Artie McKenna woke up fully dressed hugging a near-empty bottle of cheap whiskey. The barking jackhammer in his head came from someone rhythmically rapping at his front door. “What the fuck,” he said as he finally reached it. Standing in front of him was an attractive, if stern looking woman, in her early 50s. “You from the VA?” It couldn’t possibly be anyone else.
“Police.” She flashed her ID: Detective Carla Dickerson. Homicide Squad.
“No kidding? You don’t look like one. A cop I mean.”
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“What about? I’ve been unconscious for the past 12 hours.”
“It’s about your neighbor.” Dickerson pointed at the door directly across the hall from Artie’s. It was Apartment D, on the second floor of the dilapidated three-story walkup— housing six apartments in all. The ancient rent-controlled building was built in 1910 in what now was a decaying part of the city.
“Cal? What’s wrong?” Artie asked with sudden urgency.
The detective reviewed her notebook. “You are…Mr. Arthur McKenna, right?”
Artie nodded.
“Mind if I come in…It’ll be easier that way.”
Artie mumbled something about the place being a mess but waved her inside anyway.
The airless three room apartment smelled of stale beer and dirty socks. He straightened up quickly stammering an apology. The place was a jumble of old, decaying furniture. A few hardcore girlie magazines were noticeably strewn about—one blatantly opened to a particularly risque picture near the detective’s feet. Artie closed and tossed it into a heap in a corner.
There were a surprising number of bookshelves scattered haphazardly about filled with dusty volumes. The titles were a mishmash of reading material: The Collected Poems of E.E. Cummings, The Autobiography of Malcolm X; A Vietnam War Reader: American and Vietnamese Perspectives. If you had to construct a profile based on reading material, there is no way you would come up with a picture of Artie McKenna.
There were a few grease smeared wall hangings. One in particular was a framed yellowed-photograph of a platoon of young soldiers beneath an umbrella of Vietnamese jungle.
“Are you a longtime resident, Mr. McKenna?”
“Lived here for seven going on eight years. Beats being homeless. Know everybody in the building except for that new kid in 3E. He moved in about two months ago. Is Cal alright?”
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. Brothers is dead.”
Artie wobbled and collapsed into a tattered chair. “He finally did it, huh?”
“Finally did what?”
“Off-ed himself.” He explained that he would talk to Cal all the time about their war experiences. Calvin Brothers had served multiple tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan having been awarded citations for bravery. “We got pretty close since he moved in about three years ago. Got him to join my support group. We meet twice a week. A great bunch of vets. Cal was married, had problems at home, even has a kid somewhere back in Oakland. Must be close to 20 by now. They haven’t had any contact for years. Lost his union welding job because of drugs and alcohol. Ran out on his family. Had no choice. It was that or blow his brains out in front of them.” Artie took a deep breath before asking, “How’d he do it?”
Detective Dickerson described the circumstances. It was the new resident; his name was Perry DiNova, who found the body. On his way to work, he noticed Calvin’s door was ajar. “He said he had some kind of eerie feeling.” He looked inside and saw the body. Calvin might have been trying to get out of the apartment when he died. “Looks like a probable OD. Heroin.”
Artie shook his head. “Had a problem with prescription drugs. But he beat it. Don’t make any sense.”
“What do you know about your neighbors?”
“Most of us are bottom feeders, people who haven’t been able to lift our heads too high while spinning on the merry-go-round of life.”
“That’s a very poetic description, Mr. McKenna. What can you tell me about the poker game Mr. Brothers ran?”
Artie explained the poker was a regular thing: every other Tuesday. All the players lived in the building. They were Manny Robles and his wife Sheila Phan Robles. She was in her early 20’s and Manny about 10 years older. They had lived in the building for around five years. Another card player was Michigan Bob Krumblesh on the third floor, a long-haul trucker in his 50’s who’d been there since his wife walked out on him about 9 years ago. Another regular was Molly Brennan on the first floor. She was a waitress around 40 although trying to look 25—and doing a pretty good job of it. She loved playing cards on her only night off. Usually her boyfriend, Pete Langley, would also play. He was a longshoreman with a temper. A few months back Pete got jealous when Artie joked with Molly a little too much during a game. Molly flirted back suggesting they play strip poker instead of the normal five card stud with a ten dollar maximum bet. A few angry words were exchanged but nothing else. The next time Artie saw Molly she had a black eye covered with makeup.
