Tên tôi là Giang

Let’s di di mau!

Come on, let’s fucking di di mau

—-

Robert Lindsay woke up on the carpeted floor of room 103 at the Super 8 motel. A couple hours of restless sleep plagued by bone chilling nightmares of artillery fire and burning hooches, was still the best he’d managed since returning home five days ago.

The night had been for ambushes, and the day for shut eye. He'd been nocturnal for so long that rising and setting with the sun was proving to be a difficult task. One thing about boot camp was that they knew how to program folks into killing machines, but by God, they didn’t offer a hope and a prayer when it came time to reintegrate them back into society.

You’re a gook killing machine! A gook killing machine!

A lot of good that did when the gooks were seven thousand miles away. A lot of fucking good.

Robert got up, laboring his right leg that had taken shrapnel during a mission deep in A Shau Valley, and made his way to the small breakfast hall, where he poured himself a lukewarm cup of coffee and nibbled on a stale bran muffin.

Weighing heavily on his mind were his folks and Jenny Fitzgerald. In another life, another time, he stood stone faced in front of his old man, filled with piss and vinegar. Standing tall, chest puffed up with pride, as his father told him the stupidity of the decision he was making, and the lasting effect it would have.

You’ll never be the same, boy. No matter how hard you try to be normal, you’ll never feel right again. And for what? A losing war? Do you even know why you’re going over there in the first place? You think this is some John Wayne Gung Ho shit? You could die. Jesus, son. I went so that you wouldn’t have to. I sacrificed so that you wouldn’t have to!

Despite this, Robert hopped the Canadian border and volunteered in Plattsburgh, New York. A friendly recruiting officer shook his hand and told him about the importance of the decision he was making. He told Robert that a lot of Americans were defecting and crossing the border into Canada to avoid active duty. And that it was nice to see the reverse happening, too.

A Canadian fighting a war that wasn’t his to fight. Well, from what he was told, the damage of Communism spreading was a global threat. And last he checked, he was living on this spinning rock, same as everyone. So why wasn’t it his fight?

But now, he knew all too well how frighteningly right his father had been. Even after a few days, he watched out the window of the motel as folks carried on with their day as though their brothers, sons, cousins, friends, fellow human beings weren’t being blown to bits halfway across the world. Kids who weren’t even old enough to have a beer or place a bet were coming home in body bags. Old enough to die, but too young to live. He remembered Danson writing that on his combat helmet.

He couldn’t look at his father. He couldn’t look for fear of what he’d see looking back at him. Dead man’s eyes. That’s what Rickshaw and Devin called them back in Nam. And he knew he had it because once you saw the things you saw, you couldn’t unsee them. You couldn’t unfeel them. You couldn’t unbreathe them. You couldn’t wash them away like a great baptism. Those images, those thoughts, were projected out through your eyes. They were tattooed there like permanent damage.

Instead of going home, he walked down Main Street and stopped at Anderson’s Antiques. The proprietor of this dusty rank smelling antique shop was an old pal of his father’s, Reggie Anderson.

Inside the shop were old chipped rocking chairs, milk crates of vinyl records, toys, sofas, paintings, and at the back left-hand corner was Reggie, smoking a cigarette and reading the paper.

“Well, as I live and breathe. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes” he said, coming around the counter with his arms spread out. He wrapped them tightly around Robert and followed the mauling with three hard slaps to the back. “A bona fide hero, in my little antique shop. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s good to see you, Reg. I was thinking of the apartment upstairs. Could I rent it out?”

Reggie let out a long laugh before telling him his money was no good here. “Look kid. The apartment is yours, free of charge. A soldier’s discount. Mind you, the place is falling apart a little. But it’s fine to rest your head for the night. What are your plans anyway, now that you’re back in town?”

“I appreciate it, Reggie. And to be honest. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Taking er a day at a time. Ain’t no sin in that. Have you been back to see the old man?”

“Uh, no. Not yet. I will though, soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, no doubt,” Reggie said. “You can take this here rocking chair, kid. There’s a mattress up there but nothing to sit in. We’ll get you a sofa too, in due time.”

He slapped Robert’s back again and held his hands there for a few seconds. “It’s good to have you back, kid. It really is.”

Robert looked at Reggie, whose hair was thinning and graying. His back was beginning to hunch. And he thought about coming into this shop with his father when he was a kid. How they would laugh and laugh, and even though young Robert hadn’t a single clue what they were talking about, he’d join in. He’d join in because they were men, and as a kid, all he wanted to be was a man. A strong, working class man like his father. Like Reggie.

The two of them would tousle his hair and Reggie would say, “You got yourself a good kid there, Billy. A real good kid. He’s going to do great things,” and his father would look down at him with a face filled with pride. A slight rise of the left side of his lip was all it took for the inside of Robert to feel like it was filled with a thousand butterflies that could lift his body off the ground.

And when the war came along, Rob watched his father eating his supper on his La-Z-Boy, bitter rage forming creases on his forehead. Walter Cronkite talked about the carnage in a place he’d never heard of. There were explosions, gunfire, grenades, and yes, there were body bags, too. But Rob was too young to think he could die. And now he realized that was how they got so many soldiers. Young kids who didn’t believe death would ever come knocking. But boy, did it ever.

Billy told the family how ridiculous the war was. How Ho Chi Minh wasn’t planning on taking over the world. How colonists had their foot on the throat of that country for so long that they were fighting back. That we would act the same way if colonists came into our country and tried to have their way with us. It was just Goddamn Lyndon Johnson who was in so deep that he couldn't pull them out now for fear of making him look weak.

He made a good point, but Robert didn’t want to serve for political ideological reasons. He wanted to serve because it was his time. And after his band The Freaks played The Dollar bar to a crowd of exactly three people, he wandered over to the closed antique shop and knocked on the door. Reggie answered, and there on that quiet evening, he told him he had to serve.

Reggie said, “Of course you do, son. It’s in your blood.”

That seemed like a million years ago.

How he wished he’d listened to his father

—------------------------------------------------------------

That evening he dreamed of the village in Quang Tri. How he looked around in disbelief that this was 1967, and not 1867, or 1767. These lives were so primitive, they were so simple.

There's a young woman named Giang, “tên tôi là Giang,” she says while offering a plate of rice. Robert gently waves his hand and shakes his head slowly back and forth. Schwarmy and O’Brien laugh as O’Brien slaps the plate out of her hands.

“Heeyyyy, Charlie. Come out. Come out, wherever you are,” Schwarmy is yelling with both hands cupped around his mouth. He puts his hands down and places them on the AK. He points it at women and children.

“Are you VC? What about you, kid? Are you VC? Hey O’Brien, do you think this little gook fucker is one of them?”

“Could be. They all look the same to me.”

They both bellow evil laughter. Robert is looking at Giang, who is attempting to pick up each individual grain of rice out of the dirt. By God, she’s beautiful, he thinks. And at that moment, he wonders if he’s on the wrong side of this thing.

He gets down on one knee to help, and she shrieks in fear. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” She nods her head quickly, then resumes, not wanting to lock eyes with this man. Not wanting to trust him.

They clean up as much as they can, and she stands up, brushing her long black hair out of her face and holding the bowl tightly to her chest, fearing that at any moment, this soldier, who is playing Mr. Nice Guy, will knock it out of her hands and join his soldier friends for some laughter at her expense. But he doesn’t. He looks at her and smiles, and in the distance he can hear O’Brien, and Schwarmy calling out for VC.

