They went over to Camp's locker to get the record.
As "Green River' ended, Baker called out, "You black boys just don't know about the value of money."
"You gonna spend it in heaven after the Cong shoots your ass?” Mac laughed and broke into his 'H.B.' shuffle. "'American woman, stay away from me. American woman, can't you see . . .'"
Camp smiled. "Here's the record, Mac. Maybe now you'll learn the words."
"I am the word, and the words, right, Baker? Ain't that what the good book says, Baker?"
"Bug off," answered Baker.
Mac turned to Camp. "Here's your bread, brother. Don't give it all to Italy 'cause I got a smooth crap game in mind for later.” He boogalooed back to his bunk. "'American woman, stay away from me.'" Keeping up a steady patter, he set up his record player. "Gimme a sip of that bad whiskey, brother," he said to Rob. "Aah, good snort, good snort. Wish I had me some Thunderbird. Here, Patsin, brother, have some medicine."
Rob grabbed the bottle away before Patty could get it to his lips.
"I don't give none of my whiskey to no honkey."
"You a mean mother fucker.” Mac laughed.
"No whiskey for no honkey," barked Rob.
"No big thing," said Patty, feeling a little hurt.
"Keep cool, whitey, or I'll kick your ass," said Rob.
"You'll what?” Patty took a step forward. Mac caught his arm.
"Easy, Patty. I'll be right back," said Mac.
Patty looked Rob over. "Man, you know we're all in this together. I never did nothing to you."
Rob ignored him.
Mac returned and flipped Patty a cold, dripping can of beer. "Have a Bud, Patty."
"Where'd you get that?"
"Man, in Harlem you never asks 'where,' you asks 'how.'"
"Okay," said Patty. "How?"
"And then when the man asks you 'how,' you don't tell him nothing.” Mac laughed.
"Mac, why you always tommin' for that white boy," Rob burst out.
Mac turned quickly, and the smile left his face. "Rob, don't you never call me no Tom. That ain't no joke."
"You always tommin'. Like you scared o’ the man."
Mac grabbed Rob's wrist. "Now, we know 'bout scared, don't we? I seen you out in the woods. Like Charlie's in every tree. Lookin' 'round this way and that. Jumping at everything. You scared, brother."
"Well. . ."
"Wait, nigger, I ain't finished. Whitey's my buddy here. And I play the clown here 'cause it helps. We all scared together, man, but nobody sweat like you. Nobody hide 'fore a mission like you. You make us all look bad. You act like Charlie's under every bunk on this ship. You scared, nigger. And Leigh and Baker get on your case. They laughin' up their sleeve at you, saying there's a real nigger. He scared. Yeah, he scared and he gone pass scared. Scared like we like 'em down south. Man, I'm from Harlem, and I walk with my end hanging loose. You got me? So don't you never call me no Tom again, or I'll kick your ass."
He let Rob's hand drop and took a long swig of beer. He smiled. "Love that Bud."
"Man, I'm from Watts," said Rob. He took a quick pull from his whiskey.
"B. F. D." said Mac, shaking his head.
"Well, honkey, mess with us, and we burn the whole town down. I was there. Best thing I ever done. Burning the white stores all night. Red and orange in the dark.” He shook his head at the memory.
Jimmy looked up from the letter he was writing. "You don't help anybody by burning and destroying."
"It made me feel good going into whitey and saying, honkey, you been taking from me and now I'm taking from you. I'm taking that TV. You got no objections, does you?” He smacked his fist against the bunk. "He just hides in the corner and shakes his head up and down real quick. He scared. He scared 'o blackie. You see it, man, see it."
Jimmy sat up in his bunk. "You like people scared, just like you, huh?" said Jimmy. "You never did anything constructive in your whole life, did you?"
"Look, man. I had a tryout with the St. Louis Cardinals, and that's more'n you did.” He took a pull on his whiskey bottle. "I made the team too, 'cepting I got drunk and busted up the clubhouse, an' ole honkey never gimme a chance.” Tears were in his eyes and he took another pull of whiskey. "He just say nigger, git. Patsin, I'll get honkey someday, you see. Even you gonna pass."
