Sally Boy

by P. Vincent DeMartino

  Being a grizzled combat veteran, Sal’s instincts took over and he scanned the room for potential problems. The joint was swarming with young, rowdy soldiers dealing with the mind-blowing reality of being in ‘Nam. Combat-fatigued boonie rats, cherries just in from the “world,” burnt-out chopper pilots, and overworked medical staff topped the list of the heavier drinkers. This hodgepodge of problems clad in olive-drab partied every night like there was literally no tomorrow.

  The Club was basically one large recreational area supported by two load-bearing columns with two separate rest rooms. It had hardwood flooring, ceiling fans, and brick walls covered with the neatly framed insignias of the various units serving “in country.” It had several pool tables, a cigarette machine, a jukebox, and a host of tables. Many of the men played darts, cards, or pool, and they bet on everything. The bar was festively decorated with white Christmas-type lights. The liquor selection was better than anyone would expect, and every soldier was routinely over-served to the point of being stinking drunk.

  Sitting by himself at a table with a half-empty bottle of Dewar’s and six full shot glasses, Sal tossed down the shooters one after another like they were water, chasing each one with a sip of beer. Shooting pool alone, Angel played on a table several feet from Sal. Drunkenly leaning over the table to line up his shot, Angel slowly drew back the stick and then shot. He missed completely.

  “Ah, fuck it! This stick don’t work so good, anyways.” Lobbing the pool-cue onto the table, Angel staggered toward Sal and purposely dropped to his knees. Gazing up at his new friend, Angel proclaimed loudly, slurring his words, “I want you to know, amigo. That no matter wherever you go, or whatever happens, if you ever need me, I am your brother for life.”

  Downing a shot and taking a sip of beer, Sal turned to the drunken fool kneeling beside him. “Yeah, yeah, you’ve been telling me that all night. Change the fucking record, huh?”

  “I swear! Someday, if I had to, I would lay down my life in place of yours. You hear what I’m saying, hermano?”

  “I hear you, but I gotta tell you something. I’m really not...the truth is...I ain’t never had any friends like you before.”

  Cocking his head as if confused, Angel blurted, “You ain’t got no friends?”

  “No, asshole. No friends like you.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “It means friends that wasn’t...you know, Italian, or at least white.”

  Climbing up off the floor, Angel fell heavily into a chair next to Sal. “What are you trying to say, hermano?”

  “I ain’t trying to say nothing. I’m just saying.”

  “You don’t like spics?”

  “I’m trying to say I don’t trust spics or nigga’s. But ever since I came to this shitty place, I’ve had to trust a lotta fucked-up motherfuckers. Motherfuckers, who if I was back home, I wouldn’t piss on if they was on fire.”

  “Si amigo, I understand what you trying to say now.” Angel smiled.

  “As much as I didn’t wanna like you, you seem like you’re an okay guy. So lemme just make one thing perfectly clear to you. Don’t ever, and I mean ever, fuck me over.”

  “You got nothing to worry about. I ain’t never fucked over nobody in my life.”

  “Come here!” Taking hold of the back of Angel’s neck, Sal pulled Angel close to him. Speaking directly into Angel’s ear, Sal yelled trying to talk over the music. “Angel, I’m fucking serious. If you ever fuck me over, I’ll kill you. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I hear you, hermano. Can I ask you a question that’s been bothering me?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why the fuck did you re-up? I mean you was done with all this shit. I can’t wait to go home, and I just fucking got here. What the fuck made a guy with smarts like you wanna do a second tour, huh? Why the fuck would you do that?”

  “I like the action,” Sal said smiling.

  “C’mon, hermano.” Angel sipped his beer. “We drank together. Shared stories. We’ve become amigos. I wanna know.”

  “About a month before my first tour was up, my girl sent me a ‘Dear John’ letter. She said something about her friends in college making her realize that she couldn’t go on seeing someone like me and claim to have a soul. Can you fucking believe that shit?”

  “Is that the reason? Some fucking cunt?”

  “Nah, that’s not it,”

  “C’mon, I really wanna know.”

  “I had this friend, Adam Horowitz, a Jewish kid from Brooklyn. He was a great fucking guy, one hell of a soldier, too. The best jungle fighter I ever seen. We used to call him ‘Moses’ ’cause he always wanted to be out on point. He used to say it was his job to lead his people safely through the jungle.”

