Post by The Lost Boy on Nov 16, 2021 22:43:10 GMT -6
When I left the Church, I took a left down a narrow alley past a barking dog and a huddled bum to avoid the rain. It’s been raining these past two weeks out here – hot and heavy like the tears of a broken heart. After I was sure nobody was following me, I crossed the street to the neon glow of a Pho stand to slurp down hot soup while the thunder rolled and lighting cracked above. I know those two boys, especially that Blackwater fellow, have real keen vision, and I didn’t feel like being watched. Gotta keep them sharp and on their toes, not that I was doing anything suspect.
Maybe it was an odd choice – more heat and more fluid – but it went down smooth and filling. Plus it was dirt cheap, and I needed every dollar I still had. My pockets were mostly empty except for a couple of folded đồngs, a pack of smokes, a lighter, and a knife. Since I left the blade buried beside that poor kid’s face, I’d had to pick up a small little switch over in Singapore. I think about him now and then – I think about the look in his eyes, the terror and the rage and the pain. I think about the way his face contorted in shock and the wetness in his eyes as he stared climactic failure before God breathed mercy into me – how he must’ve pounded on my door down in San Salvador until he must’ve broken a bone in his hand.
But I ain’t supposed to be thinking about him. Thinking about him gets me thinking about her – and thinking about her gets me thinking about her. I don’t have time for that when I got a date with one man who’s got something I want and another man who’s got everything to lose.
Four men are entering this match, and only one of them could walk out unmarred by a loss. I see that man in the mirror every morning after washing my face. But that don’t mean I’m gonna be going in willing to take it on my back – on the contrary, there’s a certain cold and ugly amusement I find in knowing I can touch them when they can’t touch me. There’s too much scar tissue on this body and soul to have room for another.
Truthfully, I envied the unblemished nature of the men I’d be sharing that ring with. I don’t think any of them would think that about their lives – Blackwater’s got that missing eye, Tyler’s been through Hell and back, and ol’ Lazlo’s probably got a few bodies under the floor boards. But I knew there’s more to them, even if they don’t see it – I heard all about Tyler’s little girls crying at home for their daddy and Blackwater’s squeeze getting swooped up by a bat in the night riding the backseat of a black SUV. And I knew Lazlo had something, too – that’s why I approached him.
Family.
After I paid my tab, I went down to soggy dive where the rain storm was dripping in cracks in the ceiling and the pool tables smelled like mildew. I shot a few rounds of billiards with an old man that had no teeth and hair like wisps of spider webs and eyes that glittered like lava rock when he grinned. I drank Bai Saigon and tried the rice wine with a dead snake curled in the bottle, speaking almost nary a word to anyone other than drink orders and thank-you’s, knowing they wouldn’t understand me anyway. The old man talked to me a good deal, but it wasn’t in English. He whooped my ass in the game, just enough to remind me to remember you always be wary of the old ones.
It was about 10:30 pm when I stumbled out into the streets to find my way back home. I was out of scratch by then, so I wasn’t too afraid of any trouble walking alone, unless some punk was happy making off with just a back of smokes. Could have the knife, too – it would just be buried in his gut. None of the ruminations were necessary, as it was uneventful save the hoarse mewling of a drunk laying under a lamp post. It would be 9:30 am back home, and I wondered if she was already at work.
It was enough to compel me to hail a cab to take me back to the motel where I could fish a few bucks for his fare and then somewhere else. He protested at first, but I gave him the knife for collateral while I went in. He was honest enough to have not made a beeline, which was good because I liked the knife, and I directed him down to the Binh Tan district. If he passed judgement, it was in Vietnamese.
When he dropped me off, I walked over to Tan Son Street and just took a walk, still keeping to the sides to avoid the rain. The women sat in what looked like old patio chairs – the kind they don’t make in the states anymore with the rubber or plastic slating stretched on a metal frame. My eyes went through them, but none really caught my shine.