They’re telling villagers who don’t understand that they’re about to get zapped if they don’t disclose the location of the Viet Cong that are hiding somewhere in one of these hooches.

His rucksack feels like a thousand pounds on his back, so he takes it off and rests it against a hooch that he believes to be Giang’s. Inside there are two children running around, chasing each other with little pieces of bamboo, and Robert thinks of the beauty of childhood wonder. How kids could find the good in anything and how he wished that one day you didn’t wake up to find it all gone. Never to return. That warm feeling replaced with aching worry, anxiety, and a deep hatred for what you allowed the world to do to you.

He follows her inside, and she turns around. She thinks for a minute about what she’s going to say and then tells him in English that her grandfather worked in California. She struggles to get it out, but he’s happy. Her English is much stronger than his Vietnamese.

“He says there’s gold in the hills and the water sparkles like diamonds”

Robert says that’s beautiful. He’s never been to California himself but once thought about it. Like many kids who are called good-looking one too many times in school, he thought he could go to Hollywood and make it in the movies. But here he was, a long way from those corrugated steel letters that overlooked the La-La Land.

Outside, the sound of artillery fire shakes Robert from his daydream in horrific fashion. Giang jumps and looks behind her to shield her children, except they aren’t there.

She shouts with a primal screech that makes Robert feel like vomiting, and if he had anything more than half a C-ration and a couple sips from his canteen, he’s sure he would have spilled it all over the hooch.

Bianh! Dihn! Bianh! Dihn! Bian! Dihn!

Giang runs outside, Robert follows closely behind like a shadow. He fears the worst, because in his four months of humping through mountains, swamps, and fields of grass that grew far above his head that had to be cut with a machete, the worst that he could imagine happened. In many cases, it was even worse than he could imagine.

Now is no different as he looks at two lifeless bodies in the center of the village. They’re piled on top of each other in opposite directions, like a human X. Their bamboo sticks next to them. Schwarmy is standing next to the bodies, a smug smile draped across his face, and Robert has never wanted to take the life of another human being so badly in his entire life.

Giang is running to them, her hair flowing behind her as Robert watches, lifeless like a statue. O’Brien has a zippo lighter that he took from the Reverend when he fell on Hill 106. The Zippo says, Jesus Saves, and he’s burning the hooches with it. The dry heat erupts the homes in seconds. Clouds of pitch black smoke rise like a dark omen. As Robert watches the clouds of smoke and sees O’Brien winking, a homemade cigarette dangling loosely from his mouth, two more gunshots echo with the screaming of villagers. Robert feels his body, he’s rubbing up and down his chest, his neck, face, and back to make sure that the bullets aren’t lodged in his body somewhere.

He isn’t hit. But Giang is lying with her children. Still. Robert can feel the salt from his tears stinging his sweating face. He runs over to Schwarmy, eyes of hatred and blood that’s boiling so hot his entire body is in danger of combusting.

With the butt of the AK, he smashes Schwarmy’s nose. And climbs on top of him, delivering blow after blow to his face.

Behind him, he can hear O’Brien and the rest of the platoon. Walker, Cross, Frankie, and Lem, yelling out as the village goes up like Pompei.

Let’s di di mau

Come on, let’s fucking Didi Mau

There’s no VC here. I repeat. There’s no VC here. Let’s go. Come on, let’s go!

He takes one last look at Giang and the children, before he’s pulled off of Schwarmy by Walker, and his head keeps replaying her voice again, and again.

Tên tôi là Giang

There’s gold in the hills and water sparkles like diamonds.

Robert screams her name, and downstairs Reggie looks up at the ceiling with a somber look. It’s 3 in the morning, and he’s already on his second cup of coffee. He’s dusting and reorganizing. Moving a chair from one dusty corner to another. Piling the jigsaw puzzles of beautiful landscapes into perfectly neat stacks.

Robert is still screaming.

Reggie thinks about his time in the service. A little cafe in the south of France. A cute little nurse named Marie. Reggie, smiling so much that his face hurt. Marie laughing at all of his strange Canadian jokes, and strange Canadian humor. He remembers a small birthmark just above the right side of her lip that looked like an apple. Her smell. Lavender wafting off of her and into his nose, calming him and making him fall in love with her.

Then the tanks. The explosions and Marie.

He can’t go see Robert because there’s nothing to say. Nothing with any form of truth, anyway. He’d love to go upstairs and tell him that it will fade, and she will be forgotten, whoever she is. But it wouldn’t be true. No, sir. Not true at all, Reggie thought as he took another sip of his coffee. Smelling lavender, and thinking about the apple shaped birthmark.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robert came down the stairs at a quarter past nine. Reggie was showing an old woman some China from the 1920s. She seemed interested in the floral designs on the aged white cups, and Reggie was closing in on the sale. A little flirting, touching her shoulder, and laughing like she was the funniest person on earth. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was waving her right arm at him saying, “oh would you stop it?”

Robert smiled and snuck behind the counter where a half-empty pot of coffee was sitting on a burner. There were paper cups next to it, and he poured himself one. The coffee was old, no doubt, but he still went back for a second cup.

After a few minutes, the old lady left and said she’d return with her grandsons, who would help her carry it all. Reggie said, “fine by me, ma’am. Looking forward to seeing you.” Again, she blushed and left as the bell above the door dinged.

“You’re a natural,” Robert said, raising his paper cup and smiling.

“Did you see that diamond necklace? The old broad has money. That’s when old Reggie has to turn on the charm.” He winked. “Say, what are your plans for the day, soldier?”

Robert knew what his plans should be, and that was to visit his father. But he was scared, something that Reggie read on his face instantly.

“Look, kid. I’ve known your father for a long time. And I don’t know what you’re expecting to happen when you see him, but he’s just going to be happy that you’re home. He’s going to want to crack a cold beer with you. And you won’t have to say a word about the war, kid. Not a word. Your old man and I have sat at The Dollar for over twenty years now, drinking, laughing, sometimes talking and sometimes sitting in silence. But always, always knowing that we understood what was floating around each other’s brains and knowing that just having someone who understands is a lot better than trying to forget it, kid.”

“I know, Reg. I do. But every time I’m about to head over that way, I think about the way we left things. Him screaming, and me standing with my chest puffed out like I knew a fucking thing about anything. He knew, Reg. He knew.”

Reggie placed his hand on Robert’s shoulder and said, “Of course he did, kid. But you know what? Your father stood in front of his old man too after Pearl Harbour and told him he was enlisting. Your grandfather spent two years in muddy fucking trenches. He had words for your father. Being young, kid. Being young means being full of pride. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to serve your country. Not a thing at all. And your old man understands that, kid. I promise you he does.”

And with those words, Robert left the shop. His father was likely working, so he’d wait until the evening to go pay him and his mother a visit.

—————————————————————————

That evening, as he headed down Main towards his folks’ home on Union, a cool fall wind blew, massaging his face and making him feel good for the first time in a long while. He passed the embankment that overlooked the freight yard, and he remembered parking his old man’s Ford and kissing Jenny deeply. Kissing her and thinking that life couldn’t possibly get any better than that moment, and now, he was sure that was right.

Jenny was off to college, and he remembered her Dear John letter. The one that said she loved him, but time didn’t stand still because he wasn’t around. The world kept moving; it kept spinning, and her life couldn’t pause. She was going away, and if he wanted to visit her when he returned, he was more than welcome. But it would be as friends. Not as lovers. And she had attached a picture of them, standing on his front lawn, getting ready for prom. Jenny’s long blonde hair, and big smile. She had to get braces the week before, and he remembered her crying because of it. And when she came to his house to show them off, her eyes puffy and red, he thought she had never looked more beautiful.

