Breakfast at Sally's

by Richard LeMieux

  “I never liked sushi,” Jake offered.

  C flipped back to the war. “These tanks have a special plating that protects them from just about any weapon in the Iraqi arsenal, except a Scud missile,” the reporter said. The picture being picked up from the satellite feed was blurred and skipping around like an old home movie, and the corresponding words came through a second after he moved his mouth, creating an eerie effect. It was like they were broadcasting from the moon in 1969.

  C held the remote out and hit it again.

  “Very good, very good!” The sushi show host was talking with his mouth full, complimenting yet another guest chef on his presentation of broccoli and sushi.

  “Give me that thing,” Jake said, motioning for the remote.

  I heard moaning and movement in the next room. Someone went into the bathroom and closed the door. “Fuck. Oh, fuck,” I heard the voice say. “I can’t stand this anymore.”

  “You okay, Vinny?” Jake yelled.

  “I’m just tired of it, Jake,” came the muffled reply. A few minutes later the bathroom door opened, and I heard Vinny toss himself down on the bed.

  “It’s getting worse,” Jake whispered. “It’s been bad the past couple of days.”

  Jake flipped on a M*A*S*H rerun.

  “I always liked this show,” Jake said.

  “Ooooohhh, God! Please make it stop,” Vinny moaned. “Please make it stop.”

  “Vinny, you’d better eat something,” Jake said. “You got to eat, man. You want me to make you a bologna-and-cheese sandwich?”

  Vinny just moaned.

  “Nothing you can really do,” Jake said, looking at me. I could see the concern in his eyes.

  This was a death watch. Vinny had colon cancer. He had constant diarrhea and spent half his time in the bathroom.

  “You had better eat,” Jake repeated, rolling over on the sofa and directing his voice toward the bedroom. “You want me to make you some tea?”

  “Fuck, Jake. I can’t keep it in me. What’s the use?” Vinny yelled.

  “You’d better get your lazy ass out of bed and move around,” Jake yelled back, “or you’re just going to die right there in that bed!”

  “Fuck you, Jake!” Vinny spat back. Then he lapsed into silence.

  The harshness of Jake’s words barely concealed his anguish over his friend’s misery. Jake was staying with Vinny during his ordeal. Both had been homeless; Jake still was. The government had helped Vinny get a small apartment after it became obvious that his cancer was so advanced that he was going to die on the streets.

  “You got anything that might help Vinny?” Jake asked C.

  “We can try,” C said. “Richard, can I borrow your keys? I need to get something out of the van.”

  I tossed the keys over to C, and he went out briefly. He returned a couple of minutes later with his duffel bag and took out a small baggie of weed. He found his pipe, then he headed for Vinny’s bedside.

  Jake and I focused back in on M*A*S*H.

  The smell of marijuana wafted into the living room. I could hear C talking about The Lord of the Rings. “I liked that a lot,” Vinny said. “Jake brought the video back one night.”

  “Did you like the wizard Gandalf?” C asked. “Did you see the end when he fell into the fiery abyss?”

  “Yeah. What great graphics,” Vinny said. “Is the second one out on video yet? I’d really like to see it, but I can’t go out.”

  C’s weed seemed to be easing Vinny’s pain. And every second of comfort was precious.

  Jake was humming along with the M*A*S*H theme when Vinny called out, “You make that sandwich yet, Jake?”

  Jake laughed. “Oh, now you’re hungry? No, but I’ll do it now.” He headed for the fridge. “You want a sandwich, Richard?”

  “Sure,” I said, “if you’ve got enough.”

  “We’ve got plenty.” Jake took the bologna, cheese, and mayonnaise out of the fridge and grabbed the bread. He dipped the knife in the mayo and started spreading. Vinny and C came out of the bedroom. “You want a bologna sandwich, C? Or some sushi?” Jake joked.

  Vinny looked like a ghost, standing there in his white shorts and socks. He was pale and fragile-looking. His hair was mostly gone. His legs were swollen to about twice their normal size. “Let’s watch a movie,” he said. “What have we got? How about Something About Mary? I know we got that. That’s funny.”

  I reached out and offered my hand. “My name is Richard,” I said. “Glad to meet you. Something About Mary—I think I’ve seen that. Isn’t that the one where he accidentally kills her dog?” I asked.

