by James Reston
LI: You sleep?
REPORTER: No, I’m awake. Are you the nurse?
LI: My name Li. Bar girl. I work Coral Bar. You know?
REPORTER Um—no, I’ve never been there.
LI: I come here too. Man downstairs who sometime let me in. Are you G.I.?
REPORTER: No.
LI: See? I know you not G.I. I like you better than G.I. (Coming further into the room) You very nice.
REPORTER (Holding her off): No, I’m not nice. I’m a reporter.
LI: Li not understand.
REPORTER: I’m someone who’s not here—who’s here but can’t—do anything, except report.
LI (Puzzled): You like I go away?
REPORTER: No, you don’t have to go away. . . .
LI: You lonely.
REPORTER: No I’m not. Not lonely. . .
LI: Yes, you lonely. I see.
REPORTER: I’m alone. It’s a condition of the job.
LI: You tired.
REPORTER: Well, they’ve given me some medication. . . .
LI: You lie down.
REPORTER: I’m lying down.
LI: You lie down all the way—
REPORTER (Escapes by jumping out of bed—HE is wearing blue institutional pajamas): I’ve got a wonderful idea.
LI: No, where you go?
REPORTER: You sit down. Sit down on the bed. (Going into the pockets of his field clothes) Look, here’s some money for your time. There’s fifty hoi. Is that enough? I’m going to interview you.
LI (Not knowing the word): In-ter-view?
The REPORTER has laid two small colored bills on the bed. LI picks them up and, somewhat uncertainly, sits down on the bed. The REPORTER sets up his tape recorder.
REPORTER: I’ve been feeling, lately, quite confused. I think that maybe, if I just can try and understand one person who’s involved in all this, then I might be onto something. Will you tell me your story?
LI: Oh, you like me tell you story. Now I see. I have G.I. friend teach me tell him your Jack and the Beanstalk. When I get to part where beanstalk grow I stop and he say “Fee Fi Fo Fum”—
REPORTER: Not that kind of story. Just your life. Where do you come from?
LI: Where you like I come from?
REPORTER: From wherever you were bom.
LI: Okay. I try. (Thinks a second, sizing the REPORTER up) I was born in little village. I hate the guerrillas. Was so glad when many helicopters come all full of big Americans. Americans with big guns. You have gun?
REPORTER: No.
LI: Yes you do. I know you have gun.
REPORTER: No, I don’t.
LI: Yes, great big huge big gun and shoot so straight—
REPORTER (Turns off the tape): No, no. That isn’t what I want, Li. I just want your story. Nothing else.
LI: You shy.
REPORTER: It’s just a question of professional procedure.
LI: You like woman to be like a man. I see now. Now I tell my story.
REPORTER: Wait. (HE switches on his tape) Go.
LI: I am spy. My name not Li at all.
REPORTER: What is it?
LI: My name Gad Da Lai I Rang Toi Doung. That mean Woman Who Love to Watch Foreigners Die. I hate Americans.
REPORTER: Now we’re getting down to cases. I’ll bet all you girls hate Americans.
LI (Encouraged): Yes. I love to kill them.
REPORTER: Have you killed very many?
LI: Every day I kill one or I no can sleep. I like to pull their veins out with my little white sharp teeth. This is only thing can make Li happy with a man.
REPORTER (Getting drawn in): Wow. That’s political.
LI: I like to climb on top of you and bite you, chew your neck until your bones are in my teeth and then I crack them—
REPORTER: Stop! You’re making this up too. Li, don’t you understand. I want your real story. (LI has found the light switch on the wall above the bed and turned it off) Li, turn the lights back on.
LI: You tired.
REPORTER: I’m not tired, I just feel tired.
LI: You come here.
REPORTER: I’ll bring the tape recorder and we’ll talk some more.
LI: You like it in my country?
REPORTER (Sitting on the bed): No. I hate it. I don’t understand what anybody’s doing. I don’t like it here at all.
LI: You like I turn lights on?
REPORTER: Yes.
LI: There. (The lights are still off)
REPORTER: There what?
LI: You no see lights? Then you have eyes closed.
REPORTER: No—
LI: I turn lights off again, (SHE leaves them off) You like that?
REPORTER: Are they on or off?
LI: You lie down.
REPORTER (Does): Do you wear sunglasses indoors? At Mimi’s all the girls wear very dark dark glasses. Are you touching me? You’re not supposed to touch me.