A grunt buddy named Damien had looked over his shoulder, and said, “you got yourself a beauty there, Jordan. Don’t let her get away.” And he responded, “I’ll try, brother. I’ll try my best.”

Every block formed a memory in his head about childhood. Bike rides, and comic shops. Georgie Flannagan’s little malt shop on the corner of Evangeline and Mill Haven. The candy stripe swirling in front of Paul’s barbershop. He thought about going in there with his old man to get a haircut. His father went first and when Paul asked what he wanted, he told he wanted the “Daddy Cut”. He laughed, and so did his father. They walked out that day looking like twins, and he’d never felt so much pride in himself, in his family, and in his town.

Before he knew it, he was crossing up Union Street. Maggie’s German Shepherd, still barking behind a chipped white picket fence. “Hey, boy,” Robert called, “How are you, boy?”

The dog responded with a couple of happy yips and yaps, and Robert thought he would like one and wondered if Reggie would let him bring a pup to his small bachelor pad.

Then he was standing in front of his childhood home. The three story, old Victorian that was built in 1890. Faded auburn Cape Cod siding, and brown shutters on his bedroom window. The garden stones that formed a snake formation up to the three steps that led to the front door. His mother’s garden of beautiful blooming flowers, bright purples, and pinks, whites, and yellows, all sitting neatly in a bed of red mulch.

Robert stood, unable to move for a few moments. Then he heard voices coming from behind the house. He recognized the sound immediately as Bob Collins, doing color commentary for the Red Sox game. His father was back there. He knew the old man was sitting on his favourite patio chair, with a cold beer in his right hand, and a cigar between the fingers on his left, or hanging from his mouth.

Robert’s heart was beating madly as he walked past his Ford truck, where he and Jenny loved each other, and talked about the future. And as he came around the corner of the house, he saw his father staring out at the river and the Appalachian mountain range in the distance.

He had a pair of jeans on, and he was still wearing a dirty work shirt. Robert walked up the deck stairs, and his father looked to his right and saw his son, for the first time in almost two years.

“I heard you were back in town,” he said. And Robert nodded. “You lost some weight.”

“Haven’t been eating much.”

“Looks it.”

Then he reached into the cooler that was sitting at his feet and hauled out a beer, placing it on the arm of the chair next to his. He didn’t say a word.

Robert walked slowly to the chair and sat down. His first beer with his old man. How many times he had asked to have one with him when he was a teenager, and his father replying that once he was old enough, they could drink beer and listen to ball games all night. But not a drop until then.

He popped the tab and took a long drink, nearly downing half the can before he took it off his lips. He let out an exasperated, “Ahhhhh,” and placed the can back on the arm of the chair.

“How are the Sox doing?”

“Down two runs in the seventh. We have two outs, but there’s a man on first and third. Johnny Curtis is pitching. Needs to stop throwing that damn curve. His fastball can’t be hit.”

“Who are they playing?”

“Milwaukee. Damn Brewers are streaky, but when they’re hitting, boy are they ever.”

“Yeah. It’s been a while. I’ll need a refresher course.” He swore he could see a hint of a smile form on his father’s weathered face.

“You came to the right place. Your mom is at Bingo with Wendy Alton, and Becca Sherman. Should be back in an hour or so.”

“Okay.”

Then the two sat in silence for a while. Every time Robert’s can was empty, his father grabbed him another one and placed it in the same spot.

In his head, he could still hear the voices of the 103rd, but this evening they weren’t as loud. He looked over at his father and knew that inside his head there were voices, too. Good ones. Bad ones. There was always a war waging inside his skull, as there would be for him. But sitting there, he realized Reggie was right. He didn’t need to discuss what had happened, and his father didn’t need to tell Robert what he saw. The point was they had both been to different iterations of hell, and they both returned.

Robert looked at the view. The sun was a brilliant orange flame that was setting behind a mountain range that he had taken for granted his entire childhood. Smokestacks billowed from the paper mill as the water sparkled.

tên tôi là Giang

tên tôi là Giang

There’s gold in those hills. And the water sparkles like diamonds in the sun.

“I just feel like… there’s no time left. Like I am out of time… don’t you ever feel like that?” My older sister stood before me, crying and anxious.

Ohmygod. She even cries beautifully.

That was my first thought. The next was to wonder what the hell she was even talking about. Her life had always been perfect.

My sister was 38, a former cheerleader, model, and beauty pageant winner. She was married to her high school sweetheart with whom she had three wonderful kids. She had a successful career and was still so breathtakingly beautiful that other women would often try to emulate her style.

What do YOU have to cry about? Seriously. Ugh.

I hugged her to me, unsure what to say next because honestly, she was weirding me out. I didn’t know where her uncomfortable emotional deluge was coming from, but I wanted it to end. I was eleven years her junior. The little sister. Why is it suddenly my job to help her while she loses her shit for no apparent reason?

I proceeded to tell her she was silly to feel the way she did. I discounted her sense of dread by blaming her feelings on stress and/or hormones. I tried to get her “back to normal” as soon as possible with my cheery, empty encouragement.

Less than one year later, I received a call from my panicked mother saying my sister had collapsed at home while getting ready for work.

My sister had died of a brain aneurysm.

She was 39 years old.

Perhaps my sister knew, by way of some premonition, that her time was nearing an end. I will never know what was on her mind.

If I could have one more day with her, I would choose to return to when she told me she felt there was no time left. I would take her to get one of those fancy coffees she adored and I would just would sit with her and listen.

I would listen for as long as she’d speak.

Tên tôi là Giang

Let’s di di mau!

Come on, let’s fucking di di mau

—-

Robert Lindsay woke up on the carpeted floor of room 103 at the Super 8 motel. A couple hours of restless sleep plagued by bone chilling nightmares of artillery fire and burning hooches, was still the best he’d managed since returning home five days ago.

The night had been for ambushes, and the day for shut eye. He'd been nocturnal for so long that rising and setting with the sun was proving to be a difficult task. One thing about boot camp was that they knew how to program folks into killing machines, but by God, they didn’t offer a hope and a prayer when it came time to reintegrate them back into society.

You’re a gook killing machine! A gook killing machine!

A lot of good that did when the gooks were seven thousand miles away. A lot of fucking good.

Robert got up, laboring his right leg that had taken shrapnel during a mission deep in A Shau Valley, and made his way to the small breakfast hall, where he poured himself a lukewarm cup of coffee and nibbled on a stale bran muffin.

Weighing heavily on his mind were his folks and Jenny Fitzgerald. In another life, another time, he stood stone faced in front of his old man, filled with piss and vinegar. Standing tall, chest puffed up with pride, as his father told him the stupidity of the decision he was making, and the lasting effect it would have.

You’ll never be the same, boy. No matter how hard you try to be normal, you’ll never feel right again. And for what? A losing war? Do you even know why you’re going over there in the first place? You think this is some John Wayne Gung Ho shit? You could die. Jesus, son. I went so that you wouldn’t have to. I sacrificed so that you wouldn’t have to!

Despite this, Robert hopped the Canadian border and volunteered in Plattsburgh, New York. A friendly recruiting officer shook his hand and told him about the importance of the decision he was making. He told Robert that a lot of Americans were defecting and crossing the border into Canada to avoid active duty. And that it was nice to see the reverse happening, too.

