by Ken Babbs
R and R. Rest and Relaxation. Rehabilitation and Reclamation. Romping and Ratfucking. A necessity for hot-shot pilots burning themselves out on the steady diet of “Fly and drink and to hell with the Victor Charley” attitude we ‘Mericans so easily develop in the tropics.
As soon as we get off the supply shuttle we grab a taxi and head straight for Tokyo center, splashing through puddles, half blinded by a driving rain. Ugly scars cover our gaunt taxi driver’s arms and face.
“I wonder if he got burned from the bomb?” I ask Cochran.
“More likely a car wreck,” Cochran says grimly.
Tiny cars and smaller motorcycles weave in and out of the traffic. Taxicabs dart and squirm in orgiastic frenzies. Brakes screech like frightened rabbits. Gnarly pines peek between buildings. A chrysanthemum blooms on a doorstep. Bamboo stalks poke up between buildings. Old folks clack clack on sandals with wooden klok-klok soles. Kids flap the streets in go-aheads. The ghost of Fat Man haunts the pachinko parlors and bombards their balls with gamma rays.
On every wall, billboard, subway sign, and shop front, flourescent posters entice customers into movie theaters and pachinko parlors with all the hace lo correcto savoir-faire of a hundred-car freight train working the Kyoto grade.
“Far out artful stuff,” Cochran yells, bouncing on the taxi seat. “Let’s send some home, one for every Bay front apartment.”
We skid into Four Corners. A bulbous traffic light sits in the center of the intersection. Monstrous lights blink and signal. Street creeps ply their trade.
“We’ll hire us a local yokel to print obscene words on statues and posters,” Cochran continues gleefully, “and dig the wiggle of his secret giggle when an American buys the art and hangs it in his house. Someone who can read the language will eventually visit and reveal the secret and the obscene word-writer will have avenged his country for us having dropped the bomb.”
“Stop it,” I yell. “You’re throwing a paranoid slant on things. The streets are already full of enough scurrying, diabolic, conspiring, devious maniacs running to catch trains, delivering goods and signing contracts.”
“Right, it’s up to us to foil them.”
“I’m with you.”
The cab bangs into the curb. Cochran pays the driver. I get out in the pouring rain and survey the scene.
Are the citizens really staring accusingly at our pallid skin, our dark hair and the pink on our flushed cheeks? I tuck in my chin, keep my arms close to my sides and mince-step down the sidewalk, avoiding contact. But not Cochran, the crazy bull Yank.
Swinging his arms and splashing through the puddles, he snarls out the side of his mouth, “Don’t let these little bastards intimidate you. They’ll give you the biotah fish eye the minute you think that you’re responsible for their misery.”
Too wet to argue, I lead the way into the 500 Club, patronized by officers only, and owned by T. Harry, a Japanese in honorably good standing with police; six, eight years running the same place, no trouble. Sign says drinks two hundred yen—sixty cents, stateside prices. Girls clean dependable Jo-Sans with up-to-date hospital cards, no danger from infection like street creeps hanging around Four Corners or MTO.
Cochran slaps the bar and bellows across the room in his lusty, bossy profundo voice, “Hey, innkeeper, bring a combat warrior a drink.”
Cochran looks like hell, disheveled and soaking wet. I look as bad, but not so imposing, and I’m determined to make up for Cochran’s loutishness with silver-tongued loquacity, although my not-so-svelte clothes are lacking the necessary clout.
“Yes, my man,” I say to the bartender, “a soothing libation, if you please.”
The bar is an east-west rendezvous, a cocktail lounge you’d find in San Francisco, Dallas or New Orleans, with a teak bar, knee-high formica-topped tables and soft low chairs. A longhair combo sings Dell Shannon lyrics: As I walk along I wonder what went wrong, with our love, a love that was so strong.
“Drinks, bartender!” Cochran yells again, thumbing his nose at my attempt to placate the guy. “Two thirsty men here!”