“You’re a very observant, Mr. McKenna.” She made notes.
“I take notice of what goes on around me. You said it was a heroin overdose? Was there a needle?”
“I can’t go into any details right now. Why weren’t you at the game last night?”
“I begged off.” He gestured toward his near-empty whiskey bottle, “Needed to spend some time with my girlfriend and didn’t want to be a bad influence on Cal. I can handle the hooch without sliding down too far. Cal had a problem with OxyContin, Percocet. That kind of crap. But the VA stopped giving him those meds. He’s been straight for at least a year. Something must’ve happened.”
“It’s logical he would turn to heroin without his pills. There’s an epidemic going on.” She gave him her card, “We’ll talk again Mr. McKenna.”
“You brought me some pretty hard news this morning.”Artie made no attempt to hide his sadness. As soon as she left, he retired from the world by diving into a fresh cloud of whiskey.
***
A week went by. By then, Artie had talked to the regular poker players except Molly Brenan and her charmless boyfriend. No one remembered anything unusual except when the game ended around 1 A.M., Calvin had won at least 600 bucks. Calvin never won. He had been both lucky and unlucky on the same night.
Artie called Dickerson. When he finally got hold of her, she told him the autopsy results would take another week. She expected the analysis would show the heroin was cut with something like the lethal synthetic opiod Carfentanil. According to the detective, there had been a number of overdose deaths recently from the deadly combination. The stuff was coming in through Mexico probably manufactured in China or in makeshift labs in the Homeland.
He knew something about heroin having studied its history. Many of his band of brothers had fallen prey to it over the years. It started with opium in the 1850s, then, on to morphine—which some chemical genius thought was less addictive. Morphine developed into heroin in 1898 as a treatment for tuberculosis—as well as a remedy for morphine addiction. Anything to make a buck.
The ironic thing was the drug’s name. It came from the German heroisch—meaning “heroic” or “strong.” Most of the guys who saw combat were true heroes but many couldn’t face the world again at home. They turned to the big H.
Artie had his demons too. They were just more easily tamed by booze and weed. He had become a master at regulating his darker impulses.
Dickerson opened up: “I’ll confide in you Mr. McKenna, there’s something that bothers me.”
“You too?”
The detective paused a moment and then said, “We couldn’t find the poker money. Maybe he used it to buy the crap and was robbed by some junkie companion. It bothers me.”
“And what bothers me is that he hated needles. He told me nightmares about his mother. Cal hated needles. Would pass out when he got a flu shot.”
“We didn’t find any paraphernalia,” Dickerson said. “No syringe, nothing except an empty bag with residue that appeared to be Mexican Black Tar. There was only one needle mark found—on the inside of his elbow. Otherwise no signs of foul play. The coroner is only willing to classify Calvin’s death as either ‘probable suicide’ or an ‘accidental overdose’.” She wasn’t happy about any of it. “Barring additional information, I won’t have the time or resources to pursue further investigation.”
“I can’t see this has anything to do with Cal’s death but it might: He had just received notice from the Marine Corps that his citations for bravery were being reevaluated for a possible upgrade to a Silver Star. Now that’s a big deal for anyone who served and ain’t a reason to kill yourself.”
Dickerson told him that while searching Calvin’s apartment she had come across the official notification letter from the Marines. “Found out something about you too, Mr. McKenna.”
“Me?” Artie was a little nervous hearing that.
“You’re a book writer,” the detective said with a hint of admiration. “Very impressive.”
“Yeah, it was a while ago. It’s out of print. Like me,” he joked.
“No it isn’t and you know it. Children of Madness is still published in paperback. I’m going to read it.” The way she said it was almost a tease.