LI: I no touch you. (SHE is touching him)
REPORTER: I saw a man burn with a lot of people watching. I saw Ing dance. I was in the jungle and a piece of flying metal flew so fast you couldn’t see it but it stopped inside my body. I’m in Am-bo Land. (The phone rings) The phone? (HE picks it up) Hello? (Pause) Mr. Kingsley, yes, hello! (Pause) You’re here? Wait just a little second, Mr. Kingsley. (Turning the lights on) Li? (SHE is gone. The REPORTER looks puzzled but relieved. HE takes the phone back up—interrupts his movement to make a quick check under the bed, but LI is truly gone. Into the phone) I’m sorry, sir. . . . Hello?
KINGSLEY (Bursts in, bearing flowers): Hey there, how’s the Purple Heart?
REPORTER: Hello, sir—
KINGSLEY (Points a mock-stern finger at the REPORTER): Sir?
REPORTER: Bob! Hello, Bob. You’re so thoughtful to come visit me.
KINGSLEY (Seeing the cassette recorder, which is still in the REPORTER’s lap): I see you made a tape. You gonna pay the girl residuals? (The REPORTER looks at the machine, then turns it off) I got here half an hour ago and saw her coming in here. Figured this’d give you time enough. Hell, just in from the field most guys don’t need but twenty seconds. (HE plunks down the flowers on the cabinet)
REPORTER: I was interviewing her.
KINGSLEY: Here’s something else you’ll need. (HE takes a red-white-and-blue card out of his vest pocket and hands it to the REPORTER)
REPORTER: What’s this?
KINGSLEY: A business card.
REPORTER (Looks at it): It’s just a number.
KINGSLEY: You hold on to that.
REPORTER (Slips it in his shirt pocket): Who is it?
KINGSLEY: Officer X.
REPORTER: Who’s that?
KINGSLEY: He’s probably lots of people. First-rate resource. He’s got access to army supply lines. Got a couple of straws in the Ambonese milkshake too. You’ll want a stereo system for starters. And an ice machine.
REPORTER: I don’t need—
KINGSLEY: It’s all on TransPanGlobal. X already has your name. Hey, you’re our boy! We wouldn’t want you cooped up here without a few amenities.
REPORTER: I’ve only got a flesh wound. I’ll be out of here tomorrow, or today.
KINGSLEY: Today. Tomorrow.
REPORTER: Next day at the latest.
KINGSLEY: I guess you know you got off pretty easy.
REPORTER: Yes, I guess I did.
KINGSLEY: Good luck, huh?
REPORTER: Guess it was.
KINGSLEY: Good luck for you. Bad luck for TransPanGlobal.
REPORTER: How?
KINGSLEY: This thing has hit us right smack in the middle of a gore gap.
REPORTER: Gore gap?
KINGSLEY: Little guy from Aujourd’hui lost his esophagus last week. Two weeks ago some wop from Benvenuto got his ear blown off. We haven’t had an injury for five months. God damn oudets don’t believe you’re really covering a war unless some blood flows with the ink. So let’s say we announce your little contretemps the way it really happened. “On su
ch-and-such a day our correspondent sallied forth to get the news. In the performance of his duty, he was wounded.” (As a questioner) “Where?” “He took a little shrapnel.” “Where?” “He took a little shrapnel in the ass.” (To the REPORTER) Not too impressive. Let me ask you something. Why should we accept that you were wounded where you were and let the whole of TransPanGlobal look like shitheads—are you with me?—when a half a foot—six inches—from your perforated fanny is your spine?
REPORTER: My spine?
KINGSLEY: We’re going to say the shrapnel lodged against your lower vertebrae. That’s nothing that a brilliant surgeon, luck, and a short convalescence can’t cure.
REPORTER: How short?
KINGSLEY: Three months.
REPORTER: Three months?
KINGSLEY: The spine’s a very tricky area.
REPORTER: Why do you assume I’ll go along with this?
KINGSLEY: We brought you here.
REPORTER: You brought me where?
KINGSLEY: To Am-bo Land.
REPORTER: That’s supposed to make me grateful?
KINGSLEY: Don’t you like it here?
REPORTER: What makes you even possibly imagine that I like it here?
KINGSLEY: By this point in their tour, we’ve found that most reporters have experienced imprintment.
REPORTER: What’s—
KINGSLEY: Imprintment. A reporter goes to cover a country and the country covers him.