“You’re American?”
The words stopped me dead right there, her voice brassy and accented from somewhere that sounded like Russia or maybe Ukraine. When I looked back, wondering who I’d have missed, I suddenly wondered how I missed her at all.
She was a strong little thing, short of stature but built like a prowling lioness. He hair was a frizzy blonde, probably bleached, and it seemed to wrap around her head like a mane from the humidity of that wet Vietnam night. Her face was handsome, with a sharp chin and cheeks that set in from hard work and scarce meals. And her eyes were piercing through that black eyeliner. She looked just like her – a her from another time, but her nonetheless.
I approached her, my hands stuffed in the pockets of my jacket. When our eyes met, I had to rip them away right there. “Yeah,” I said, still studying the cracks in the sidewalk and the weeds growing out, “I am.”
“You look lonely,” she said in that voice so unlike that girl’s. I remember her voice had a bit of a twang and a rasp.
“Just out for a walk, ma’am.”
“On Tan Son Street?” she said with a smile, those ruby red lips peeling back to reveal teeth yellow and sharp like the lion she was, “I think you must’ve made a wrong turn if you’re just going for a walk.”
“S’pose I did,” I replied, and the two of us just stood there in the steady beat of the rain.
“Perhaps you’d like to come inside and get dry. And then maybe you’ll see you made the right turn.”
“Perhaps you can teach me how to get around.”
“Perhaps,” she said with that grin still on her lips, “I can teach you many things. For a generous man.”
She knew what I wanted, so how could I refuse. She offered a hand, her nails bearing chipped red polish. When I took it, it was like she had the same callouses on her palm like she had too. I wonder how many times this girl had gripped the handle of a long, sharp knife and driven it into someone. But it didn’t matter none – I followed her upstairs, and when I laid with her, I closed my eyes and thought of that moment in Vegas when she’d pressed her lips to mine and we’d fallen back on the motel bed with her atop me, just kissing hard and hungry like she needed to eat me alive.
When we were done, the Ukrainian woman went out to smoke a cigarette. I followed her, but I didn’t join her – I went back to my motel and went to sleep with dreams of that dame in my head. I had to get a good rest; in the morning, I’d be stepping into the ring with three men who had everything to lose, and I intended to rob two of them blind.
Maybe it was an odd choice – more heat and more fluid – but it went down smooth and filling. Plus it was dirt cheap, and I needed every dollar I still had. My pockets were mostly empty except for a couple of folded đồngs, a pack of smokes, a lighter, and a knife. Since I left the blade buried beside that poor kid’s face, I’d had to pick up a small little switch over in Singapore. I think about him now and then – I think about the look in his eyes, the terror and the rage and the pain. I think about the way his face contorted in shock and the wetness in his eyes as he stared climactic failure before God breathed mercy into me – how he must’ve pounded on my door down in San Salvador until he must’ve broken a bone in his hand.
But I ain’t supposed to be thinking about him. Thinking about him gets me thinking about her – and thinking about her gets me thinking about her. I don’t have time for that when I got a date with one man who’s got something I want and another man who’s got everything to lose.
Four men are entering this match, and only one of them could walk out unmarred by a loss. I see that man in the mirror every morning after washing my face. But that don’t mean I’m gonna be going in willing to take it on my back – on the contrary, there’s a certain cold and ugly amusement I find in knowing I can touch them when they can’t touch me. There’s too much scar tissue on this body and soul to have room for another.
Truthfully, I envied the unblemished nature of the men I’d be sharing that ring with. I don’t think any of them would think that about their lives – Blackwater’s got that missing eye, Tyler’s been through Hell and back, and ol’ Lazlo’s probably got a few bodies under the floor boards. But I knew there’s more to them, even if they don’t see it – I heard all about Tyler’s little girls crying at home for their daddy and Blackwater’s squeeze getting swooped up by a bat in the night riding the backseat of a black SUV. And I knew Lazlo had something, too – that’s why I approached him.
