‘Been awhile, hasn’t it?’ Dieffenbaker asked.
‘Two years, give or take.’
‘You want to know the scary thing? How fast you get back into practice.’
‘I told you about the old lady, huh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘When?’
‘I think it was the last reunion you came to . . . the one on the Jersey shore, the one when Durgin ripped that waitress’s top off. That was an ugly scene, man.’
‘Was it? I don’t remember.’
‘You were shitfaced by then.’
Of course he had been, that part was always the same. Come to think of it, all parts of the reunions were always the same. There was a dj who usually left early because someone wanted to beat him up for playing the wrong records. Until that happened the speakers blasted out stuff like ‘Bad Moon Rising’ and ‘Light My Fire’ and ‘Gimme Some Lovin” and
‘My Girl,’ songs from the soundtracks of all those Vietnam movies that were made in the Philippines. The truth about the music was that most of the grunts Sully remembered used to get choked up over The Carpenters or ‘Angel of the Morning.’ That stuff was the real bush soundtrack, always playing as the men passed around fatties and pictures of their girlfriends, getting stoned and all weepy-goopy over ‘One Tin Soldier,’ popularly known in the green as
‘The Theme from Fuckin Billy Jack.’ Sully couldn’t remember hearing The Doors once in Vietnam; it was always The Strawberry Alarm Clock singing ‘Incense and Peppermints.’ On some level he had known the war was lost the first time he heard that fucking piece of shit on the commissary jukebox.
The reunions started with music and the smell of barbecues (a smell that always vaguely reminded Sully of burning helicopter fuel) and with cans of beer in pails of chipped ice and that part was all right, that part was actually pretty nice, but then all at once it was the next morning and the light burned your eyes and your head felt like a tumor and your stomach was full of poison. On one of those mornings-after Sully had had a vague sick memory of making the dj play ‘Oh! Carol’ by Neil Sedaka over and over again, threatening to kill him if he stopped. On another Sully awoke next to Frank Peasley’s ex-wife. She was snoring because her nose was broken. Her pillow was covered with blood, her cheeks covered with blood too, and Sully couldn’t remember if he had broken her nose or if fuckin Peasley had done it. Sully wanted it to be Peasley but knew it could have been him; sometimes, especially in those days BV (Before Viagra) when he failed at sex almost as often as he succeeded, he got mad.
Fortunately, when the lady awoke, she couldn’t remember, either. She remembered what he’d looked like with his underwear off, though. ‘How come you only have one?’ she’d asked him.
‘I’m lucky to have that,’ Sully had replied. His headache had been bigger than the world.
‘What’d I say .about the old lady?’ he asked Dieffenbaker as they sat smoking in the alley
beside the chapel.
Dieffenbaker shrugged. ‘Just that you used to see her. You said sometimes she put on different clothes but it was always her, the old mamasan Malenfant wasted. I had to shush you up.’
‘Fuck,’ Sully said, and put the hand not holding the cigarette in his hair.
‘You also said it was better once you got back to the East Coast,’ Dieffenbaker said. ‘And look, what’s so bad about seeing an old lady once in awhile? Some people see flying saucers.’
‘Not people who owe two banks almost a million dollars,’ Sully said. ‘If they knew . . . ‘
‘If they knew, what? I’ll tell you what. Nothing. As long as you keep making the payments, Sully-John, keep bringing them that fabled monthly cashew, no one cares what you see when you turn out the light . . . or what you see when you leave it on, for that matter. They don’t care if you dress in ladies’ underwear or if you beat your wife and hump the Labrador.
Besides, don’t you think there are guys in those banks who spent time in the green?’