A Canadian fighting a war that wasn’t his to fight. Well, from what he was told, the damage of Communism spreading was a global threat. And last he checked, he was living on this spinning rock, same as everyone. So why wasn’t it his fight?

But now, he knew all too well how frighteningly right his father had been. Even after a few days, he watched out the window of the motel as folks carried on with their day as though their brothers, sons, cousins, friends, fellow human beings weren’t being blown to bits halfway across the world. Kids who weren’t even old enough to have a beer or place a bet were coming home in body bags. Old enough to die, but too young to live. He remembered Danson writing that on his combat helmet.

He couldn’t look at his father. He couldn’t look for fear of what he’d see looking back at him. Dead man’s eyes. That’s what Rickshaw and Devin called them back in Nam. And he knew he had it because once you saw the things you saw, you couldn’t unsee them. You couldn’t unfeel them. You couldn’t unbreathe them. You couldn’t wash them away like a great baptism. Those images, those thoughts, were projected out through your eyes. They were tattooed there like permanent damage.

Instead of going home, he walked down Main Street and stopped at Anderson’s Antiques. The proprietor of this dusty rank smelling antique shop was an old pal of his father’s, Reggie Anderson.

Inside the shop were old chipped rocking chairs, milk crates of vinyl records, toys, sofas, paintings, and at the back left-hand corner was Reggie, smoking a cigarette and reading the paper.

“Well, as I live and breathe. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes” he said, coming around the counter with his arms spread out. He wrapped them tightly around Robert and followed the mauling with three hard slaps to the back. “A bona fide hero, in my little antique shop. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s good to see you, Reg. I was thinking of the apartment upstairs. Could I rent it out?”

Reggie let out a long laugh before telling him his money was no good here. “Look kid. The apartment is yours, free of charge. A soldier’s discount. Mind you, the place is falling apart a little. But it’s fine to rest your head for the night. What are your plans anyway, now that you’re back in town?”

“I appreciate it, Reggie. And to be honest. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Taking er a day at a time. Ain’t no sin in that. Have you been back to see the old man?”

“Uh, no. Not yet. I will though, soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, no doubt,” Reggie said. “You can take this here rocking chair, kid. There’s a mattress up there but nothing to sit in. We’ll get you a sofa too, in due time.”

He slapped Robert’s back again and held his hands there for a few seconds. “It’s good to have you back, kid. It really is.”

Robert looked at Reggie, whose hair was thinning and graying. His back was beginning to hunch. And he thought about coming into this shop with his father when he was a kid. How they would laugh and laugh, and even though young Robert hadn’t a single clue what they were talking about, he’d join in. He’d join in because they were men, and as a kid, all he wanted to be was a man. A strong, working class man like his father. Like Reggie.

The two of them would tousle his hair and Reggie would say, “You got yourself a good kid there, Billy. A real good kid. He’s going to do great things,” and his father would look down at him with a face filled with pride. A slight rise of the left side of his lip was all it took for the inside of Robert to feel like it was filled with a thousand butterflies that could lift his body off the ground.

And when the war came along, Rob watched his father eating his supper on his La-Z-Boy, bitter rage forming creases on his forehead. Walter Cronkite talked about the carnage in a place he’d never heard of. There were explosions, gunfire, grenades, and yes, there were body bags, too. But Rob was too young to think he could die. And now he realized that was how they got so many soldiers. Young kids who didn’t believe death would ever come knocking. But boy, did it ever.

Billy told the family how ridiculous the war was. How Ho Chi Minh wasn’t planning on taking over the world. How colonists had their foot on the throat of that country for so long that they were fighting back. That we would act the same way if colonists came into our country and tried to have their way with us. It was just Goddamn Lyndon Johnson who was in so deep that he couldn't pull them out now for fear of making him look weak.

He made a good point, but Robert didn’t want to serve for political ideological reasons. He wanted to serve because it was his time. And after his band The Freaks played The Dollar bar to a crowd of exactly three people, he wandered over to the closed antique shop and knocked on the door. Reggie answered, and there on that quiet evening, he told him he had to serve.

Reggie said, “Of course you do, son. It’s in your blood.”

That seemed like a million years ago.

How he wished he’d listened to his father

—------------------------------------------------------------

That evening he dreamed of the village in Quang Tri. How he looked around in disbelief that this was 1967, and not 1867, or 1767. These lives were so primitive, they were so simple.

There's a young woman named Giang, “tên tôi là Giang,” she says while offering a plate of rice. Robert gently waves his hand and shakes his head slowly back and forth. Schwarmy and O’Brien laugh as O’Brien slaps the plate out of her hands.

“Heeyyyy, Charlie. Come out. Come out, wherever you are,” Schwarmy is yelling with both hands cupped around his mouth. He puts his hands down and places them on the AK. He points it at women and children.

“Are you VC? What about you, kid? Are you VC? Hey O’Brien, do you think this little gook fucker is one of them?”

“Could be. They all look the same to me.”

They both bellow evil laughter. Robert is looking at Giang, who is attempting to pick up each individual grain of rice out of the dirt. By God, she’s beautiful, he thinks. And at that moment, he wonders if he’s on the wrong side of this thing.

He gets down on one knee to help, and she shrieks in fear. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” She nods her head quickly, then resumes, not wanting to lock eyes with this man. Not wanting to trust him.

They clean up as much as they can, and she stands up, brushing her long black hair out of her face and holding the bowl tightly to her chest, fearing that at any moment, this soldier, who is playing Mr. Nice Guy, will knock it out of her hands and join his soldier friends for some laughter at her expense. But he doesn’t. He looks at her and smiles, and in the distance he can hear O’Brien, and Schwarmy calling out for VC.

They’re telling villagers who don’t understand that they’re about to get zapped if they don’t disclose the location of the Viet Cong that are hiding somewhere in one of these hooches.

His rucksack feels like a thousand pounds on his back, so he takes it off and rests it against a hooch that he believes to be Giang’s. Inside there are two children running around, chasing each other with little pieces of bamboo, and Robert thinks of the beauty of childhood wonder. How kids could find the good in anything and how he wished that one day you didn’t wake up to find it all gone. Never to return. That warm feeling replaced with aching worry, anxiety, and a deep hatred for what you allowed the world to do to you.

He follows her inside, and she turns around. She thinks for a minute about what she’s going to say and then tells him in English that her grandfather worked in California. She struggles to get it out, but he’s happy. Her English is much stronger than his Vietnamese.

“He says there’s gold in the hills and the water sparkles like diamonds”

Robert says that’s beautiful. He’s never been to California himself but once thought about it. Like many kids who are called good-looking one too many times in school, he thought he could go to Hollywood and make it in the movies. But here he was, a long way from those corrugated steel letters that overlooked the La-La Land.

Outside, the sound of artillery fire shakes Robert from his daydream in horrific fashion. Giang jumps and looks behind her to shield her children, except they aren’t there.

She shouts with a primal screech that makes Robert feel like vomiting, and if he had anything more than half a C-ration and a couple sips from his canteen, he’s sure he would have spilled it all over the hooch.

Bianh! Dihn! Bianh! Dihn! Bian! Dihn!

Giang runs outside, Robert follows closely behind like a shadow. He fears the worst, because in his four months of humping through mountains, swamps, and fields of grass that grew far above his head that had to be cut with a machete, the worst that he could imagine happened. In many cases, it was even worse than he could imagine.