“It’s an old story nobody wants to hear anymore.” Artie had an idea. “Listen, detective, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll ask around and see if I can make better sense of Cal’s death. Couldn’t hurt. Right?”
Dickerson was hesitant but agreed. As long as he told her everything every step of the way. “In the long run, it probably won’t matter. One more drug overdose doesn’t bother anybody in the world we live in.”
“I’d like to try before we bury a good soldier. I owe him that much—and to a lotta other guys too.”
***
The next morning Artie stood in front of apartment 3E. He knocked harder than intended. His follow-up knocks were consciously softer. Finally, the door opened revealing a towel-clad young man wearing a T-shirt. His hair was wet having obviously just come from the shower. Artie gave him the once over thinking he looked soft and hairless—especially his face.
“Can I help you,” the boy said.
“I’m your neighbor downstairs in 2C. Name’s Arthur McKenna. How ya doing? Your name’s Perry, right?”
The young man seemed taken aback—literally, withdrawing a few steps inside. He mumbled something under his breath before saying: “Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. McKenna.”
“Call me Artie. I hear you were at Calvin’s card game. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“You found him in the morning?”
“Well, I called the police. Once I saw him lying in the doorway. I didn’t play and left the gathering early.”
He spoke with an awkward formality. Maybe it had something to do with being half-dressed.
“Would you like to come in while I dress?”
Artie stepped inside and noticed that the apartment was exactly the same layout as his. Except for three wooden chairs and a small matching dining table, there was nothing. The kitchenette area was bare except for a couple of dishes, a coffee mug and one clean glass. Through an open doorway, he could see a mattress lying on the floor. That was it. “Why did you leave so early?”
“It was nice of Mr. Brothers to invite me. It was unexpected. I told him I didn’t play. I met him a few days earlier at the Laundromat down the street. He knew I had recently moved into the building and introduced himself.”
“That’s how Cal was. Always reaching out to people even when people never returned the favor.
What can you tell me about that night?”
“I told Detective Dickerson everything.”
“Still, I might connect some dots cause I know everybody who was there—except for you. Figured you would have a different point of view. Being the outsider.”
“Outsider?” Perry was mildly offended by the word.
Artie picked up on it. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just that you were the new guy. Objective, ya know. Was there a lot of drinking?”
“I think there were a sixpack and some tequila.”
“Was Cal drunk?”
“Not while I was there. No one was.”
“Was he in a good mood as far as you could tell?”
Perry thought for a moment before answering, “He seemed fine.”
“Who was winning when you left?”
“Calvin and Sheila’s boyfriend were pretty equal.”
“Sheila’s ‘boyfriend’ is Manny Robles. They’re married by the way.” Artie studied the kid’s face wondering what it would show. It shifted just enough to see something was a fraction off. “So you noticed Sheila but didn’t remember her boyfriend’s name?” Artie smiled and winked.
“I guess.”
“Who were the big losers?”
“The one guy they called Mish. Even though he seemed to be having a good time. There was this uptight, older dude who was losing pretty heavily. He was with the other woman. I think her name was Molly.”
“Yeah, Molly is with that jerk Pete. A regular douche bag. Was he acting like one?”
Perry suddenly was embarrassed. “I’ve got to put on some pants. Be right back. Sit down if you like.” He disappeared into the room with the floored-mattress, pulling the door into a tighter sliver of light.
Artie could hear muffled rummaging for clothes. He decided not to sit.
After a couple of minutes, Perry reemerged dressed in fairly typical young-hipster attire of skinny jeans and a colorful, patterned shirt. “I’m kind of late for work,” he said with a hint of tension.
“Oh yeah, sure. What you do for a living if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Actually, I’m still attending school working towards a Masters in Theater Arts. And I work part-time tutoring. I teach kids to play the piano and give voice lessons.” Perry was clearly proud.
“You’re a very interesting guy. If anything comes to mind about that night give me a heads up will you.” Artie shakes Perry’s hand. It was soft but still strong.