  “He sounds like a crazy motherfucker to me.”

  “I still remember when I first shipped in. I was greener than a motherfucker. Just like you. Moses could see that my life expectancy was short. Just like yours. So Adam, he kinda took me under his wing, and taught me everything he knew. How to call in air strikes, artillery fire, and go out on point and not get the shit blown outta me. He gave me a chance to make it outta here alive. I’ll always love him for that. I still remember the day they sent his ass home.”

  “He went fucking home? You should be happy for him.”

  “Yeah, he went home, awright. In a fucking body bag! Adam got zapped two weeks before he was supposed to ship out on that freedom bird.”

  “Damn! That’s fucked up.” Angel downed a shot.

  “Me and Adam really got to be good friends. We talked about going into business together when we got home. We was gonna open up the first Jew-Talian restaurant in history. Matzo ball soup and manicottis! What a fucking combo, huh? Moses thought it woulda went over really big in New York. To be honest with you, I think he was right.”

  “It’s too bad your friend got wasted, Sal. But that’s the way life is, I guess. You lose a friend, you make a friend.”

  “I guess. But a guy like Adam? He didn’t fucking deserve to die.”

  “So he’s the reason you re-upped?”

  “Nah, I already told you.” Sal winked and smiled. “I like the fucking action.”

  Out of nowhere, a very large soldier purposely barreled into Angel’s chair trying to knock him over. Standing well over six-feet, the big dumb bully was three hundred-plus pounds of mostly muscle, but his over-indulgence in alcohol had produced a spare tire. Well-known as a brawler, most of the men stayed out of his way. They knew that the punk got off beating up on his fellow soldiers, preferring to spend time in the stockade, rather than risk his life out in the bush. Momentarily stunned, Angel quickly regained his senses. Staring up at the human Mac truck in combat boots, Angel shouted, “Hey, what’s your fucking problem, cabron?”

  “What did you just call me, asshole?”

  Setting his drink down on the table Sal slowly stood. “He called you a ‘cabron.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “Oh, yeah? That little fucking wet-back better apologize or else.”

  “Or else what?” Sal fired back in a menacing tone.

  Though the soldier dwarfed Sal, he hesitated. He could see in the eyes of the smaller man the gaze of a deadly human weapon. Sal’s time in Vietnam had taught him that fear only got men killed. Sal swore a long time ago that he would rather die than ever back down, or surrender to anyone, ever. In a show of support, the soldier’s companions gathered around him.

  “McLaughlin. That’s your fucking name?” Sal asked as he checked his name tag.

  “Yeah, that’s my fucking name.”

  “Well, McLaughlin, I think you owe my friend here an apology.”

  “I don’t apologize to no wet-backs.”

  “Wet-backs are Mexicans. Angel’s Puerto Rican.”

  “I don’t apologize to no spics, either.”

  “Look, you’re a big, tough Irishman. We get it. Awright? Why do you wanna pick on this
little guy? He’s what, like a-hundred and sixty pounds, soaking wet with a fucking hard-on. Just do the right thing and say you’re sorry. Then we can all get on with our fucking lives.”

  “I ain’t saying ‘sorry’ to nobody, asshole.”

  “You’re a real fucking tough guy, ain’t you?”

  “Yeah, I am. So what are you gonna do about it...” Glancing down at Sal’s name tag McLaughlin continued, “...Scalise. Isn’t that a wop name?”

  Sensing that neither man was going to relent, Angel stood to broker a truce. The moment he got to his feet, McLaughlin strongly shoved Angel back down into his chair. “Nobody told you to get up, scumbag!”

  Looking up, Angel pleaded. “Look man, we don’t want any fucking trouble. We was just about to leave, anyways. Here, youse can have our table.”

  “Then why don’t you two assholes get moving, ’cause you’re stinking the fucking place up.” McLaughlin sniffed the air. “It smells like a cross between a rancid pizza and a stale fucking burrito in here.”

  McLaughlin’s friends burst out laughing.

  “That’s pretty funny, but I still got a shooter.”

  “Don’t let a swallow of scotch cost you your life, grease-ball,” McLaughlin taunted.

  Again, McLaughlin’s friends howled with laughter.