Now is no different as he looks at two lifeless bodies in the center of the village. They’re piled on top of each other in opposite directions, like a human X. Their bamboo sticks next to them. Schwarmy is standing next to the bodies, a smug smile draped across his face, and Robert has never wanted to take the life of another human being so badly in his entire life.

Giang is running to them, her hair flowing behind her as Robert watches, lifeless like a statue. O’Brien has a zippo lighter that he took from the Reverend when he fell on Hill 106. The Zippo says, Jesus Saves, and he’s burning the hooches with it. The dry heat erupts the homes in seconds. Clouds of pitch black smoke rise like a dark omen. As Robert watches the clouds of smoke and sees O’Brien winking, a homemade cigarette dangling loosely from his mouth, two more gunshots echo with the screaming of villagers. Robert feels his body, he’s rubbing up and down his chest, his neck, face, and back to make sure that the bullets aren’t lodged in his body somewhere.

He isn’t hit. But Giang is lying with her children. Still. Robert can feel the salt from his tears stinging his sweating face. He runs over to Schwarmy, eyes of hatred and blood that’s boiling so hot his entire body is in danger of combusting.

With the butt of the AK, he smashes Schwarmy’s nose. And climbs on top of him, delivering blow after blow to his face.

Behind him, he can hear O’Brien and the rest of the platoon. Walker, Cross, Frankie, and Lem, yelling out as the village goes up like Pompei.

Let’s di di mau

Come on, let’s fucking Didi Mau

There’s no VC here. I repeat. There’s no VC here. Let’s go. Come on, let’s go!

He takes one last look at Giang and the children, before he’s pulled off of Schwarmy by Walker, and his head keeps replaying her voice again, and again.

Tên tôi là Giang

There’s gold in the hills and water sparkles like diamonds.

Robert screams her name, and downstairs Reggie looks up at the ceiling with a somber look. It’s 3 in the morning, and he’s already on his second cup of coffee. He’s dusting and reorganizing. Moving a chair from one dusty corner to another. Piling the jigsaw puzzles of beautiful landscapes into perfectly neat stacks.

Robert is still screaming.

Reggie thinks about his time in the service. A little cafe in the south of France. A cute little nurse named Marie. Reggie, smiling so much that his face hurt. Marie laughing at all of his strange Canadian jokes, and strange Canadian humor. He remembers a small birthmark just above the right side of her lip that looked like an apple. Her smell. Lavender wafting off of her and into his nose, calming him and making him fall in love with her.

Then the tanks. The explosions and Marie.

He can’t go see Robert because there’s nothing to say. Nothing with any form of truth, anyway. He’d love to go upstairs and tell him that it will fade, and she will be forgotten, whoever she is. But it wouldn’t be true. No, sir. Not true at all, Reggie thought as he took another sip of his coffee. Smelling lavender, and thinking about the apple shaped birthmark.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robert came down the stairs at a quarter past nine. Reggie was showing an old woman some China from the 1920s. She seemed interested in the floral designs on the aged white cups, and Reggie was closing in on the sale. A little flirting, touching her shoulder, and laughing like she was the funniest person on earth. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was waving her right arm at him saying, “oh would you stop it?”

Robert smiled and snuck behind the counter where a half-empty pot of coffee was sitting on a burner. There were paper cups next to it, and he poured himself one. The coffee was old, no doubt, but he still went back for a second cup.

After a few minutes, the old lady left and said she’d return with her grandsons, who would help her carry it all. Reggie said, “fine by me, ma’am. Looking forward to seeing you.” Again, she blushed and left as the bell above the door dinged.

“You’re a natural,” Robert said, raising his paper cup and smiling.

“Did you see that diamond necklace? The old broad has money. That’s when old Reggie has to turn on the charm.” He winked. “Say, what are your plans for the day, soldier?”

Robert knew what his plans should be, and that was to visit his father. But he was scared, something that Reggie read on his face instantly.

“Look, kid. I’ve known your father for a long time. And I don’t know what you’re expecting to happen when you see him, but he’s just going to be happy that you’re home. He’s going to want to crack a cold beer with you. And you won’t have to say a word about the war, kid. Not a word. Your old man and I have sat at The Dollar for over twenty years now, drinking, laughing, sometimes talking and sometimes sitting in silence. But always, always knowing that we understood what was floating around each other’s brains and knowing that just having someone who understands is a lot better than trying to forget it, kid.”

“I know, Reg. I do. But every time I’m about to head over that way, I think about the way we left things. Him screaming, and me standing with my chest puffed out like I knew a fucking thing about anything. He knew, Reg. He knew.”

Reggie placed his hand on Robert’s shoulder and said, “Of course he did, kid. But you know what? Your father stood in front of his old man too after Pearl Harbour and told him he was enlisting. Your grandfather spent two years in muddy fucking trenches. He had words for your father. Being young, kid. Being young means being full of pride. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to serve your country. Not a thing at all. And your old man understands that, kid. I promise you he does.”

And with those words, Robert left the shop. His father was likely working, so he’d wait until the evening to go pay him and his mother a visit.

—————————————————————————

That evening, as he headed down Main towards his folks’ home on Union, a cool fall wind blew, massaging his face and making him feel good for the first time in a long while. He passed the embankment that overlooked the freight yard, and he remembered parking his old man’s Ford and kissing Jenny deeply. Kissing her and thinking that life couldn’t possibly get any better than that moment, and now, he was sure that was right.

Jenny was off to college, and he remembered her Dear John letter. The one that said she loved him, but time didn’t stand still because he wasn’t around. The world kept moving; it kept spinning, and her life couldn’t pause. She was going away, and if he wanted to visit her when he returned, he was more than welcome. But it would be as friends. Not as lovers. And she had attached a picture of them, standing on his front lawn, getting ready for prom. Jenny’s long blonde hair, and big smile. She had to get braces the week before, and he remembered her crying because of it. And when she came to his house to show them off, her eyes puffy and red, he thought she had never looked more beautiful.

A grunt buddy named Damien had looked over his shoulder, and said, “you got yourself a beauty there, Jordan. Don’t let her get away.” And he responded, “I’ll try, brother. I’ll try my best.”

Every block formed a memory in his head about childhood. Bike rides, and comic shops. Georgie Flannagan’s little malt shop on the corner of Evangeline and Mill Haven. The candy stripe swirling in front of Paul’s barbershop. He thought about going in there with his old man to get a haircut. His father went first and when Paul asked what he wanted, he told he wanted the “Daddy Cut”. He laughed, and so did his father. They walked out that day looking like twins, and he’d never felt so much pride in himself, in his family, and in his town.

Before he knew it, he was crossing up Union Street. Maggie’s German Shepherd, still barking behind a chipped white picket fence. “Hey, boy,” Robert called, “How are you, boy?”

The dog responded with a couple of happy yips and yaps, and Robert thought he would like one and wondered if Reggie would let him bring a pup to his small bachelor pad.

Then he was standing in front of his childhood home. The three story, old Victorian that was built in 1890. Faded auburn Cape Cod siding, and brown shutters on his bedroom window. The garden stones that formed a snake formation up to the three steps that led to the front door. His mother’s garden of beautiful blooming flowers, bright purples, and pinks, whites, and yellows, all sitting neatly in a bed of red mulch.