  “That’s it,” Vinny said.

  The mention of dogs reminded me that Willow had been in the car for quite a while and probably needed to do her business by now. “I’ll be right back,” I said. “I’ve got to take my dog for a walk.”

  As I was walking out the door, a thought struck me. I turned and asked Vinny, “Hey, do you mind if I bring my little dog in after our walk?”

  “Does she bite?” he asked.

  “No, but she might lick you to death.”

  “That would be good,” Vinny said. “Bring her in.”

  Willow and I took our walk in the alley behind the apartment complex. She peed at the base of all eight dumpsters.

  I thought about what I had just witnessed. Here was C, bringing his medicine bag of weed to give a man some brief comfort from a living hell. He was doing what no doctor could legally do in this state.

  Willow and I climbed the stairs to the apartment. She was excited because she knew she was going inside. She burst into the room and headed straight for Vinny, who was sitting on the couch. She licked his face until he pushed her down. She settled into his lap like they were old friends. Could this little dog sniff out the sickness? I wondered.

  “Nice dog,” Vinny said. “What’s her name?”

  “Willow,” I said. Vinny seemed content to sit and pet her.

  Jake grabbed the video and pushed it into the VCR.

  C reached into his bag and got some rolling papers and weed and rolled a few joints, which he then passed around the room. “You want one of these, Richard?” he asked.

  “No. I never got the hang of it,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”

  “That’s what I like about him,” C said. “He hangs out with me, but he doesn’t smoke all my weed.”

  “I tried it in college,” I said. “Back at Ohio State nearly forty years ago. I always thought it smelled like somebody was burning dog poop.”

  “Remember Cheech and Chong?” Jake said, nearly choking with laughter. “Remember when the big black dog ate their stash? Then the dog took a dump with the cannabis in it.”

  “Yeah, I remember that movie,” C laughed.

  “Then they rolled it into a big ‘doogie,’” Jake said. “Cheech called it a Labrador—and they smoked it!”

  “I tried weed, though,” I said, beginning my story again when the laughing subsided. “I never got high, but I did it because I was trying to bed this long-haired blonde from Chagrin Falls who wore crepe dresses and tie-dyed shirts. A group would meet at her pad, take off most of their clothes, and get into a circle on the floor. They would light up their joints and say things like ‘Make love, not war!’ I would take a drag, hold it in and then—nothing! So, I faked it. I’d say ‘Good shit, man!’ and start making up stories about whales coming to me in a vision and sharing knowledge about people who lived under the seas. It seemed to impress them.”

  They all laughed and then took a hit on their joints. They were getting pretty stoned.

  “Hey, there are more sandwiches on the counter,” Jake said. “And there’s milk in the fridge if you want some.”

  “I’m feeling a little better. Maybe I can sleep through the night,” Vinny said, hopefully.

  At about midnight there was a rap on the door, and Lenny stuck his head in. “Anybody here?” he called.

  “Lenny! Welcome!” Jake said. “What’s up?”

/>   “Fuckin’ nothin’, man,” Lenny replied. “I was down at the tavern playing some fuckin’ pool. I’m looking for some fuckin’ stuff, man. You got any?”

  “I’ve got a little left,” C said, passing the plastic bag to Lenny.

  Lenny was from Jersey. He was a fast talker. He communicated in short, rapid-fire sentences, liberally laced with the f-word. He hadn’t been back to his native Jersey in thirty years, but you would swear that he just left yesterday. His accent was quintessentially Jersey, circa 1960. He demanded your attention when he was talking to you. If he didn’t get what he thought was the proper level of focus, he would move closer until he did—so close you could feel his breath. Then he would tilt his head as he leaned into your face.

  Lenny rolled his joint quickly and lit up. “Fuckin’ good stuff!” he pronounced, exhaling.

  We all sat staring at the screen for a while, feeling very mellow from the weed, randomly commenting on the film while discussing topics ranging from managing testosterone to how to score a good lay. Finally, Vinny struggled up from the couch. “I think I’ll lie down,” he said. “I’m getting tired. Thanks, C.”

  “Sure,” said C. “No problem.”