He’s decidedly feisty, not acting like the lowly helicopter pilot that jet jocks normally hold in flying contempt. Three of the superior beings stand at the bar, peer sideways at us, glitters of anger from behind their aviator glasses, burr heads bristling. Mouths muttering. “You don’t think you low and slow chop-chops gonna shore up Diem’s regime do you? The Prez better get some heat into this fray, and that’s us, Jack!”
Cochran and I give them the razzberry. We are, after all, the ones flying nine-piston, egg-beating, hole-drilling troop and cargo platforms into heavy-fire LZs. Eat rotor wash, stovepipe jockeys. The jet pilots turn their backs, ignore these cretins. They down their drinks and leave in search of a better place, where they can be properly appreciated.
And as I still walk on, I think of the things we’ve done together, while our hearts were young.
“Hey, innkeeper, bring the drinks over here,” Cochran bellows again. He leads the way to a table.
The bartender pours a smidgeon of water into a glass half full of scotch and hands it to a misshapen American in a rumpled business suit, with dark war-zone bags under his eyes and a beachhead spare tire around his middle. Spare Tire takes a swig and mutters, “Aw them fucking pilots, been in Vietnam, got shot at, think they’re the only heroes in the world. Well, I’ll tell you something. They should have been at Mama Toko’s place in Pusan the night the MPs busted the joint when we was ganging up on the ROKS and the MPs beat Hogan across the kidneys with their night sticks and he threw up all over the MPs’ starched khaki tunics. Got the shit kicked out of us. There was some combat for yah.”
A tall, stoop-shouldered American with horn-rimmed glasses dangling on the end of a hook-opener nose winces at the story. He sidles past Spare Tire and looks at us sideways through the horns, then over the rims. He coughs. His huge Adam’s apple bobs up and down like a cork float.
“Ah, pardon me” he says. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Is it true you’re stationed in Vietnam?”
Cochran glances at me. I shrug. Go for it.
“Look at my hands,” Cochran says. “Shaking like a rotor blade out of track. You did say you’re buying?”
“Yeah, sure.” The string bean waves vaguely at the bartender. “It’s rough there, huh?”
“I’ll say rough. You ever lie in bed at night, feel something rustling in your gear, shrug it off as a rat or varmint, then turn on your flashlight and spotlight a sneaky Pete infiltrating the camp and stabbing the boys in their sleep?”
The string bean’s face pales. My turn. I rise from my chair.
“We’re looking down the barrels of their twenty mike-mikes, mortars explode over our heads, choppers crash like rocks, but we bore on in, those bastards can’t stop us. We overwhelm them with our strength, outmaneuver them with our equipment, outfox them with our smarts, destroy them with our superior firepower—“
“—and it’s rough, man, rough,” Cochran interrupts. “Nerves are frayed.”
The tall stranger nods. “The reason I’m concerned is I’ve got orders to Vietnam. Not as a combatant. I’m a doctor. Doctor Hollenden, and I feel this is a grave mistake. Do you have to carry pistols all the time?”
“Everywhere. Didn’t I tell you about the infiltrators?”
“But I’ve never fired a pistol before.”
Cochran shakes his head resignedly. “Time you learned, Doc. Time you learned. Remember, it’s you or them.”
“Yeah,” Spare Tire intones. “You or them. First one to the bar wins.”
I’m a-walkin’ in the rain, tears are fallin’ and I feel the pain, wishin’ you were here by me, to end this misery.
Cochran lets it slide, our drinks have arrived. We slug them down and signal for another round. Cochran smiles at a plump, bleached blond. She springs onto his lap. Her flowery, off-the-shoulder dress barely covers her abundant breasts. Twin cheeks burst the seams of the filmy material clinging to her re
ar.
“My name Yaeko-Sue,” the fulsome wench says with a slight lisp. Hints of expectations to come. Doc Hollenden falls into a chair. Sucks his glass dry. Waves for another. I raise my finger, me too. Yaeko-Sue bangs Cochran on the arms and chest. She thinks he’s insulting her when he laughs at her awkward English. He gives her a big slurping kiss. She shrieks and slaps his face, a love tap. The place and pace have picked up. Jo-Sans cuddle their men. Busy gals, talking, sipping cokes and orange drinks, you like? Oh sure, me like. Most of the drink money goes to T. Harry, a smidgeon to the girl. If I no got a yen for her, I no pay the yen for her. Tough way to make a living.