Robert stood, unable to move for a few moments. Then he heard voices coming from behind the house. He recognized the sound immediately as Bob Collins, doing color commentary for the Red Sox game. His father was back there. He knew the old man was sitting on his favourite patio chair, with a cold beer in his right hand, and a cigar between the fingers on his left, or hanging from his mouth.

Robert’s heart was beating madly as he walked past his Ford truck, where he and Jenny loved each other, and talked about the future. And as he came around the corner of the house, he saw his father staring out at the river and the Appalachian mountain range in the distance.

He had a pair of jeans on, and he was still wearing a dirty work shirt. Robert walked up the deck stairs, and his father looked to his right and saw his son, for the first time in almost two years.

“I heard you were back in town,” he said. And Robert nodded. “You lost some weight.”

“Haven’t been eating much.”

“Looks it.”

Then he reached into the cooler that was sitting at his feet and hauled out a beer, placing it on the arm of the chair next to his. He didn’t say a word.

Robert walked slowly to the chair and sat down. His first beer with his old man. How many times he had asked to have one with him when he was a teenager, and his father replying that once he was old enough, they could drink beer and listen to ball games all night. But not a drop until then.

He popped the tab and took a long drink, nearly downing half the can before he took it off his lips. He let out an exasperated, “Ahhhhh,” and placed the can back on the arm of the chair.

“How are the Sox doing?”

“Down two runs in the seventh. We have two outs, but there’s a man on first and third. Johnny Curtis is pitching. Needs to stop throwing that damn curve. His fastball can’t be hit.”

“Who are they playing?”

“Milwaukee. Damn Brewers are streaky, but when they’re hitting, boy are they ever.”

“Yeah. It’s been a while. I’ll need a refresher course.” He swore he could see a hint of a smile form on his father’s weathered face.

“You came to the right place. Your mom is at Bingo with Wendy Alton, and Becca Sherman. Should be back in an hour or so.”

“Okay.”

Then the two sat in silence for a while. Every time Robert’s can was empty, his father grabbed him another one and placed it in the same spot.

In his head, he could still hear the voices of the 103rd, but this evening they weren’t as loud. He looked over at his father and knew that inside his head there were voices, too. Good ones. Bad ones. There was always a war waging inside his skull, as there would be for him. But sitting there, he realized Reggie was right. He didn’t need to discuss what had happened, and his father didn’t need to tell Robert what he saw. The point was they had both been to different iterations of hell, and they both returned.

Robert looked at the view. The sun was a brilliant orange flame that was setting behind a mountain range that he had taken for granted his entire childhood. Smokestacks billowed from the paper mill as the water sparkled.

tên tôi là Giang

tên tôi là Giang

There’s gold in those hills. And the water sparkles like diamonds in the sun.

It started with a whisper, low and slow. Gentle pings on the piano, and then, strings, each note a pull, causing a twinge in the middle of the chest that feels almost like pain, the low bass a soothing rhythm, slowing the heartbeat to match its cadence, first slow and calming, then gradually growing faster, louder, to a climactic peak, a cathartic exhalation, before slowing back down in a comforting decrescendo.

“It is beautiful.” I breathed after the song finished, suddenly realizing I was crying. “Oh my gosh, I have never felt like this while listening to a piece of music. This is incredible, Lucy, truly incredible.”

“Thank you, Ms. Hahn.”

Lucy’s expression was inscrutable. Her deep brown eyes pools of ink beneath black lashes, not a single line on her expressionless face. She was looking at me intently. “How does it make you feel?”

I wiped at my face to dry the wetness on my cheeks. “I don’t know… there’s something about it, a sense of something I can’t have, or something that I’ve lost somehow…”

“Yes?” Lucy prodded, leaning forward.

“Longing.” I finally said. “This song. This song captures perfectly the feeling of longing.”

Lucy nodded, seeming satisfied.

The sheet music lay haphazardly on the table.

“How did you make this, Lucy?” I asked. Lucy was my brightest student, technically gifted, able to execute the most difficult pieces on both the piano and strings without a single mistake. She was a joy to watch perform, her hands a flurry of perfect technique, the product of thousands of hours of practice and natural talent. But for all of Lucy’s gifts, being creative was not one of them. Not once has my best student created a truly original piece.

Until now.

Lucy leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Of course I would.” I countered, not quite feeling the certainty of my words. There was something about the piece that felt surreal. Even then I knew, I knew the song I just listened to would go down in history as an iconic piece, it was simply too good. There was no doubt in my mind I was witnessing the nascent of a musical legend. It was exactly the kind of thing artists dream of, the only thing.

She flicked her gaze back to me. The silence between us stretched, the air in the room thinner, as if we’re at the peak of something. Finally she said, “It came to me in a dream.”

“A dream.” I repeated doubtfully.

“Yes.” Lucy sighed. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

As a teacher at one of the most prestigious music conservatories in the country, I have certainly seen my fair share of students being driven to the brink of a mental breakdown. There was an unbelievable amount of pressure, being at the top of the craft, the cutthroat competition, the hours and hours of practice, the extreme passion and perfectionism, the never ending mantra of not being good enough.

I watched Lucy’s face and was suddenly struck with the youth of it. The face of a girl too young to be feeling this much pressure, to carry this weight. And it was a heavy weight, wasn’t it? To be this talented.

Girls her age should be giggling about boys and decorating their dorm rooms, worrying about make up and what outfit to wear to the next party. Instead, here Lucy was, talking about composing music in her dreams.

“It just asked something in return.”

I blinked. “It?”

Lucy nodded. “I thought I was dreaming, you know, I didn’t take it seriously. It asked to take a piece of me, a feeling, a human thing, and it said in exchange, it would help me turn it into a timeless piece of music.” She looked down at her hands. “Then I woke up, and I had this song in my head, I recorded myself playing it and here we are.”

I swallowed something thick in my throat. Poor, poor Lucy. Another young talent broken by the pressure. Already I pictured myself making phone calls to the school health center, helping Lucy make an appointment for an evaluation.

“But you see, I think it actually took it.”

“Took what?”

“The feeling.” A look of deep concern crossed my young student’s face. “I don’t feel it anymore. I can’t. It’s like, it was cut out of me.”

“The feeling of longing.” I said slowly.

“Yes.”

“Lucy, listen to me.” I leaned forward. “I am glad you finally found your creative side, but I think you’re putting yourself under too much pressure. You have to take care of yourself, okay? I’ll make you an appointment with Sheila. You’ve met her, right? The school psychologist. I really think—”

“Forget it.” Lucy stood up. “You think I’m crazy. Anyway, I have to go, I have other songs I need to record…”

“Other songs?”

“Yeah… I have to. It’s the only thing that matters anymore.”

“Lucy, wait—”

Then she was gone, the wooden door swinging shut behind her, leaving the rapidly scrawled sheet music on the table. I stared at the sheets for a moment, noticing the slightly unhinged way in which they were handwritten, as if it was done subconsciously, automatically. There was a particular spot where the note head was shaded so aggressively that it looked like the lead of the pencil snapped.

I should have gone after her, should have stopped her… but I didn’t. I had a busy schedule, the next student already waiting outside in the hallway, and I told myself I would call Sheila to check on Lucy later. It could wait, I told myself, she needed to calm down, maybe get some songs out of her system. Secretly I wondered what kind of masterpiece she was going to record next. If it was going to be as good as the one she just showed me.

Already I was intoxicated by the music. If I was being honest myself… I simply wanted more of it. It felt precious. It felt… worth it.

I would never forgive myself for that.