REPORTER: You think that Am-bo Land is covering me?
KINGSLEY: It’s just a guess.
REPORTER: A guess.
KINGSLEY: That’s all.
REPORTER: All right. I’m going to show you just how good a guess it is. (HE gets out of bed)
KINGSLEY: What are you doing?
REPORTER (Getting his clothes out of the cabinet): You see these socks? They’re decomposing with the climate. Not the rain and mud. The air. The air is putrid in this country. When I go to put on clean socks in the morning they all smell as if some stranger took and wore them in the night, (HE flings the socks away and starts to pull on his field clothes over his pajamas) I can’t believe you thought that Am-bo Land was covering me. It’s true that I can’t do my job, if that’s the same thing. I can never tell what’s going on. Nobody ever gives me any answers. If they do I’m asking stupid questions. That’s not how my life is supposed to go! I won’t accept that! I refuse! It doesn’t rain here when it rains. It sweats. The palm leaves drip sweat even in the sunshine. Have you tried the beer? It’s great. Tastes like the inside of a monkey’s armpits.
KINGSLEY: Where are you going?
REPORTER: First I’m going to the airbase. That’s four miles. From there, eleven thousand miles to East Dubuque.
KINGSLEY: You’re leaving?
REPORTER: That’s eleven thousand four miles. I’ll be counting every centimeter.
KINGSLEY: What about the gore gap?
REPORTER: Blow your brains out. That’ll fill it.
KINGSLEY: This is highly unprofessional. You know that.
REPORTER: No I don’t. I don’t know anything. I only know I’m going.
KINGSLEY: If you’re going, I won’t try to stop you.
REPORTER Great. Goodbye. (Limping slightly, HE starts out)
KINGSLEY: You’re sure you want to go?
REPORTER: I’m sure!
KINGSLEY: Enjoy your flight.
REPORTER: You bet I will! I’ll savor every second.
The REPORTER slams out. Blackout. Tape: A CIVILIAN FLIGHT ANNOUNCER speaks over an outdoor loudspeaker.
FLIGHT ANNOUNCER (In a voice that reeks routine): Attention on the runway please. . . . Attention on the runway please. . . . Lone Star Airlines Flight 717 has completed its boarding procedure. . . . Clear the runway please. . . . Please clear the runway. . . . No more passengers may board at this time. . . . (With a little more urgency) Will the gentleman please clear the runway. . . . Flight 717 is taking off. . . . The gentleman is standing in the backblast. . . . Will the gentleman please limp a little faster, he is about to be cremated. . . .
Slide: PLANES
Simultaneously with the slide, the REPORTER shouts from offstage.
REPORTER Okay! Okay!
Lights up on a black-and-yellow barrier with the legend, “DO NOT PASS BEYOND THIS POINT.”
FLIGHT ANNOUNCER (Still on tape): Will the gimp in the pajama top accelerate his pace please. . . .
REPORTER (Still offstage, but closer): Yes, o-kay!
FLIGHT ANNOUNCER Now will the moron kindly haul his ass behind the yellow barrier and await the next plane out at that location.
REPORTER (Rushing on in total disarray): Yes, all right! I’m here! I’m here!
The REPORTER crawls under the barrier, ending up on the downstage side. The PHOTOGRAPHER hobbles on from the opposite direction. HE is missing an arm. One foot is in a huge cast. His clothes are multi-layered and multi-colored, and include a Clint Eastwood-style serape. Sundry cameras, lens cases, filter cases hang from straps around his neck and shoulders. A sign on his floppy field hat reads, “SAT CHEESE.”
PHOTOGRAPHER Hey, man, I need a little help with something, can you help me out?
REPORTER (Just sits on the asphalt, panting): Damn it! Damn it!
PHOTOGRAPHER Missed your plane, huh? That’s a drag.
REPORTER There’s not another plane for seven hours.
PHOTOGRAPHER: There’s one in fifteen minutes. That’s the help I need.
REPORTER (Pulls himself up by the barrier): In fifteen minutes? Where?
PHOTOGRAPHER (Pointing offstage): Right over there. The Weasel. See? She’s sleeping. But in fifteen minutes she’ll be up there in the sky. It fucks your mind up.
REPORTER: That’s a bomber.
PHOTOGRAPHER: Dig it.
REPORTER: I need a passenger plane.