Cochran’s discovered a new nub to rub. A well-dressed gent, native businessman from the looks of him. He sits at the bar and stares at Cochran in gold-toothed amusement. Cochran catches him and smiles back.
“What say, pard?” Cochran calls across the room. “Have a drink? On me? No speakee. Tough shittee.”
“On the contrary,” the gent replies in excellent English. “I’d be delighted.”
Cochran gives a big guffaw. “All right!“ he bellows. “Thought you didn’t catch me there.”
“Yes, I understood quite clearly. I find a great deal of pleasure in talking to the different American types I encounter.”
“I bet,” says Cochran. He takes a big swig and bangs his glass on the table. “So what do you think of these American types?”
“I enjoy them. They are very interesting. It’s a good thing, I think, that they come here and see a little of the fear and terror they have unleashed on the world.”
The gent smiles and sips his drink. He casually allows his sleeve to fall, exposing his forearm, scarred from the wrist to the elbow.
“What do you think of our city?” he asks Cochran.
“Oh, I don’t know. We’ve only seen this area and that’s mighty impressive.”
“You think so?” the gent says, smiling.
“Yeah, it’s a real shithole, just what you’d expect after your damn fool sneak attack that kicked off the last big war.”
I sit up straight. Now it’s coming, right here, right now, the big bang theory brought to life, exploding in the bar, blown up, blown out like the movie, Hiroshima Mon Amour, lovers in bed intercut with shots of Fat Man exploding. But no, everyone remains calm, inscrutably so.
“And what do you do, my friend?” the gent asks, sweet as a budding rose.
Cochran tosses back his drink. “I fly B-29s, friend.”
The gent backhands his glass and sends it flying across the bar. It crashes against the back shelf and smashes into tinkling shards. The bartender sighs and picks up his rag.
And I wonder—why, why she ran away, yes, and I wonder, where she will stay, my little runaway.
Cochran smiles warmly at Yaeko-Sue and nuzzles her cheek. Yaeko-Sue shrieks and smacks Cochran two hard hits on the chest.
“You no scrape me you ape.”
“That’s Gorilla, not ape.” He stands up and Yaeko-Sue falls on the floor. Her scream is louder than her shriek.
“Now what?” a smooth voice interjects.
The hush that follows would give credance to the silence at the bottom of a three-thousand-foot mine.
A rotund, butter-melting, smiling man, slick-haired and dressed impeccably in a three-piece, pin-striped suit, bows to the room. None other than the famous T. Harry. What an honor. The king descended from his throne to mingle with the masses.
Yaeko-Sue blushes and genuflects like a nun blessed by a priest. In this joint his dick would be the appropriate tool. Dewy drops of pre-come lubricant splashing the faithful’s upturned face. Forget that. This is for real.
Cochran’s poised. I’m ready. Yaeko-Sue, trembling like a leaf in a timorous breeze, is what keeps us from exploding. She’s on the hot spot and not us. Cochran goes conciliatory.
“It was off the plane and straight to the club,” he says, rubbing his whiskers. “So naturally we’re a bit on the ripe side. No harm intended.”
“And none taken,” T. Harry replies unctiously. “You’ll accept my offer of a round of drinks? On the house, of course. A small appreciation for the great sacrifice you are making in that ugly affair down south.”
Cochran gives him the raised eyebrow. I leap into the breach.
“To be sure, oh gracious benevolent host with the most. A thousand haikus of gratitude graffitied on subway walls all over Tokyo,” bowing and dipping in blatant obeisance. Don’t wanna play ball with T-Harry, too strong, immovable, steel-hard, you’d get the bat up the old ass. No no, forget that.
T. Harry makes a small bow and glides silently to the bar.
“Nicely done,” Cochran tells me, “but I wouldn’t make a habit out of it, if I were you. You may be in the Orient but seems to me you’re not doing the Orient. Keeps you out of trouble maybe, but you shouldn’t go against your natural desires.”