  Gazing over the faces of the men surrounding him, Sal plotted his next move. “You’re a pretty funny guy. I like funny guys. So I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. Outta respect for your size and in honor of our new friendship I’m gonna make a toast to you.”

  “We ain’t friends, meatball.”

  “I know,” Sal responded in a serious tone.

  “On second thought, I think a little Guinea should have to toast a full-grown Irishman,” McLaughlin stated, confidence soaring.

  “Angel, stand up. Let’s raise our glass in a toast to our new friend.”

  Though confused, Angel stood and raised his glass. Speaking with a thick Irish brogue, Sal recited this unsentimental toast: “Here’s to the Irish. God love ’em. Their men are drunks and their women are whores.”

  “You son-of-a-bitch!” McLaughlin roared as he fired a punch at Sal’s head.

  Ducking the powerful right hook, Sal connected with a vicious right-left combination to McLaughlin’s chin, stunning the big man briefly. After shaking off his cobwebs, McLaughlin threw a bone crushing right cross that grazed Sal’s jaw. Though it didn’t land flush, its force knocked Sal to the floor. McLaughlin raised his beefy leg and slammed it to the floor trying to squash Sal, but he rolled away and scrambled to his feet. Using his speed and agility, Sal landed a straight left and a right hook to McLaughlin’s head that buckled his knees. Sal then delivered a jaw-crushing right upper cut that lifted the colossus off his feet. Like a felled redwood, McLaughlin hit the floor unconscious. Glaring down at the deplorable heap of humanity, Sal shouted, “Big fucking tough guy, huh? Next time, watch where the fuck you’re walking. You stupid mick, donkey, asshole.”

  Sal now faced the crowd. “Any of youse assholes want somea this?”

  Collectively the group stepped back, hands raised. One soldier yelled out, “No way, man!”

  “Let’s get the fuck outta here,” Angel said, laughing at the unconscious bully. Picking up the bottle of scotch from the table, Angel tucked it into his shirt.

  “Why not, I finished my drink,” Sal replied coolly.

  Stumbling out the front door, the two made their way to Angel’s tent. After making themselves comfortable on separate bunks, Angel lit a candle, and turned on a small transistor radio and set the volume on low.

  “You knocked that big motherfucker out cold! Damn, that was something to see. I would pay to see that again.” Angel laughed, taking a long sip of scotch, and then he handed the bottle to Sal.

  Reaching under his pillow, Angel pulled out a plastic bag containing several rolled joints. Removing one from the bag, he lit it, and took a good long hit. “This is some good shit, man.”

  After taking another hit, Angel passed the joint to Sal, who inhaled deeply. “Yeah, it’s not bad.” Sal smiled. “I’m starting to feel it already.”

  “Now it’s really party time. I just gotta get my shit first.” Drawing a small knife from his pocket, Angel dropped to the floor, and carefully pried up several narrow floor boards. Reaching under the floor, he removed a small tin box. Again, Angel stuck his arm under the floor and retrieved a small satchel then sat back down on the bunk. He separated the lid from the tin box and placed it on an ammo crate near his bunk. Removing a folded-up piece of paper, Angel carefully unfolded it, revealing a good quantity of a whitish powder.

  “I ain’t putting any of that shit in my veins.”

  “Lighten up, hermano! You’re telling me you ain’t never shot smack before? What are you fucking shitting me, man?”

  “Do I look like a fucking junkie?”

  “I ain’t no fucking junkie. I just use it to get by. Look man, I didn’t ask to come to this fucked up place. So if I gotta be here with these zipper heads trying to kill me all day, every day, I wanna be as fucked up as possible, whenever possible. I don’t wanna feel nothing if I get hit. And if I get killed, then it really don’t fucking matter if I’m high or not. Do it?”

  “Yeah, but that shit can really fuck you up. I mean it can take over your whole fucking life.”

  “Only if you let it get a hold of you, troop. Otherwise it’s as safe as booze or smokes. I’ve been shooting up for years. It ain’t hurt me none.”

  “Yeah, but this shit really ain’t my thing.”

  “Look, hermano, they’re sending us back into the shit in a couplea days. ‘Till then, I’m gonna get as high as I can, get me some yellow pussy, and have a good time.”

  “You do whatever you wanna do. I ain’t having nothing to do with it.”