“Are you a journalist? You ask questions like a journalist—not like a cop, I mean.”
“It’s the half-ass writer in me. Most people find it annoying.” Artie smiled and went to talk to Michigan Bob on the third floor.
***
The greasy spoon where Molly worked was two blocks away. It was close to 5 PM when she’d be starting her shift. There would be an hour before the place got busy. Artie sat in a faux leather booth with a window facing the street. He caught Molly’s eye when she came out of the back room. She waved back and reached for a menu. No doubt about it, he got butterflies when he looked at her.
“How you doing kid?”
“Same shit, different pile.” Molly laughed and sat down across from him. She was somber for a few moments before saying, “I haven’t been able to sleep since…I don’t understand? Why…? I need a cigarette but they won’t let you smoke in this place. Even in the back.” She stared out at the street as if searching for an answer. When she couldn’t find one she said, “He was a sweet man.”
“He was. What do you think happened, Molly?”
She fidgeted. “Jees, I must know three or four people I grew up with who ended the same way. Because of bad drugs.”
Artie fixed her with his iron stare. The one he developed all those years ago in the jungles of Vietnam.
She sighed. “It only takes one time to slip into that hole and never climb out again.”
“Suppose you’re right, Mol. You didn’t notice anything wrong with Cal at the game?”
Molly shook her head no.
“Did Pete lose a lot of money? He can be a sore loser.”
“Pete?” Her head dropped staring blankly at the menu before she pushed it toward Artie. “He didn’t lose much. Really. Are you hungry?
“I just spoke to Michigan Bob, that’s not what he said. I had to pull it out of him, just so you know.” Artie leaned forward. “He said Pete was drunk on tequila when the game broke up. And was in a piss-poor mood.”
Molly tried smiling. “Well…not really.”
“Mish ain’t the type to make shit up.”
Molly pulled herself upright. “Yeah, Pete acted like an asshole. But it had nothing to do with Cal. He was mad at me. Believe me Artie, he’s getting better, he’s not as bad as he used to be.” She tried staring out at the street. It didn’t help. “He thinks I don’t love him…maybe I don’t anymore.”
Artie had been carrying a half-lit torch for her from the first time they spoke. It didn’t matter that she was way younger. That was a couple of months after she moved into the building. He kept it hidden as best he could. There was something elemental that radiated from her, a familiar music he’d never heard before. “I don’t want to cause problems, Mol.” He reached over touching her hand gently as if it were a separate living thing. “Pete is not one for hard drugs, right? Like heroin?”
“Not as long as I’ve known him.” She stood up to indicate she had to get back to work. “You want something to eat Artie? The meatloaf is good.”
“Nah, better hit the road. I gotta make arrangements for Cal. He’s got family in California. That’s where he should be buried. I’ll work it through the VA. They provide about two grand death benefits.”
“And you’ll take care of the rest, knowing you. You’re a good man.” She bent over, kissed his forehead and went back to work.
Artie hadn’t seen Pete Langley lurking behind a parked car. Molly’s boyfriend had been watching them framed in the diner’s window the whole time. Langley didn’t like picture he was getting.
***
Inside the old building’s vestibule, Artie stopped to pick up his mail. It had been a while. Looking through a stack of circulars and assorted junk, the door from the street opened behind him. Before he could turn his head, he felt a sharp crack in his lower back. Artie cried out while sinking to his knees: “What the hell!”
Before getting all the way down, he was yanked back up like a yo-yo.
Pete Langley pulled the string, his breath raging with cheap tequila. “What did you say to her, you sonofabitch!”
Artie locked onto Pete’s wrists but was no match for the longshoreman’s strength. He struggled to remain erect. “You’re a regular he-man, takin’ on a 70-year-old vet with shrapnel in both legs!”
Pete tightened his grip on the old soldier’s neck yanking him up and shaking him violently. “Why did you make Molly cry?! Answer me or I’ll break your face!” He meant it.
Just at that intense moment, Perry DiNova appeared from inside the building.
