Purple Daze (6 page)

118 of the injuries were from gun shot wounds.

 

What if Don had gone with his hippy dippy parents?

I can't believe Kramer gave Ziggy
a B-on her essay about the riots. So
I stand up in class to make what I think
is a brilliant point:

 

“It's not kids out there killing, looting,
getting their heads busted open.

 

Hey, man, what's all this crap,

 

THE TROUBLE WITH YOUTH TODAY?”

Dear Cheryl,

 

I got my hair cut again today. Three of my
non-barber buddies gave it to me. WOW!
It looks like SHIT!!!

 

As far as whore houses go, they sure
as hell ain't government sponsored.
There is a whore for every GI here.
I don't know of a VC cooze
that won't go down for a buck.

 

Nancy needn't worry, though,
because they all have gonorrhea
or razor blades up their snatch.
It is the god's truth, too, because
a few guys in our outfit have
scars their moms will never see.

 

Your friend, Phil

 

P.S. Make sure Don gets married (you)
and has kids (yours) before he gets drafted.
I wouldn't wish this crap on my worst enemy.

Sluts wear red and black on Friday.
That's what Ziggy says.

 

I wear it for you-know-who,
though we don't go all the way

 

... yet.

My parents signed us up for
an overnight retreat.
The brochure says we'll be
plunged into an environment
radically different from
our own.

 

It says, “we'll be taught by not knowing,”
whatever that means.

 

“You won't be alone, honey,” Mom says.
“Several girls from your school volunteered.”

 

No problem getting a room
at the Aku-Aku for Mick's
going-away party.
Just wore a tube top.

 

Cheryl and Don are making out
on the bed. I'm in the bathroom,
smoking a joint, thinking,
I could be married to Mickey.

 

Picket fence. Station wagon.
Babies. Babies. Babies.

 

I ruin a tube of slut-red lipstick
writing a poem on the mirror.

 

 

Instead of signing my name, I build
a Kleenex bonfire in the sink and

 

go blurry when white burns black.

His hot breath
in my ear.

 

 

His sweet lips
here, there.

 

 

His whispers
inside and out.

 

 

A DJ on 93/KHJ AM
shouts into the motel room,
“Another hit from The Supremes!”

 

Our chaperones sing,

 

“Stop! In the Name of Love!”

I drizzle syrup into glass pitchers,
fill salt and pepper shakers,
memorize Carl Jung for a test.

 

The psychiatrist smokes a pipe
beside my plate,
Adam and Eve on a Raft
.

 

The boss scrambles from the kitchen.
“Nan, there's been an accident—”

 

I choke on poached eggs on toast,
bump boysenberry syrup. Clots of
neurosis and disharmony
slop across Formica.

 

“Phil?”

 

“Oh, no, it's nothing like that.
It's your aunt.”

 

I mop up the mess, confused.
My parents are only children,
like me.

 

“Your sister says it isn't serious,
but they need you at home.”

 

It's got to be Ziggy hoping I'll go to
Mickey's party. I imagine them making-out
on a motel bed. God, I won't see Phil for
10 or 11 months.

 

By then I'll be in a state of malaise—
severed from all meaning of life.

Hey Angel,

 

It's been 14 days since I heard from Nancy,
so for the last few days I've been saving my
thoughts for you.

 

I'm at an outpost and so is a damn near-dead
Vietnamese farmer. He stepped on a land mine
near his hut. Now his intestines are feeding flies.

 

The choppers that are used for evacuation
are out picking up dead and wounded grunts
from a recon patrol ambushed 2 hours ago.

 

A marine came back with an ear tucked inside
an M&M wrapper, later speared it on the antenna
of his Jeep.

 

Life is cheap here—
right and wrong must
be talking to someone else.

 

I figure I should get a letter from you today.
Hope so.

 

Christ, I'm homesick, Phil

 

P.S. Am off on a nature hike—
all canopy, no light.

You think I'd spend the night at
the L.A. Mission if I'd known
guys are locked in one dorm,
girls in another.

 

Dinner: Greasy beans, macaroni,
stale bread, water.

 

Showers: Line up. Sign out towels.
Strip down. It's delousing night.

 

We're supposed to experience the many
sides of suffering. Dad keeps asking,
“What're
you
doing to relieve the pain?”

 

After stale doughnuts and watery coffee
we walk to Skid Row, twenty square blocks
of garbage, vomit, piss, and shit.

 

Dad takes Mom's hand, side-stepping
bums on the sidewalk. She teaches him
the words to “Gate of Sweet Nectar.”