  “Good night, Vinny,” Jake said. “If you need anything, just call.”

  “Good night. Nice to meet you,” I said as Vinny headed for the bedroom.

  The angels of death were already gathering in that room, just waiting for the last sigh, the final breath, the end of life.

  There was no wife, no woman, no nurse to wipe the sweat from his brow. Just a few buddies hanging around for company. There was comfort in company.

  “I’ve seen this a bunch of times,” Jake said, flipping off the VCR.

  “Put on some fuckin’ porn,” Lenny said.

  Coverage of the war in Iraq came on when Jake turned off the movie. “Coalition troops are experiencing heavy resistance from forces loyal to Saddam Hussein near the town of Kabul, in southern Iraq,” announced the embedded correspondent. “There are casualties ...”

  “I say nuke the fuckers!” Lenny exclaimed. “Motherfuckin’ A-rabs! Send them all to Allah, man!”

  “Reports from the front say Iraqi forces surprised a coalition convoy. Six American soldiers have been reported killed in action. Fifteen more have been wounded.”

  “Hell, those guys have it easy, man,” Lenny said. “It’s not like Nam.”

  “For real,” Jake said, reaching around and taking out the rubber band that held his ponytail in place. His hair fell; it must have been ten inches long. “I was in Vietnam too. Crawling through the rice paddies.”

  “Yeah, half my platoon got it in the fucking jungle in one day,” Lenny said. “I was in the marines. We were the first into the villages after they bombed the hell out of them. A lot of it was cleanup after the bombings. We would come in and shoot the ones who didn’t have a fucking chance—men, women, and children. We just shot them in the head to put them out of their misery. I was in the Special Forces with Lieutenant Callie. When they picked us out for duty, they asked, ‘Who here is willing to shoot his own motherfucking mother?’ About half the guys stood up.”

  “You shot the children?” C asked.

  “Fuck yes, man,” Lenny replied. “Hell, some of them had their arms or legs blown off. Some had their guts hanging out. They were just going to lie there and die. I was seventeen. People were dying around me every day. My best friend, Scooter, he never came back. I didn’t think I would come back alive either. If my captain said, ‘Shoot ’em in the fucking head,’ I shot ’em in the fucking head. I’m a Sicilian from New Jersey. My captain was a Sicilian. He told us if we didn’t shoot ’em, he would shoot us! You didn’t mess with that fucker!”

  “I have nothing good to say about that hellhole,” Jake said. “I learned to smoke dope there, to shoot up there. No, I should say I have one good thing to say about Nam—I saw Bob Hope there in Da Nang. You know, he came over to entertain the troops. He was good. He had this joke: ‘Technically, this is not a war. So when you get shot, technically, you’re not shot.’” Jake laughed. “If they hadn’t sent me home, I’d be six feet under.”

  “Sent you home?” Lenny asked.

  “Yeah. They court-martialed me. I thought you knew that, Lenny,” Jake replied. “I’m a deserter. I left my post. It was near some little village. A colonel with a burr up his butt decided to go bust some heads on a Sunday and took two of us in a jeep. We parked at the edge of the village. They left me to guard the jeep. ‘Shoot anything that moves, Private,’ the colonel ordered as they left. ‘We’ll be back in fifteen minutes,’ he barked. Hell! They were gone for three hours! I was sick, man. I had the flu or something. It was hot, man. Sweat was just pouring off of me. I heard a noise in the jungle. I saw the trees move. ‘Halt!’ I yelled. ‘Come out with your hands up, or I’ll shoot!’ The bushes moved again. I swore I heard a gun cock. I panicked and fired a round into the jungle. I heard crying. It was a woman crying. I leveled my rifle toward the sound as a woman carrying a baby walked out of the jungle. She walked toward me with her knees buckling; she was bawling. Blood was streaming from her shoulder. Her hands were covered with blood and she walked toward me, kneeled down, and laid the baby at my feet and then covered her face with her blood-soaked hands.

  “The baby was dead. I had killed her baby, man. Shit, I broke. I tossed my machine gun into the ditch, left the jeep behind, and started walking back down the road. I swore I would never kill another living thing again, not even a fly.