Family.
After I paid my tab, I went down to soggy dive where the rain storm was dripping in cracks in the ceiling and the pool tables smelled like mildew. I shot a few rounds of billiards with an old man that had no teeth and hair like wisps of spider webs and eyes that glittered like lava rock when he grinned. I drank Bai Saigon and tried the rice wine with a dead snake curled in the bottle, speaking almost nary a word to anyone other than drink orders and thank-you’s, knowing they wouldn’t understand me anyway. The old man talked to me a good deal, but it wasn’t in English. He whooped my ass in the game, just enough to remind me to remember you always be wary of the old ones.
It was about 10:30 pm when I stumbled out into the streets to find my way back home. I was out of scratch by then, so I wasn’t too afraid of any trouble walking alone, unless some punk was happy making off with just a back of smokes. Could have the knife, too – it would just be buried in his gut. None of the ruminations were necessary, as it was uneventful save the hoarse mewling of a drunk laying under a lamp post. It would be 9:30 am back home, and I wondered if she was already at work.
It was enough to compel me to hail a cab to take me back to the motel where I could fish a few bucks for his fare and then somewhere else. He protested at first, but I gave him the knife for collateral while I went in. He was honest enough to have not made a beeline, which was good because I liked the knife, and I directed him down to the Binh Tan district. If he passed judgement, it was in Vietnamese.
When he dropped me off, I walked over to Tan Son Street and just took a walk, still keeping to the sides to avoid the rain. The women sat in what looked like old patio chairs – the kind they don’t make in the states anymore with the rubber or plastic slating stretched on a metal frame. My eyes went through them, but none really caught my shine.
“You’re American?”
The words stopped me dead right there, her voice brassy and accented from somewhere that sounded like Russia or maybe Ukraine. When I looked back, wondering who I’d have missed, I suddenly wondered how I missed her at all.
She was a strong little thing, short of stature but built like a prowling lioness. He hair was a frizzy blonde, probably bleached, and it seemed to wrap around her head like a mane from the humidity of that wet Vietnam night. Her face was handsome, with a sharp chin and cheeks that set in from hard work and scarce meals. And her eyes were piercing through that black eyeliner. She looked just like her – a her from another time, but her nonetheless.
I approached her, my hands stuffed in the pockets of my jacket. When our eyes met, I had to rip them away right there. “Yeah,” I said, still studying the cracks in the sidewalk and the weeds growing out, “I am.”
“You look lonely,” she said in that voice so unlike that girl’s. I remember her voice had a bit of a twang and a rasp.
“Just out for a walk, ma’am.”
“On Tan Son Street?” she said with a smile, those ruby red lips peeling back to reveal teeth yellow and sharp like the lion she was, “I think you must’ve made a wrong turn if you’re just going for a walk.”
“S’pose I did,” I replied, and the two of us just stood there in the steady beat of the rain.
“Perhaps you’d like to come inside and get dry. And then maybe you’ll see you made the right turn.”
“Perhaps you can teach me how to get around.”
“Perhaps,” she said with that grin still on her lips, “I can teach you many things. For a generous man.”
She knew what I wanted, so how could I refuse. She offered a hand, her nails bearing chipped red polish. When I took it, it was like she had the same callouses on her palm like she had too. I wonder how many times this girl had gripped the handle of a long, sharp knife and driven it into someone. But it didn’t matter none – I followed her upstairs, and when I laid with her, I closed my eyes and thought of that moment in Vegas when she’d pressed her lips to mine and we’d fallen back on the motel bed with her atop me, just kissing hard and hungry like she needed to eat me alive.
When we were done, the Ukrainian woman went out to smoke a cigarette. I followed her, but I didn’t join her – I went back to my motel and went to sleep with dreams of that dame in my head. I had to get a good rest; in the morning, I’d be stepping into the ring with three men who had everything to lose, and I intended to rob two of them blind.