—

The tragedy of Lucy Chen made headlines across the country.

The nineteen year old prodigy was renowned for having created thirteen masterpieces in a matter of weeks. Each masterpiece was titled a specific emotion, each perfectly capturing the feeling. The effect was described to be almost supernatural, the way each note was so perfectly placed that it caused measurable physical effects in both the performer and the listener: heart rates racing and falling, muscles tightening then relaxing. It was not uncommon during a performance for audience members to start weeping.

In short order, this drove Lucy’s creations to the highest recognition. The collection aptly called “Fragments of a Soul” garnered Lucy the Pulitzer Prize for Music posthumously.

The last piece of the collection was titled simply “Joy” and it was dedicated to her music teacher, Ms. Geraldine Hahn, who declined any comment on the matter. The sheet music was rumored to be accompanied by a handwritten letter addressed to the teacher, the contents of which widely speculated upon by many music enthusiasts.

Geraldine Hahn left teaching shortly after Lucy Chen’s death, citing “personal reasons” for her early retirement. It was rumored that she had checked herself into a psychiatric facility at the urging of her family and colleagues. Both Ms. Hahn and the school have declined to comment if her retirement had anything to do with Lucy or the letter.

The tragedy of this musical genius will resonate with music schools across the country for decades to come, each of the thirteen pieces achieving cult status. It has been said that the highest achievement for a student was to perform all thirteen pieces in succession without a mistake.

“Joy” became one of the modern choices for an audition repertoire for most conservatories, which typically required only classical works such as Bach or Chopin.

The exact nature of Lucy’s death is to be kept private in accordance to the wishes of her family, though they have confirmed there is no evidence of foul play.

—

Ms. Hahn,

I am not sure why I am writing you this letter. I think some part of me thinks you might understand. Or maybe I just want someone to know. It seems the right thing to do, to tell someone.

The most wonderful thing has happened.

I was scared at first. It was terrifying, the blackness of it. Like an endless shadow. At the same time it was calling to me, pulling me deeper into it, like gravity.

And then, of course, the music. The music was so beautiful, so perfect, that I just had to keep going, keep giving.

After a while, little by little, the more I gave it, eventually… I stopped being afraid.

Now, nothing feels the same. Nothing feels like anything, really.

And I…like it.

I wish I could tell you how freeing it is. How beautiful. To feel this nothingness.

I have no more worries, no fears, no ugly memories. There is no pressure to do anything or be anyone. Nothing hurts. Nothing matters.

I feel… weightless.

I hope you like this final piece. It is the last part of me.

Do not be afraid.

Do not worry.

Nothing will hurt me here.

Lucy.

Cat People is a movie about the sexual awakening of sheltered women.

A boring concept if you ask me, but not when you have Nastassja Kinski playing this character who would have nothing to do with a stunning beauty like her in real life.

See, this is what it's like to play by the patriarchal cinema rules. You get impossible gorgeous women who are naive virgins, clueless to the surroundings, waiting to be saved and noticed. And these women are linked to wild, ferocious, alpha male animals who prey upon them whether sexually or physically.

The movie was enjoyable, not gonna lie. But the cinematography, coloring, and lighting were just awful. The coloring reminded me of skimpy, seedy cabarets and harems, I was waiting for a dancer and a cheap burlesque show to pop up at any minute.

But Nastassja was simply magnificent. She carried the whole film for me. That's movie star charisma, you want to follow her around with your eyes wherever she went. And feelings were subtly but deeply overlayed on her features, which made the scenes where she interacts -not just with the black leopard- with people or the surroundings more fascinating. If it weren't for her, I think I would have given the film a much lower rating.

Apart from the fetishizing of virginity and the sexual repression of women, the film makes an impactful analogy of how sexual repression and subduing sexuality lead to a sexual explosion, a cosmic supernova that might obliterate anything in its wake. And that's probably what Irena was going through, not just her, also her -ahem- creepy ass werecat brother Paul.

As I grew older, I discovered how I felt less and less enthusiastic about movies that depict predatory animals as "evil" or "monstrous"; creatures that should be eliminated or else they would exert a series of actions that cascade into violence and mayhem. This couldn't be further from the truth. And my interest wanes when I discover such films that try to villainize animals when Man (humans, Homo sapiens) are the vilest creatures ever to walk this earth. So, anytime the black leopard jumped at someone or physically harmed them, I simply yawned. At other times it felt like the humans were bothering the animals, not giving them a moment's rest, and invading their natural habitats, so it felt like they got what they...deserved?

One of the things that makes this film very uncomfortable and unsuitable for modern audiences is the incestuous infatuation between Irena and Paul. It was so disconcerting to watch, even if they were actually black panthers masquerading as humans. Bullshit, honestly! Who wants to watch sibling orgasm on screen, even if they had feline ancestry.

I can't be more surprised for what they were able to get away with in past movies. There are multiple nudity scenes here, sequences where the voyeuristic camera follows a full frontal, "bushy" Nastassja around. It surprises me especially compared to the world we are in that went up in arms when Jennifer Lawrence went briefly full frontal in her latest movie "No Hard Feelings".

In conclusion, it's hard for me to say that I "liked" or "disliked" Cat people. It's a film that both fascinated and repulsed me. If it weren't for Nastassja Kinski, I would never have watched it till the end, cheesy and squirmish as it was at certain points.

Oh, and also Paul Schrader is a perv.

Termites - Relentless, And No Remorse!

© Andre Michael Pietroschek

We are Legion, while your Bible only babbles. We roam in swarms, feasting whenever we can. We are enlightened, not impairing our way of life by false gods of civilization & science. Nature's decree is all we need, it includes our place and purpose. Yes, you called it your precious cardboard-heroic-figures collection, we considered it another snack along the way. No regrets. ;-)

Seeing myself for the first time once I was unified with my newlifer body was like having an out of body experience.

“Nurse Aliyah, it is very disconcerting to look in the mirror and not see what you think you’re going to see,” I said, staring at the new me.

“That’s what I hear. But you’re happy, yes?”

“What’s not to like?” Pretty face - same lips, same nose, different eye color. Younger me in a different shade. “My eyes are blue."

"Yes, I know you requested green, but eye color was never an option. As I mentioned in passing, your eyes are a part of the brain, thus, you already had eyes before you asked. And, anyway, all newlifers have blue eyes."

"Oh.” Turning to forget about new me for a while, I focused on the lovely Nurse Aliyah. About my height, she had black hair and violet-purple eyes that Elizabeth Taylor would have died to call her own. “All the bodies you showed me were also the same color. Has diversity been eliminated?”

“Sameness breeds greater stability, solidarity, sociability. Fewer conflicts, more camaraderie.”

“Is that recent experience talking because there was plenty of racial homogeneity historically when people were being used as sadistic entertainment; or engaging in human sacrifice, torture and/or cannibalism; or using slavery as a labor-saving device (long before the cross-Atlantic African slave-trade). Torture and mutilation were routine in the Inquisition. Rape was almost a right of the winning soldiers in wars on every continent. Protestants in Germany, France, England and Ireland had the same skin color as Catholics. Seriously, humanity seems to find a reason to hate and fight regardless of appearance.”

“Physical differences stand out more, giving humans an easy way to divide and despise.”