“I think you should take your hands off of him,” Perry said as politely as a choirboy. “He’s old enough to be your father.”
Pete used one hand to push Perry away while still maintaining his grip on Artie. “Mind your own business faggot!”
Perry repeated, this time more forcefully: “I said take your hands off of him. Now!”
“I can handle this Perry. Just go on about your business!” Artie pleaded: “Get out of here, kid!”
Langley smashed a fist into Artie’s gut.
Artie groaned and fell to his knees.
Suddenly, Perry launched an odd little thrust into Pete’s throat. It wasn’t really a fist. In the karate lexicon it was known as a Leopard Punch utilizing four finger-knuckles formed into a kind of wedge. It was one of the hundreds of blows and strikes taught in an Okinawan form of martial arts.
Pete gasped for air like a skin diver whose tank had been shut off.
Perry recoiled into a fighting pose known as the Cat Stance.
Color slowly returned to Pete’s face as he considered what to do next. His next move was another mistake—lunging forward swinging a haymaker. Before his fist could reach its intended target, Perry snapped out a front kick to the knee sending the longshoreman down into a heap alongside Artie.
Both men on the floor shared the same shock and confusion as they looked up at Perry. Who the hell was this kid and what was this Juju shit he was working?
“I’ll kill you, bitch!” Pete screamed—unable to move.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” Perry said. He was authentically apologetic. Then, he helped Artie to his feet.
Once erect Artie said: “You are way out of line here, Pete.” He reached out a hand. “Let me help ya.”
“Go to hell,” Pete said in pain. “It’s no secret you hate my guts, Artie, but it hurts my feelings that you think I could do anything to harm Cal.”
Pete limped out to the street cursing under his breath…
***
Perry sat at the scratched and scuffed wooden table where Artie took his meals. He studied his surroundings before saying, “You have a lot of books.”
“I used to want to be a writer so I did a lot of reading. War novels, Mailer, detective stories, Chandler, Parker, the Beats—Ginsburg, Kerouac. Phillip Roth. Too much Bukowski. Lots of shit from the last century.”
“It’s a passion. I totally get it,” Perry said. “I’m most interested in musical theater. I go to see everything. Including old movie musicals. Whatever. To learn from the great stars. The icons. They inspire me. Like those authors you read. What about you? Did you ever write anything?”
Artie changed the subject rummaging through a kitchen cabinet. “You want a beer or something, kid?” He extracted a fresh bottle of Rebel Yell Bourbon from an overhead cabinet and waved the bottle at Perry. “Or maybe you’d like something harder?”
“Just water is fine.”
Artie brought Perry’s water, then, poured four inches of bourbon into a dirty glass. He sat across from his young friend studying his face. “What was that some kind of jujitsu or something you used on Pete?”
“It’s called Goju-Ryu, I started going to a dojo when I was eight years old. I hold a 3rd degree black belt. I’ve had to use it only a few times outside of dojo training.” He took a sip of water under Artie’s iron stare. “Hope I didn’t hurt him.”
Artie laughed. “Best thing for a bully is getting his tail whipped. I appreciate you coming to my rescue, kid, but I didn’t need it. I can handle myself. I don’t want this thing to cause you any more trouble. Pete got a little hot because I’ve been trying to find out about Cal’s death. He ain’t such a bad guy.” He filled Perry in on everything he knew about what happened since he had spoken to Detective Dickerson.
Perry hesitated before saying, “Maybe I can help. I think Sheila might know more than she’s told.”
“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?”
“We went to high school together. Actually, we were really close once. She doesn’t recognize me now. I know her well. And she’s holding something back.”
Artie squinted and tried to visualize what Perry must’ve looked like 6 or 7 years earlier. “You changed that much since high school?”
“It’ll be easier if I just show you.” Perry looked inside his wallet and produced a picture of a pretty teenage girl. He handed it to Artie. “That’s me. I’m transgender. I’ve been male for almost 4 years now. You knew I was… different, didn’t you?”
