The World Played Chess (27)

The guys who’ve been here awhile called out to those of us who haven’t as we dragged our tired asses back in—I hadn’t slept a wink. I’m not sure anyone had, other than Kenny.

“You got that cherry popped now?” Bean sat on sandbags, smoking a cigarette. He had his shirt off, dog tags dangling between his pudgy breasts. I don’t know Bean’s real name. Everyone just calls him Jelly Bean or Bean. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Yeah. You know I’m talking to you, Shutter.” He nodded to the camera in my hand. “A lot more real now, ain’t it? Yes, sir. A lot different than looking through that camera lens, when it’s up close and personal, ain’t it?” I wondered how he knows. Experience, I guess. “You’re a veteran now. A veteran of the Nam. No more FNG.”

I raised the camera, focused the lens, and snapped several pictures of Bean. He stared, like he was looking past me. The million-mile stare they call it. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He had no expression. He just existed.

I lowered the camera and Bean spoke: You give boys guns and vests,

throw them into general chaos and hope for the best.

Vietnam is Lord of the Flies, a brutal Neverland that doesn’t lie.

Outside both time and space;

a place where marines die without grace.

Real or unreal? I can’t tell.

So hot you think, this must be hell.

You don’t have time to grow up here.

You just grow old from all the fear.

Bean blew out cigarette smoke. I could see his poetry in his lifeless eyes. And I understood.





Chapter 7


June 6, 1979

Mike had call-back interviews with an insurance company, and a job in that industry seemed imminent. When Mike wasn’t on the remodel, I was number three in the crew. William called me down from my work on the second level and told me the building inspector had signed off on the foundations and Todd had scheduled a concrete pour that afternoon. He said we would have a long day and asked if I could work late; Todd couldn’t pay overtime but William said he’d appreciate the help. I thought it was a trick question. I figured more hours meant more money, regardless of if I got paid overtime, and I got the impression they would both appreciate my willingness to do what needed to be done to finish the job, so I said, “Yes.”

“You ever pour concrete?” William asked.

“No. Not really. Not ever actually.”

William told me my job would be to keep a path clear for the long pump hose that would extend from the cement truck in the street to the foundation at the back of the house, to make sure the hose didn’t pinch. To save on money, I suppose, we’d do the pour ourselves. Todd would handle the nozzle. William and I would hold the hose farther up the line and manipulate it as Todd instructed with hand signals. My job was to pass those signals to the pump-truck operator. An open hand meant let it pour. A closed fist or slash sign across the throat meant stop.

“Miss a signal and we step on a land mine,” William said.

I underestimated how much a hose filled with wet concrete weighed. The minute the truck started pumping the cement, holding on to the hose was like trying to hold the neck of a dragon that didn’t want to be held, but we soon fell into a good rhythm. As we poured, two young women drove slowly past the jobsite in a red 1965 Mustang, the windows down and Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff” blasting from the speakers. The dark-haired passenger lowered her sunglasses to the tip of her nose and checked me out, then broke into laughter. Feeling cocky, I returned the smile and checked her out, figuring I’d never see her again. What did I care? I was surprised and a little nervous when the driver turned into the driveway two houses down on the same side of the street as the remodel.

“Vincent,” William yelled with urgency. He had his fist closed.

“Shit.” I turned to the cement-truck operator and closed my fist, yelling, “Cut. Cut.”

I was late, but we hadn’t stepped on a land mine.

I had literally perspired through my shirt, but I didn’t have time to rest. As Todd and William worked hand trowels over the concrete, my job was to clean off cement overspray, particularly in the street. At the end of the day, Todd took off to bid a small tile job, leaving William and me to finish cleaning up the site, the trowels, and other tools. When we were done, William handed me a beer and I collapsed on my bucket. We BS’d again. I purposefully avoided Vietnam, but eventually the conversation got back around to his photography, so I assumed it was safe to ask a question.

“Why are you working construction with Todd? Why aren’t you working as a reporter or a photographer at a newspaper?”

William sucked on his cigarette. Smoke escaped his nose and mouth. Something about the blank expression on William’s face, the way he looked at me but also looked past me, made me uneasy.

William dropped his cigarette butt into his beer can. I thought he was going to get up and leave. Part of me wished he would. Instead, he said, “Because dreams are hard to catch.”

Uncertain what to say and not wanting to direct the conversation to Vietnam, I remained silent. William went there anyway.

“My platoon had been pulled back from our firebase to defend a city called Dak To during another offensive by the North Vietnamese. We were fighting street to street and door to door. In the middle of all this chaos, a Jeep comes whipping down the road and slams on the brakes. The driver talks to some marines, and I see them point to where I’m standing. The Jeep jerks forward and barrels toward me. The driver again slams on the brakes. He’s young, clean shaven. Clean uniform. He looks terrified.