  “The colonel and the guys caught up with me several miles down the road. He pistol-whipped me. Nearly killed me. He had cut off the head of a gook he was interrogating and stuffed it in a duffel bag. He pulled it out and held it over me. ‘I oughta do this to you, you fucking asshole!’ he screamed. Blood from the head was dripping on my face.

  “They took me back to camp. I was put in the brig for a while. Some doctor took pity on me and sent me home to Bremerton. Fuck, I got a dishonorable discharge. The colonel eventually got a Purple Heart. That son of a bitch lost both of his legs.”

  Lenny’s eyes were filled with tears. “Killing women and children is not something I’m fucking proud of,” he said. “Hell, at seventeen, with your lieutenant screaming ‘Kill the fuckers!’ and everybody shooting and yelling, that’s what you do. You’re seventeen. There’s a lot of difference between seventeen and fifty-seven. We were killing the ‘enemy.’” Lenny leaned forward in his chair as he looked at Jake. “Don’t you think I have fuckin’ nightmares?” His voice trailed off.

  Jake got off the couch. “Want a cigarette?” he asked, holding out a neatly rolled cigarette in his hand.

  “Sure,” Lenny said.

  “When I got back, my family didn’t want anything to do with me,” Jake said, lighting Lenny’s cigarette. “My girlfriend left me. I bounced around town drinkin’ and smokin’ pot. When the little money I had was gone, I lived in the woods, or lived on the streets and ate out of dumpsters—for years. I still do. In fact, what time is it? I’m thinking about going dumpster diving! You coming with me, C?”

  “Sure,” C replied.

  “How about you, Richard?” Jake asked.

  I had never been dumpster-diving before. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said.

  “It can be profitable,” Jake coaxed. “I found $3.75 in pennies two nights ago. People throw away good stuff. You’d be surprised.”

  The idea of climbing in a dumpster at three in the morning didn’t appeal to me. But I was broke. “Okay. I’ll go along,” I said.

  “Good! You can drive. I know of a good place to start. It’s on the east side of town, behind Safeway,” Jake said.

  “How about you, Lenny?” C asked.

  “Fuck, no! I ain’t crawling around in no stinking dumpster!” Lenny exclaimed. “I’ll stay here, watch some porn, and keep an eye on Vinny in case he needs anything. Okay?”

  Jake tossed the remote to Lenny.

  “What channel has the porn?” Lenny asked. �
��I’ve got cable; I’m not used to this DirecTV shit.”

  “Just hit 177,” Jake said. “That’s the Hustler channel. Lots of fucking and sucking.”

  Lenny hit the remote buttons and smiled as two women doing a portly guy appeared. “That’s what I like!” Lenny cheered.

  “Let’s go,” Jake said, grabbing his coat.

  I had missed the Nam experience. The closest I ever got was riding the bus to the processing center in Columbus when I was in college; there were six black guys and me. They all went; they were too poor to have the protection of college. Unlike Lenny and Jake, it was only one day out of my life; I went right back to Ohio State.

  As we left the death watch, it occurred to me that we were all homeless in some way. It seemed that we were all psychically frozen somewhere—the half-dead, the on-the-way-to-dead, the blessedly dead—and at that moment, I wasn’t sure which one defined me best.

  What better time to be initiated into the art of dumpster diving?

  Chapter 17

  DUMPSTER DIVING

  “I got shotgun,” C announced as we stepped out into the drizzle and piled into the van. Jake and C seemed to be getting an adrenalin rush at the thought of climbing into dumpsters to look for treasures. I was just worried about how to avoid the inevitable teriyaki or ketchup stains that both C and Jake seemed to wear as badges of courage, earned by participation in this local sport.

  “Have you run into those new space-age dumpsters?” Jake asked C. “The ones that compact all the trash as soon as you throw it in? Hell, they take all the fun out of my nights. It makes trash worthless. The jelly donuts, the lemon-roasted chickens, and the coffee grounds all get compressed into one big block.”

  C and Jake continued their discussion of the latest in sanitation technology. My mind drifted back to when I was a young man in Ohio.

  I was twenty-seven or so. My neighbor Henry, who was about ninety, hobbled over one day when I was taking out the garbage. I had two big bags’ worth, and Henry met me at my three trash cans.