for a lie.