“Don’t you be lecturing me, wiseass. I’m the one got us out of that little jam, not you.”
“So true. But now that we’ve been blessed and sanctified by the high mucky-muck, let’s get down to business.”
He’s determined to fill the hourglass with as much of himself as he can, laying his vulnerability lovingly on the line until we get back on the plane and return to Vietnam. Doc Hollenden, still going full bore, has been taken in tow by Yaeko-Sue.
“Plenty more where she came from,” Cochran orates magnaminously. “You know the Ko birds. You can hear their trilling calls for miles. There’s Heroko, Teroko, Yosuko, Heidiko, and all the rest of the Ko family that comes under fire when the R and R boys go Ko hunting. Yas,” he continues, downing his scotch rocket. “It’s a sport made famous on world-wide TV. You’ve seen it on Sunday afternoons, heard the wild, lingering sound of the Ko bird floating over the wind-rustled habu grass: ‘Hey, Yank, you buy me a drink?’”
Yaeko-Sue punches him soundly. Doc Hollenden grins vapidly and drapes his arm across Yaeko’s back. I signal for another round. Yaeko swills two quick watery drinks in a swirl of giggles. She’s laughing so hard she has trouble stuffing the drink receipts down the front of her dress and Cochran sticks in his hand to help her out. She dissolves in a rubbery welter of shrieks and guffaws. The entire Ko flock chirrups to her side.
At the far end of the bar, T. Harry leans over the bar, seemingly unconcerned, talking in a low voice to the scar-armed businessman. From the looks of his glare, Scar Arm’s animosity hasn’t abated. Might be a good time to blow this hole, I’m thinking. Cochran claps me on the shoulder.
“We’re going to the beach. Yaeko-Sue knows a private spot where officers can let down their hair, be themselves, not like the uptight squares you see around here. Har har. Grab you a girl.”
“Forget it. I’ll go stag.”
“None of that, me boy. Tonight it’s stud, not stag.”
He drags me to a booth where Spare Tire, pretty much looped into insensibility, is sitting with a Ko girl. Spare Tire waves a fancy zippo lighter somewhere near the vicinity of the girl’s face. She dips and bobs, trying to get her cigarette to coincide with the lighter.
“May I?” Cochran asks. He plucks the lighter out of Spare Tire’s hand. “Nice piece of hardware.”
“Looks like a miniature flashlight,” I say.
“No, it’s a mental detector.” He sticks it next to my temple. “Too bad. All blank. Nothing there.”
“Let me see that thing.” I grab it out of his hand and peer closely. Light blue. Push button. I shake it. “No wonder you didn’t get a reading. It’s out of batteries.” I throw it back. He catches it on the fly. “We’ll see about that.” Holds it to his temple. A sheet of flame courses across his scalp. The girls scream. His hair curls and fizzles. I douse the fire with my drink. Smoke fills the booth. Cochran holds the still-lit lighter under the Ko girl’s cigarette. She jumps back and falls out of the booth. Cochran shakes his head in sympathy. Flakes of hair fall to the floor.
“Oh well, can’t win them all. Better she quit smoking anyh
ow.”
“Shay, tha’s pretty good,” Spare Tire says. “Le’s see you do it again.”
“Some other time, Pop.”
Yaeko-Sue helps the girl up, talking rapidly in her ear. Then Yaeko-Sue turns to me. “You in luck. This is Heroko-Betty. She will give up all nighter at Tokyo hotel with this drunk man to go for moonlight swim with you.”
Heroko-Betty is as thin as a willowy reed. Decked out head to toe in skintight leather. Short raven hair. Lips a crimson smear. Skin like a white shroud. She looks at me demurely.
“You not believe Heroko-Betty, but I was married to American jet jock killed in plane crash. I have twelve-year-old son lives with my mama and papa in Osaka. 500 Club help me save money to buy dress shop. Three days a week I take sewing lessons and in only two years can look for my shop.”