“I figured you were just…you know.” Artie becomes self-conscious not wanting to say the word gay. Instead he poured another glass of bourbon.
***
Sheila Phan’s parents had come to America after the fall of Saigon as young teenagers. They were crammed together into the secret compartment of a fishing boat, strangers from different villages. Along with many other boat people, they ended up in an Indonesian refugee camp as a first stop on their way to San Francisco. They had been inseparable ever since. Both had been sponsored by the Hilltop Lutheran Church near Sausalito and it was during that first year in the States that they had fallen in love. Eventually, they married, had children and built their dream business: Phan’s Pharmacy. Sheila was the youngest of six; all of whom at one time or another worked in the family business. All had graduated college—except for Sheila. Now she was married to Manny Robles (a onetime gang banger) and had cut back on her pharmacy work hours. Her parents weren’t happy about that—or their daughter’s marriage.
Sheila was behind the cosmetics counter and was surprised to see Artie and Perry coming toward her.
“We need to talk. Is there someplace private,” Artie asked trying not to alarm her.
“Talk to me?” Sheila had that deer-in-the-headlights glaze in her eyes. “Why?”
Artie whispered, “We think you can tell us more about the night Cal died.”
Sheila panicked for an instant, then, called out something in Vietnamese. After hearing the reply from an older woman, who must have been her mother, they went outside.
Sheila was shivering even though it was a mild day.
“You know Perry here, don’t you?” Artie asked.
She nodded. “You were at the poker game. I need a cigarette.”
Artie frowned. “Gave them up. The weed too. Well, okay, not the weed but I don’t have any with me.”
Sheila shivered even more. “I told the cops everything.”
“I don’t think you did, Lah,” Perry said.
“‘Lah’? Nobody’s called me that in years. Did we know each other in high school?” Sheila scoured Perry’s face looking for the answer.
Perry sang the opening lyrics from the full-cast number: “We go together, like Rama-lama-lam-ka-ding-itty-ding de-dong, Remember forever… ” He had a beautiful voice. “You played Rizzo.”
“Holy shit you were in Grease.” Her face showed it was a good memory. “Who did you play?”
Perry smiled and said, “I was Sandy.”
Artie watched confusion paralyze Sheila’s face.
“Sandy? But…but my friend Priscilla…played—”
“It’s me Lah. Priscilla Marshak. Well, that used to be me. You called me Cilla and I called you Lah. The Cilla & Lah Show! Remember?”
“Cilla? Oh my God,” Sheila recognized her high school BFF’s inner-face. “Holy crap! And I just thought you moved away to New York to become a star. I had no idea…”
“But you knew I was sad most of the time. We both were. Both outsiders.” Perry looked at Artie for a moment and, then, hugged Sheila tightly.
She began crying. “I used to look for your name when I’d read about Broadway shows. Then I thought you must’ve changed your name anyway to something more glamorous. But, wow! Why didn’t you go to New York?”
Perry struggled with the answer. “I still want that…”
Artie backed away. “You two need to talk.”
“No, Artie. You should hear what I have to say about that night. About Cal. The thing is Manny doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything and I’m afraid what will happen when he finds out.”
Her crying became frightened and she admitted to having an affair with Cal. It had only been going on for a couple of months. She was conflicted. She still loved Manny but felt a deep connection to Cal who was so wounded and broken. The morning before they played poker, Cal called his son back in Oakland. He was excited about the possibility of being awarded a Silver Star and thought maybe that would make everything right again. The call didn’t go well. Davon Brothers didn’t want anything to do with his father. It had been too many years and now that he was almost 20, he saw no reason to have a father back in his life. He hung up. Cal fell off a cliff into depression. He begged her to get him some Oxycontin or Percocet—or something to help. She had given up drugs years before but knew people and she tried to get something that would make him feel better.
The only thing she could get was the heroin.
After the poker game had ended that night and Manny had fallen asleep, Sheila went back to Cal’s apartment with the dope and the necessary paraphernalia. She cooked it and because Cal couldn’t do it himself, she injected him. Instantaneously, he fell into a deep trance, his breathing slowed beyond perception. She panicked and ran taking everything with her except the empty dime bag which Cal had slumped onto.