"I ought to kick your ass," Patty started forward.
Mac stepped quickly in front of him. "Patty, don't do nothing stupid."
Rob turned and staggered away, mumbling, "Honkey mother, always bugging me."
"Why don't you go kill yourself. You're always thinking you're dying anyway," Patty yelled after him.
Rob clanked up the stairs and was gone.
Patty and Mac eyed each other. Patty shrugged. "I didn't mean nothing, Mac."
Mac nodded. "He don't mean nothing, neither. He scared, and every nigger gotta dream."
"Not you, Mac."
"Yeah, man.” He smiled. "I got a dream just like old Martin Luther. You know, I used to be a numbers runner, a good one too."
"Yeah, I remember."
"Well, I'm going back to Harlem. They gonna gimme my own shop, and the chief of police gonna walk in one day. I'll be in cool. A jive shirt with a long collar and diamond cufflinks and a tight jacket, flare pants and two-tone high heel shoes.” He leaned his elbows back on a bunk. "You got me, brother?"
"Right on," Patty smiled.
"And I'm gonna say, welcome, chief, welcome to Harlem. And I'll give him a bottle o' Jack Daniels, for you and the boys on the beat, chief. And here's ten g's to send your baby to school. Thanks, Mac, he says. Thanks a lot. We share a snort, and he leaves, and I go to the back room, and all the jive dudes slip me five and slap me on the back. And the woman's feeling my duds, and I drink 'til I'm pissed."
Patty held up his beer. "Here's one to that.” He took a swig, and the bubbles slid down his chin.
"Slip me five, brother," said Mac.
They slapped hands.
"I'm sorry, Mac," said Patty.
Mac winked and sang, "'American woman, stay away from me.'"
Patty joined him. "'American woman, can't you see. . .'"
"I'm a dancing fool," said Mac. "Gonna hear those jive sounds of that fifty dollar record."
He downed his beer and tossed the can on to the top bunk, put the record on the record player, flipped the volume on high, leaned his head forward for the sound and started moving.
"Yeah, man. Harlem Boogaloo. All you cool cats. Here comes the top dog. Boo-ga-loo baby," he yelled.
"Shut it," said Italy.
"Send him back to Africa," Baker yelled.
"I'm coming for you, Mac.” Patty laughed. He grabbed a mop, took the head off and put it on. "I'm your sweet sugar, daddy."
"Go, sugar baby, go.” Mac grinned.
Patty swayed his hips and oozed up close to Mac, two inches from his face. Patty licked his lips. A string of the mop hung down over his eye and he swayed and bobbed to the music, smiling up at Mac seductively, looking like he was going to rape him. Patty rolled his hips forward, just touching Mac's pants and stepped back.
"Hey, look at Patty with a wig," Jimmy called.
Mac danced close. "Okay, sister. I'm with you."
"Do it," yelled Leigh.
"Play him, Patty," called Italy. He dropped the cards and clapped his hands. Everybody joined in, clapping in time to the music.
"Man, I thought you white dudes ain't got no rhythm.” Mac grinned.
"I ain't white. I'm Irish."
"Yeah, brother," Mac licked his lips. "Yeah, brother."
Patty stepped in close, rocking his hips back and forth an inch from Mac. He tilted his head back seductively. "'American woman,' yeah," he moaned.
"Take it off," yelled Camp. "Take it off."
"Take 'em all off," yelled Jimmy.
"And don't forget the wig," yelled Camp. "I want the wig."
Patty unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and pulled it back to show hi
s neck.
"Do it, baby, do it," yelled Mac. He gyrated forward and ran his dark arm along Patty's neck. Mac flipped off his undershirt and threw it at Italy,
Patty unbuttoned the next button and the next and slid the shirt off. He swung it in a circle around and around, let go and hit Jimmy with it.
"'American woman, stay away from me. American woman, can't you see. . .'" sang Mac, dancing close.
Patty pulled off his socks and hit Baker and Leigh with them. Just his shorts remained.
"Take it off. Take it off," everybody chanted.
As Patty vibrated to the music, he slipped them down slowly, showing just a little pubic hair, then part of his groin, finally his penis. He shook the shorts down to his feet and gyrated with them dangling from one foot. He kicked his foot high, and the pants sailed through the air.
Italy caught them with one hand. "Lady, I love you," he said, and kissed them.
Patty swung around and flipped his wig to Camp.
"I got the bouquet," yelled Camp. "That means I'm getting married, right?"
"Bouquet, nothing. What do you think this is, a rose?" said Italy, holding up the shorts.
"You gettin' in Patty's pants," said Mac.
Everybody laughed.
"Somebody steal us some beer," said Mac.
Italy took off and came back with six cold Buds. He passed them out. "To a long sex life, Patty."
"Right on," said Mac.
"To Mac," said Patty.
Mac raised his beer, "To American Woman," and they all drank to that.
Patty sat on the lower bunk, leaning forward and holding the beer in both hands. It was cold with icy droplets on the can. He gazed at it and panted. Guys came up and patted him on the back. He looked up and smiled.
The country music on the loudspeaker was interrupted by the ring, ring, ring of the emergency gong. The speaker crackled at high volume. "Now hear this. Now hear this. Man overboard. Man overboard."
Donner, carrying his shoes and dripping, came running in. "I saw him fall. I jumped in, but I couldn't find him in the dark. You guys gotta help me."
A bunch of men ran for the steps.
"Who fell in?" said Camp.
"Rob," said Donner. "C'mon."
"Forget it," said Mac.
"We gotta get him out," said Donner.
"Forget it," Mac said. "What happened?"
"Look . . ."
"Answer me, damn it."
"He was drunk and staggering on the top deck. He just fell off the edge."
"Did he fall?" said Patty.
"What do you mean?"
"Fall or jump?"
"I don't know. I gotta go help.” He ran off.
"We better go too, Mac," said Patty.
"Forget it."
"Maybe he's swimming around out there."
"What you think, man. You think they teach swimming in Watts. They don't teach that shit in Watts."
Patty drained his beer. It felt cold going down.
Mac took the empty can from him and squeezed it until metal touched metal.
CHAPTER 12: JOHN
“I told you these boat missions are a killer," said Frank to the men sitting around in the crowded bunk area. "Two three-day missions a week. And they'll get a lot worse before they get better."
"You bragging or complaining?" grumbled Camp.
"It's not so bad," Frank responded.
"Listen," said Camp. "I only gotta live through it. I don't have to think about it."
Italy chuckled and started to speak but stopped to gaze at a new man struggling down the aisle under the weight of a duffel bag.
"Excuse me, please," the man said as he stepped over Italy's feet. He dropped his duffel on the floor, leaning it against the one empty bunk in the corner. Everyone watched him in silence. He was a slight, dark New York Puerto Rican, loose-wristed and graceful. His hair hung forward in a sloping curve over his forehead. A gold cross dangled outside his shirt. It would make a good target for Charlie, thought Patty.
The new man spoke softly, his cross gleaming like a gold tooth. "Hello. My name is John. I'm pleased to meet all of you."
He went around and shook everyone's hand, asking each man his name and particulars of his family in the states. If anyone else had done that, the men would've laughed and told him to get off the horse. But when he shook hands, it was serious. No one laughed.
John looked around. "This seems to be the only bed available," he said. "May I take it?"
Frank laughed and answered, "Sure. But if you wait 'til the next mission, you'll have a choice."
"I certainly hope not," responded John as he unlocked his duffel. He pulled a picture of his mother from the top, held it up for everyone to see and put it under his pillow. Next he pulled out a picture of Jesus. "Our Lord," he said and put it under the pillow beside his mother. He quickly put the rest of his things in his locker under the bed. "I hope you'll excuse me," he said. "I want to write a letter to my mother. I'm sure she's worried."
"We're starting a poker game," said Italy. "You want in?"
"No, thank you," John responded. "I'm not a gambler, but I'd like to get to know each of you personally when I have the time.” He continued to look at Italy.
"Oh, yeah. Sure," said Italy.
John sat on the floor, his head bowed like an innocent girl, and began to write.