  “Whatever you say, my brother, but you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  Rolling up his sleeve, Angel untied the satchel and removed a spoon, a syringe, and a rubber hose. Tying off his arm with the rubber hose, he then carefully transferred heroin to the spoon. Angel held the spoon over the candle until the powder liquefied. He loaded his syringe, and then injected the needle into a bulging vein in the fold above his forearm. Carefully drawing back the plunger, he allowed his blood to mix with the heroin, and then he depressed the hypodermic needle. Angel appeared to drift off, a peaceful smile upon his face. Intrigued by the speed and effect of the innocuous looking powder, Sal asked, “What does it feel like?”

  “It’s like...like getting into some really good pussy.”

  Picking up the syringe, Sal examined it closely. “I ain’t never saw one of these up close. To be honest with you, I ain’t never saw nobody shoot up before either.”

  “It’s the best trip you’re ever gonna have in this fucking hell hole.”

  “I heard about guys having some fucked up hallucinations and shit.”

  “What could be more fucked up than the shit we’ve already seen here?” Angel asked serenely.

  Appearing torn, Sal finally relented, “Fuck it! Shoot me up, motherfucker.”

  “You got it, bro.” After tying Sal off with the rubber hose, Angel cooked up some heroin, loaded the syringe, and injected Sal’s arm.

  Sal swooned, falling back onto the bunk. He hallucinated that he was at a strip club back in the Bronx, surrounded by all of his friends. The club had a small stage, a stripper pole, and a bar. Music played loudly as beautiful half-naked girls, not much older than Sal and his friends, danced around teasing them. The young beauties stuck their perky bare breasts into the guys’ smiling faces. Several of the girls gently massaged some of the fellas’ hard swollen cocks over their tight jeans. Mikey and Anthony sat on either side of Sal, greedily squeezing bosoms and caressing firm asses.

  “This is fucking living huh, Sal?” Mikey boasted as he fondled a pair of perfect tits.

  Two girls had their enormous breasts lying right on Anthony’s face. “Sal, when I die, I wanna
go just like this.”

  One gorgeous blonde took Sal by his hand and led him toward a door in the back of the room. All the guys watched Sal walk away until Mikey finally yelled out, “Hey Sally, where the fuck you going?”

  Looking back over his shoulder, Sal shouted, “I don’t know. But I hope there’s a bed.”

  The girl opened the door and led Sal through it. When he stepped past the doorway, Sal was transformed into a six-year-old boy back in Sicily. Young Salvatore and his mother played in the front yard of his grandparents’ home. They laughed and sang, enjoying the beautiful sunny day. “You can’t catch me! You can’t catch me!” Salvatore teased as he ran away from his mother as quickly as his little legs would carry him.

  “I’m going to get you, Salvatore.” Chasing after her son, Marie followed him around the yard, laughing at her son’s high-pitched giggle. Taking several more steps, Marie abruptly stopped and called out in a desperate voice, “Salvatore!”

  Salvatore turned and saw his mother clutching her arm precisely where Angel shot the poison into Sal’s arm. Marie shook her head and slowly keeled over. Rushing back, Salvatore took her hand. “Are you okay, mommy?”

  Appearing sad and disappointed, Marie shook her head and whispered, “No, Salvatore! No!”

  Suddenly, Marie turned black and decrepit and disappeared before her son’s eyes. Salvatore reached out, trying to touch his now-gone mother. The boy cried, frantically calling out to her in Italian. “Mommy, where are you? Where are you, mommy?”

  Without warning, ominous black clouds blotted out the sun. The sky darkened and a wind storm arose. Trees swayed side-to-side; shingles were blown off roofs, and debris careened everywhere, causing the now weeping child to cover his face. Peeking through his tiny fingers, Salvatore searched for his mother while calling out to her, “Mommy, I’m scared. Where are you?”

  As he wandered through a grove of trees, Salvatore found himself alone at his mother’s grave. Dropping down onto his knees near the headstone, the boy wailed. The earth on top of his mother’s grave began to separate and break apart, and a woman’s decayed hand tore up through the soil and seized the arm injected with the poison. The hand tried to yank Salvatore down under the dirt. Fighting back with all of his strength, the boy struggled to keep from being pulled into the grave. Finally able to break free, Salvatore fell backwards.