PHOTOGRAPHER (Enlightened): You mean a plane to go somewhere. Okay, man. Not too zen, but. . . . Wanna help me out?
REPORTER: If I can.
PHOTOGRAPHER (Extends his foot cast to be pulled off like a boot): Here. Help me ditch this plaster, willya?
REPORTER: What’s it on for?
PHOTOGRAPHER: German paper that I sometimes sell my snaps to wanted pictures of a minefield. Who knows why, right? Only, dig it man, the thing about a minefield is it looks like any other field. I mean like that’s the whole idea, right? So I tramped a lot of paddies before I found one. Got an action shot, though. KRUUMP!
REPORTER: What happend to your arm?
PHOTOGRAPHER: Ooh that was righteous. It was nighttime. I was standing getting pictures of the tracer patterns. BAMMO! from behind! I got an incredible shot of that arm flying off. WHOOSH! Little bit underexposed, but something else, man. WHOOSH!
REPORTER: I think you ought to take my flight with me.
PHOTOGRAPHER: You wouldn’t wanna leave if you could make these bomb runs.
REPORTER: I could make the bomb runs.
PHOTOGRAPHER: Nix. They just give seats to newsmen.
REPORTER: I’m a reporter.
PHOTOGRAPHER: Yeah? Well shit man, what you waiting for? Come help me get my foot up in the cockpit and then climb on in yourself.
REPORTER: No way. I’ve got a plane to catch.
PHOTOGRAPHER: These babies drop their goodies and they come right back. Takes half an hour.
REPORTER: They come back in half an hour?
PHOTOGRAPHER: Like a boomerang. Come on.
REPORTER: Not me.
PHOTOGRAPHER: I’m telling you, these flights are ab-struct.
REPORTER: Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.
PHOTOGRAPHER: Why not?
REPORTER: ’Cause they wouldn’t let me on.
PHOTOGRAPHER: You’re a reporter.
REPORTER: No I’m not. I was. I quit.
PHOTOGRAPHER: You quit?
REPORTER: That’s right.
PHOTOGRAPHER: You give your card back?
REPORTER (Lies):—Yes.
PHOTOGRAPHE
R: You didn’t, man. It’s right there on your hat.
REPORTER (Taking it out of the hatband): I still have the card.
PHOTOGRAPHER: Come on! We’re gonna miss the takeoff! It’s outrageous, man, it pulls your smile till it’s all the way back of your head! (HE disappears)
REPORTER (Calling after him): I’m not going to go. I’ll help you load your cast in, but I’m not going to go.
PHOTOGRAPHER (Off): Come on, man!
REPORTER: Okay, but I’m only going to help you with your cast. . . .
The REPORTER follows the PHOTOGRAPHER off. Blackout. Tape: an orientation by the AIR FORCE PILOT, crackling as if over earphones in a helmet.
PILOT: I’m gonna tell you right off I don’t want you here. I don’t know why they let reporters on bomb runs and I’m damned if I’m gonna worry about you. This is a vertical mission. If they hit us while we’re diving, I’ll try to get the plane in a horizontal position, then I’ll jump.
Slide: RUN
PILOT: That means there won’t be any pilot, so you’ll probably want to jump too.
Lights come up on the REPORTER and the PHOTOGRAPHER seated in the plane. THEY are both wearing helmets. As the PILOT continues, the REPORTER tries to locate the devices HE mentions.
There are two handles beside your seat. Move the one on the right first down then up. Your seat will eject you and your chute will open automatically. If the chute doesn’t open you’ve got a spare, pull the cord on the front of your flight jacket. If that chute doesn’t open you can lodge a complaint. Have a good flight and don’t bother me.
The REPORTER and the PHOTOGRAPHER lurch backwards in their seats as the plane takes off.
PHOTOGRAPHER: Okay, man. When the pilot dives, you push a button on the left side of your helmet.
REPORTER: What does that do?
PHOTOGRAPHER: Try it, man. You see the nozzle there? Pure oxygen! (HE takes a hit. The REPORTER follows suit) You dive. The jungle gets closer and closer like it’s flying up to slam you. You can see the tree that’s going to hit you, then the leaves on the tree, then the veins on the leaves—and then the pilot pulls out and he starts to climb. The sky comes crushing down on you, your eyes go black, it’s like you’re being crushed by darkness. Then you level off and everything goes back to normal. Then you dive again. It’s outa sight.