When he first went into combat, John was nervous like all the newcomers. He was fastidious and didn't like to lie down in the dirt, but under enemy fire, he learned to do it. In the lulls of battle, he'd sit up and brush the dirt off his shirt and pants. He was hesitant to fire his rifle. When he did, he aimed high so his bullets ricocheted in the treetops. Patty saw him doing it on his third mission, and when they got back to the boat, he took him aside and asked about it.
John gazed carefully into Patty's eyes. "Let's go out on deck where we can talk."
They went to a quiet corner of the flat deck, sat down together, both of them cross-legged, and leaned back against a gray rail. They looked out over the ocean for a bit, and then John began.
"I like this time of evening best. Just after twilight. It's dark, but not pitch dark, and you can make out the daylight world, but now it's mysterious. Look at the ocean, alive and dark, full of danger. And our ship is just a shadow."
"I like the dark sometimes, but I don't like it here," said Patty.
"I understand. Go on."
"Wait a minute. This time you were gonna talk to me. I want to know why you're aiming at treetops."
"It's simple enough. The Bible says 'Thou shalt not kill.'" He looked at Patty and his face took on a hard glint in the shadows. "I know right from wrong.” The look faded, and Patty wasn't sure he'd even seen it.
Patty looked away and spoke. "I was in the peace movement before I was drafted. I would've been a conscientious objector, but my father made me go. You get used to killing. You'll see. After all, it's either you or them."
John smiled. "I suppose I'll get used to it eventually."
"I wasn't gonna kill people either, but I did it, and I got used to it. It's not bad once you get used to it."
"I guess I'll get used to it eventually.” Sarcasm slipped into the last word and made Patty nervous.
"Of course, you're different," said Patty. "Maybe you won't."
"How am I different?" said John. The gentleness returned.
"I don't know, just different. You're not afraid to be different. And you listen, but everybody else talks. And you don't complain when guys curse, but you never curse. You know what I mean?"
"Uh huh," said John.
"I can't figure you out. I talk to you like nobody else. I tell you stuff that I'd never say to Mac, or Camp, or Frank."
"Like I'm a kind of father confessor?"
"Yeah, that's right."
He looked serious. "Well, let me tell you about myself, and maybe you'll understand."
Patty nodded.
"I was studying to be a priest last year when my fath
er and brother were killed in a car crash. You saw the picture of my mom. She's too sick to work, so I dropped out of school and got a job in a bookstore. I didn't mind. I liked the job. Everybody was kind and nice."
"Then you got drafted."
"Yes, that's right. I don't mind that either. We enjoy the blessings of our country, so it's fair that we should serve when duty calls."
"Who knows?" said Patty. "I used to think I knew things, but I don't know anything anymore."
"You don't have to know. You just have to do what comes naturally. The army has turned out to be a blessing.” John smiled softly. "When I get out, I'll have enough saved to go back to school and support my mother."
"I used to think about college, but I just don't know what I want to do anymore."
"When the time comes, you'll do the right thing."
"I wish I had direction like you do."
John spoke of the boat floating on the dark, mysterious waters of life. He said the stars bathe the deck in silver quiet and gentleness, and that as we look at the stars, we feel the infinity, the love, the tenderness, and mystery of God, and know that our lives have direction and meaning.
John lapsed into silence. Both men leaned back against the rail. The stars floated overhead. Occasional clouds grayed the moon, but each time the clouds drifted away, and the moon shone like bright silver. A cool wind came up and the sky darkened, the moon disappeared. Waves slapped the edge of the boat.
"It's getting cold," Patty said.
"Yes. It feels like rain," answered John.
"Let's go in."
"Go ahead. I'll be in in a minute," said John.
Patty got up, stretched his stiff legs, walked around the deck and clanked down the inside steps to the noise and light and heat of his corner of the boat. Record players, radios and the loudspeaker blared.
Italy called over the din, "Hey, Patty, how about joining a poker game."
"No, thanks.” But Patty sat on the floor beside him. Italy had two kings showing.
Frank came up. "I saw you and John talking outside."
"Yeah?"
"When we get off this boat, I'm taking John to the whorehouse in the village."
John walked in just then and answered, "I'm afraid I'm not ready for that yet."
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