I raised an eyebrow. “The century I was born there were at least three genocides, the Armenian, the Jewish and the Tutsi people of Rwanda. The Armenians differ in language and religion but look like Turks. The Jews were German, French, Italian, Polish. They differed in religion, not necessarily in appearance. The Tutsi and Hutu were both Negroid, spoke the same language, inhabited the same areas and followed the same traditions. And what of the Russians in Ukraine? I died before they finished killing each other but two of my closest friends hailed from opposite sides. Both named Tatiana. Both spoke Russian. Both had blond hair and blue eyes. So, I’m not so sure racial homogeneity alone is the key. Historically, people always manage to find a reason to hate, to differentiate, to fight, to kill each other. Peaceful coexistence does not seem to be our desired way of being. But I’ll take your word for it." I turned back to the mirror. "I’ve been dead for 300 years.

“But just to clarify," I looked at Nurse Aliyah in the mirror, "Are there no longer economic classes? Religions? Power hungry Machiavellian (or Napoleon) types that want to rule the world? Oh wait, you did say this century is on its fifth Elon Musk clone. And you called him Commander, right? Does he control life in the Zones? Kind of like a dictator? Iron control to keep the masses in line? If I remember correctly, the biologicals basically chose exile in the wild rather than live under the Tesla Zones’ rules.” I snorted. “Honestly, sounds like many steps backwards not forward if you ask me.”

Nurse Aliyah’s eyes seemed to become a lighter, icier violet. “No one asked you, Eva, and you would be wise to curb your speech regarding the Commander until you have lived here and now and can discover for yourself his greatness. You could never begin to understand even a modicum of the brilliance that has made all of this, You, possible. Your new life is a gift. Cherish it or you will lose it.

“Returning to your question, humanity has slowly become less violent over the centuries. Even the two centuries your last life encompassed were much less violent than those that preceded it. Our studies have shown that the most peaceful states are balanced socioeconomically and are racially homogenous. We have perfect equilibrium here in the Tesla Zones. Technology and economic development have improved lives to such a degree that there is no suffering, no envy, no greed. We have peace, tranquility, joy.

“Modern society is a much less volatile, more pleasant place to be.”

I smirked. “And you are the front line for the Tesla Zones marketing campaign. Just kidding. Sounds like a dream.”

The cat had run away from the door leading to the basement. Her fur stank of fear.

I decided, with mistaken curiosity, to explore. I went one, two, thirteen steep steps down. Musty, powdery air. A single faded blue-white lightbulb flickering behind me. Shadows stretching all around. But that's all they were-- shadows. Of course.

I was surrounded by boxes of stored belongings. A broken porcelain doll. Unworn baby shoes. The lightbulb burst into a shower of sparks. A blink of complete darkness, until it wasn't. Until I saw her. Until I felt her shredded, pale arms around my neck.

I have long wished to kill a version of me,

that haas long been seen as evil, and warped myself to see my reflection as such, too.

Having that labeled pierced into my flesh for the effects of a personality disorder,

understudied and unmedicated when I was only fifteen,

and then forcing myself to wage war on something I cannot control is evil.

But, I am not evil. Evil exists in those that forced my mind to split-

from a sweet and innocent child into something of a war solider,

sent out in times of stress and who reacted like a beaten, angry animal.

Everything became a threat. A book thrown too close in my direction,

or dark promises that realistically held no weight.

What is a caged animal to do, when you fill its home with predators and try to burn its house down from the inside?

I am not evil.

I do not deserve to be euthanized, or ostrichized.

For that, I will kill every person that lives in my mind.

That spits anger, and spins fables where I am a villain.

I will kill everyone I have known, that thought trying to control a teenage girl who just needed to be protected, was okay to do.

My grandma makes homemade wine. Its colour is cloudy, and according to several eye-witness accounts, tastes like paint thinner. She has a cup every day with dinner- we joke that It's a vitality potion, being near eighty-eight and still ass bright eyed as ever. But, for the fact it drinks like gin and less than a cabernet, my family does not drink it.

They bring their own bottle to thanksgiving, and this year was no different.

"Did you check the expiration on this?" My mother asks, her face pulled into a grimace and hand to her chest like it might be her undoing.

My aunt grabs for the bottle, confusion pinching her eyebrow. "Wine doesnt have an expiration, I don't think." But checks it over thoroughly anyway.

"It tastes horrible!" Mom exclaims, reaching over to steal my 7-up.

"Hey!" I crow around a mouthful of stuffing and cranberry sauce. "Thats mine!"

"It's not expired," My aunt confirms, completing undermining my betrayal. "Here, Joe, try it." She says, passing it to her husband who pours a finger into his cup.

My brother all but leaps from his chair, his grin shit eating. "Can I try?"

My other brother cuffing his head is the resounding no.

"Woah!" My uncle coughs, slamming the glass down onto the table. "You sure this is wine?" He asks.

The three parents eye each other, and then the bottle, and then their cups in case there might be errant rat poison lining them.

My eldest brother (the do-gooder) pours himself some, holding it above his head and surveying it beneath the light like he was in a labratory, craning his neck in every which way before pulling his gaze back. He blinks, and blinks again. He looks to my grandma who has been suspiciously quiet, usually asking for an interpration of our foolishness in her language, but is now sitting and eating like she doesnt even know were there,

Without preamble, he grabs for her wine. She doesnt bat an eye, which is all the stranger. We all know not to just take her things, if we aren't yearning for a slipper to the face as reward for bad manners.

My brother surveys the two cups under the light, but they don't look quite the same. Maybe it's her cup, thats tinted from living through both wars and the Great Depression. "Colin go grab the bottle." He commands my cousin, who grouses from his turkey dinner but follows the order and goes to the cupboard we all know and fear to unearth the comically sized green bottle.

I look at my mother, who's chugging her second glass of ginger ale and still seems to be holding her breath, though I cant be sure.

My cousin returns, and uncorks the bottle. We collectively wince, half expecting a cloud of arsenic to come billowing out. It doesnt, of course, and we all sigh in relief at that small comfort. However, my brother is having a glass filled, sitting there with his palms flat on the table and face drawn. It's all very dramatic, and I clutch on my other cousins arm beside me in anticipation of the taste test.

He first sips the glass of my mothers, discarded, grimacing and letting out an audible 'blegh.' He doesnt allow himself a moments reprieve as he tosses the second one back.

His eyes widen. We all swatch him, no one daring a breath. my fingers are cutting crescents into my cousin, but she's far too invested to care because then comes the--

"SHE SWAPPED THE BOTTLES!"

My mother gasps- my brother (the rebel) laughs (someone kicks him), I look around in horror because I'm the only other one with a licence in this family, but its only a learners permit so they couldn't have possibly drunk the Great Poison- but then comes my grandmothers giggle, soft at first. She almost seems to be sobbing beneath her hunches posture, but soon she reveals herself, keeling over as sheets of laughter come forth.

"You didn't!" My aunt says, scandalized. "When could she have done that!"

My eldest brother shakes his head, pointing at the little old lady who we always thought to be so sweet, so serious, but has managed to fool us all. "We left the bottle on the table down here with her when we were all upstairs getting the food!" He accuses.

"Don't insult my wine again." Was her only statement on the matter, in my shaky translation, as she takes her cup back and sips it with the kind of smirk only the success of a great heist could bring.

I had never driven before this night.I refused to drive for another three months after the fact, as well.

What a tableau we must have made, a woman screaming in horror as her daughter drives her car down a main road and almost sideswipes multiple side mirrors, with a man placating her as the only voice of reason in this vehicle and a teenage girl- going a firm twelve in a fifty.

Ever since, my mother has kept the wine within her range of sight.