Terrified, she climbed back into bed alongside Manny and prayed. When she found out what happened, she cried for hours. Manny noticed but said nothing.
“Did you take the money? The 600 dollars?” Artie asked.
“Yes. Cal gave it to me before the heroin. He wanted me to make out a money order and send it to his son. I did that and put it in a letter to Davon telling him what happened and how much his father loved him. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
She cried uncontrollably until Perry comforted her. He looked to Artie. “What happens now?”
Artie felt worse than when he got punched in the gut. If he tells Dickerson, it will destroy Sheila and Manny. A crazy thought popped into his head: if it hadn’t been for War, Cal’s War, Artie’s War, and all the stupid wars with their returning, broken soldiers, how different might things have been. For Sheila too…
***
Back at his apartment Artie broke out the Rebel Yell.
This time Perry joined him.
Artie called Dickerson. “I just wanted you to know detective, I couldn’t find out anything. I think we should leave well enough alone.”
Dickerson agreed. “Enough damage has been done. Maybe one of these days you and I can have a drink and talk about your book? I read it.”
“You read my book? I’m embarrassed. Yeah sure, I’d love that. I’ll give you a call.” Artie hung up. He never wanted to talk about his book. Never talk about his War…
Perry smiled. “You did the right thing.” He took a long drink of bourbon.. “This stuff tastes like battery acid! I know because one of my suicide attempts was with battery acid. Luckily, I passed out just smelling the stuff.”
“How many attempts were there?”
“Three, not counting the battery acid. You’re the first stranger I’m telling this to. Which is very weird.”
Artie stared down at his glass. “Guess I’m honored. Do I look like your granddaddy or something?”
“Not even a little bit. I just know you accept me,” he said and swallowed more bourbon.
He was right.
They talked for hours. Perry told him his life story—all about the torment of coming out, his family’s complete rejection, the contempt streaming from friends’ eyes. There was the excruciating pain of the multiple operations. Pain on top of pain. But it was worth it. He had become who he always needed to be.
By the end of the story, Artie felt he knew Perry better than anyone he’d known since the friendships he formed in Vietnam. In a crazy way this kid had experienced the same torment and fear that he and his Nam brothers had. They all carried private wars within.
Perry walked over to a bookshelf and pulled out a hardcover book. He read the title out loud: “Children of Madness, The Making and Breaking of Men in the Jungles of Vietnam. You wrote this. I looked you up too.”
“Christmas 1968 I got drafted off of my Brooklyn stoop. Like most of my friends. Three months later I’m in Nam, part of the 187th infantry. May 11th of 69 I turned 19. On the same day we get thrown into the A Shau Valley. We were given orders to take a position. Hill 937. We called it Hamburger Hill because in the end it was a human meat grinder. We took that position fighting like it was God’s Green Acre. It was one of the few unqualified victories we had over the NVA. Seventy-two young men died on our side with close to 400 wounded. A lot of those guys came back broken and defeated. We were told it would stop the flow of supplies from the north. It didn’t.”
Artie walked over to a dresser and pulled out a small ivory colored box hidden at the back of the drawer. He handed it to Perry. “It’s yours. You deserve it more than me.”
Perry opened the box to see a Silver Star.
Bio: Frank Megna is a New York trained actor, writer and director. He studied at the renowned HB Studios under the tutelage of Uta Hagen, Bill Hickey and Herbert Berghof among others. His first play, Leather Heart was produced off-Broadway which led to writing for such TV shows as Crime Story, Wiseguy and Veronica Claire. In both New York and Los Angeles, he has worked on numerous theater productions in various capacities He is currently developing a number of new projects aimed at cultural and educational institutions. Ghost in the House, about the life and times of Jack Johnson the first African-American Heavyweight Champion, is among them. Frank is also Founder and Artistic Director of the Working Stage Theater which originated in New York and is until recently was located in West Hollywood.