 

I duck into a diner for a burger, fries,
and chocolate shake. No way it should be
this hard to get laid.

dear cheryl,

 

how'd your ortho appointment go? social studies was a
B -
on the scale
of boring. kramer said we had to write an essay about flag-burning—
and i wasn't really listening cuz it felt like one of my bra straps
broke until he says torching a flag is a type of freedom of expression
protected by the u.s. constitution—and sometimes people have to use
more than their brains to argue for change in government policy—and
it's up to people who know the difference between right and wrong to
fight against authority—and it's sort of interesting so i sit up realizing
my bra is definitely loose and i'm wondering who invented these
boulder-holders—and he says there's no physical damage caused by
burning a flag if you don't count ruining a good piece of cloth—and he's
actually ranting about why tax payers should waste good money to
prosecute pyros—and i'm thinking that bras should be burned too and
how i'm gonna nab an
A
on this essay cuz he's got it all laid out until he
says we have to write it from the opposite viewpoint—and then some
numb nuts blurts out “you mean like burning President Johnson in
effigy is the desperation of a deaf mute who can't find a more intelli-
gent way to express himself?” i'm sunk.

 

love, ziggy

USS
Hermitage LSD-34
Pussy Patrol

 

Don—

 

So, we snuck this dog on board for our
mascot. A scrawny mutt, probably a virgin.
We named him Stud.

 

The signalman flashed every ship
in the area till we found a bitch.

 

Stud got a bath and all gussied up with
aftershave. Everyone crammed in to
catch the action, but that bitch wasn't
interested in our guy.

 

I think she was a Lesbian.

 

“The Mick”

 

P.S. You better write if you want
to hear more of these true-life stories.

I learned to kiss in fourth grade.

 

Bonnie and I shared Harold,
her on one side,
me on the other.
We practiced after school,
like homework.

 

One day, Harold gave me a
Saint Christopher medal
wrapped in tin foil.

 

I still have it.

USS
Hermitage LSD-34
Norfolk, Virginia

 

Dear Cheryl,

 

Guess what I had to do last night?

 

Wash everybody's sailor hat, I swear.
That's 80 hats. Took me 4 ½ hours.
Just because I didn't tell the CC
we were out of soap, no fooling.

 

God, I can't wait to get out of here.

 

Love, Mickey

 

P.S. Ziggy's letters are all the same.
If she doesn't stop asking about
“our future” I'm gonna dump her.

Dad hasn't been baking as many
brownies since the price of a lid
(with seeds and stems)
hit ten bucks.

 

His new high is throwing himself
into L.A.'s low-life scum.

 

Every weekend he and Mom
stick a jug of water in a grocery
bag and grab IDs.

 

No soap.
No toothbrush.
No change of clothes.

 

“We can
tell
you endless stories about
people on the streets,” Mom says.
“The point is, what are
we
doing to help them?”

Hi Doll,

 

Just changed pens. Mine's been
skipping for the last ten letters.
This one's Gunther's.

 

If we didn't have a mascot,
he'd be perfect—a big goofy gorilla
from Missouri who sleeps with his
fiancée's garter belt.

 

On pay day I left money on my bed,
and he put it in my locker.
We never steal from each other—
just from the company next door,
mops and brooms.

 

I'll never take electricity for granted again.
Guess that's true of a lot of things.
I'm so horny I can hardly put my hat on.

 

I have 7,360 hours more to serve till I get leave.

 

Your friend and a bit more—Phil

 

P.S. I'm so bugged about no mail from Nancy
that I halfway wish I'd get shot up bad
enough to get sent home.

USS
Hermitage LSD-34
Miami, Florida

 

Dear Cheryl,

 

We're getting underway for five months.

 

Listen to this:
South America, Panama, Jamaica, Trinidad,
Puerto Rico, Guantanamo Bay.

 

There's more, but I can't remember them.

 

Sorry I messed up on the tape recorder.
Next time I'll use a slower speed so I don't
sound like Alvin and the Chipmunks.

 

Love, Mick

 

P.S. Can you look up Cuba in Kramer's atlas? I'm a little lost.

Don slams the brakes,
too late.

 

We stall
on a ledge, a
steel teeter-totter.

 

Pedal to the metal;
back tires spit dirt.

 

We start walking,
his arm on my shoulder,
street lights winking below.

 

My heart slows, wishing he'd say
he loves me before we find a pay phone
and call a tow truck.

 

I'm dying to say it back.

Dad bursts in with the
Los Angeles Times
.
“What happened to the Rambler!”

 

White walls muddy,
weeds in tail pipe,
broken hood ornament.

 

“Hell, I don't know,” I say,
sinking a carpet putt.
“You must've gotten high
last night, driven off a cliff.”

 

That stops him real quick.

USS
Hermitage LSD-34
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

 

Dear Cheryl,

 

They are definitely working us.

 

Today I lugged 200 lb. barrels of oil
up and down ladders from the bow
to the stern of the ship.

 

The next two weeks we are going out
all day to shoot. I'm kind of worried
cuz the last time we went out to shoot,
I lost part of my hearing, no shit.

 

When I get home I'm going to throw a
3-weeker like you've never seen, I swear.
I have an ID card that says I'm 21. We'll
have a supply of booze that won't quit.

 

Love, Mickey

 

P.S. I'm saving for a Swinger so
I can send you some pics.
Can you send me some?
I miss my peeps.

Hey Cheryl,

 

Let's start out with what I did today: