Farewell Uncle Ho 58
This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.
Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.
Farewell, Uncle Ho
by Dennis Milholland
questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu
Chapter 58 (Wed., Mar. 22)
Snow flurries and gusts of wind accompanied us all the way into the City. Our mood, in general, was subdued, as Gordon dropped us off at First Avenue and 49th Street, just one block to the west and one to the south of Beekman Place, where Auntie Mame had supposedly lived.
The German Consulate General was on that part of First Avenue, now known as United Nations Plaza, facing the East River. Above the entrance was a yellow oval plaque with the eagle of the Federal Republic and to the right of the entrance was the black, red and gold flag, one of which I remember seeing on the German side of the French border.
The oak door to the passport section was massive and labeled in German and English. Inside, the people were efficiently busy but not stressed. The atmosphere was pleasant. But of course, I knew that there was going to be a hitch, when I saw two officials shaking their heads.
The one woman, maybe only a couple of years older than us, was in deep discussion with my Gerry. And naturally, the problem was going to be related to the US Army. That much was clear, since the German words for Army and Military and Fort Dix were understandable to me. Gerry came over and sat down on the next chair with a troubled look.
"What's wrong, mein, um, Buddy." I was just able to keep my mouth from saying 'mein Schatz', which would have been dangerous here, since everyone would have understood it, although I still didn't know exactly what it meant.
"The pictures they sent from Fort Dix can't be used for my passport." He hung his head. "She said that it has to be in half profile with my left ear showing and not frontal like the ones for our IDs."
Of a sudden, she appeared in front of us, smiled at me, and obviously asked Gerry to follow her. Less than five minutes later, they reappeared looking very pleased. She held a strip of four passport pictures and went back behind the counter, blowing on them to dry.
It struck me funny how some prejudices about a people are positive rather than pejorative. In less time than it took for Gerry to sit down again, the woman was waving his green passport. He paid, was given a receipt. Everyone waved cheerfully and said: "Auf Wiedersehen". Now, I knew how to say good-bye in German.
Once again, we were out on First Avenue. He handed me his passport to put with mine in the plastic bag in my field-jacket's left breast pocket. Before I put it away, I opened the hard-bound, green booklet. The first thing that I noticed was his picture, riveted onto the upper center of page three. He was giving the camera his bad-boy look. Even though it was a picture from a photo booth, it was him, the man I loved. The capital letters spelling out his name and place of birth on page two, were made up of small dots. Also on page two was his nationality: DEUTSCH, although everything else was in German, English and French.
As I carefully put it into the plastic bag along with mine, I noticed that it was exactly the same size as my French passport. A rush of comfort ran through me, knowing that our two countries could, at least, agree on passport sizes. The future of the Common Market looked good.
And now, we were off to the Consulat Général de France à New York on Fifth Avenue to get a passport renewal for another three years. It was becoming our morning of bureaucracy. But it wasn't as urgent for me as it had been for Gerry. We got on the subway at 51st and Lexington and got off at 77th and walked.
***
Instead of getting the bus by the stone-wall periphery of Central Park on Fifth Avenue once we'd left, like we had with Gerry's suitcase on the 5th of this month, we decided to take the subway and walk from Grand Central across town to Howard Johnson's at 46th and Broadway. Something was odd, but I couldn't put a finger on it. The waitress who served us seemed sad. When I asked about Maxine, she just shook her head and walked away. The man behind the bar belched: "She don't work here no more." I sensed that there was more to it than that, but decided not to pry, in case I'd get some information that I couldn't handle.
Today, the food was mediocre; the service was lacking. We ate, paid, and left. There seemed to be a fog hanging over Manhattan, as we walked down Broadway. This was where my Gerry made an odd statement, to which I could only agree. "Doesn't seem like home, anymore."
As we passed one of the numerous adult bookstores, I put my hand on his shoulder. "Did you pack your copy of The World of Suzie Wong?" I joked.
He shook his head. "Naw, I left it under the mattress for Emma to find." He laughed lightly. "You know what, though?" I shook my head. "I'd like to see where you grew up. We have to meet Gordon and Ju-Long in front of the Army Building, anyway."
So, we walked over to Times Square. And, once again, we found ourselves on an IND downtown train.
***
Grand Street was where we got off, and we walked the three blocks to Allen Street. On Allen, it was two long blocks to Canal, where on the southwest corner stood the six-storey, red and buff brick building with ornate plasterwork above the sash windows, in which Bernice and William kept a three-bedroom apartment on the third floor. The ground floor housed the Chung's Sewing, Needlework, and Piece Goods Store.
My Gerry and I were standing on the parkway between the northbound and southbound lanes of Allen. As I pointed out my parents' living room, I saw a man, presumably Dad, standing at one of the three windows. I waved; he drew down the blinds.
"Did he see you?" Gerry wanted to know, putting his arm around my shoulder.
"Probably." This was threatening to take me down into an emotional tailspin. "He never was very affectionate."
"Yeah." was my Gerry's monosyllabic response, as he pulled me by my hand away from the site of my childhood and youth.
***
Gerry pulled me the one block south to the end of Allen, across onto Pike and, as if guided by instinct, onto East Broadway. We passed along the market stalls under the Manhattan Bridge Roadway without stopping. My man was driven to extract me from my past. Without saying a word, he didn't stop tugging at my arm, until we'd crossed Chatham Square and onto St. James' Place, as if we'd crossed a magic barrier.
We hurried along the length of St. James' Place, due to the construction sites, and didn't stop until we'd cleared the rusting access ramps of the Brooklyn Bridge. Apparently feeling more at ease, once we'd reached Frankfort Street at the corner of Pearl, he stopped and fished out our cigarettes and lighter. I had to laugh, about the name of the street.
"What's funny?" He posed the question around the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He lit mine, then his.
"You didn't stop charging like a raging bull, until we got to Frankfort." I pointed at the street sign.
He looked around at the red-brick tenements and run-down businesses, some boarded up, unwanted, condemned. We were, after all, in the Fourth Ward, less than a block from where the infamous Hole-in-the-Wall saloon once was. His bad-boy grin was back. "This place reminds me of us." He nodded for emphasis. "Fuckin' abandoned."
Of course, I couldn't help pulling him into a close embrace with a kiss to his neck, much to the delight of two derelicts with a dog in the doorway of a boarded up building. "Ah, gotta be love, eh Jock." The one said, as he passed a bottle to his bud. I gave him a glare. "Just sayin'." He put up both hands, as if to fend off a possible blow. "I love my Jock, here, too." He took the bottle back from his mate.
"You guys and the dog had anything to eat, lately?" Gerry stepped over to them; the dog wagged his tail and sniffed Gerry's hand. The men looked uncomfortable as he got closer. Slowly, to show that it wasn't a weapon, he pulled from his field-jacket's left pocket the ten dollar bill, which he'd gotten in change from the Consulate for his passport. "Here ya go."
Both of the men looked at the bank note and up to Gerry, then back to the bank note. "Yer not gonna tell the cops that we mugged ya, are ya?"
"Naw, you didn't hassle us, so why would we hassle you?" Gerry chuckled. "Go ahead and take it."
"People hassle ya, for bein' Queer?" The first man took the tenner and gave it to Jock, who placed his head on the guy's shoulder. "Thanks, Buster."
"Yeah." Gerry came back to where I was standing. I took his hand.
Jock lifted his head off his friend's shoulder and addressed us for the first time. "Don't let the Army do to you, what they did to us."
"You're Veterans?" I wasn't very good at hiding my disbelief.
"With less than honorable discharges." His laugh was harsh. "We were in the First Infantry Division, the Big Red One, and they sent us to Nam in '65."
Buster burst out laughing. "That's where they caught us lickin' pecker in the hooch."
Jock laughed along with his friend. "We both got Purple Hearts to prove it." He stopped laughing, of a sudden. "You wouldn't wanna buy mine, would you?"
"Sure." I blurted, knowing that pulling out my wallet in this neighborhood was dangerous. But so was daily life for these guys. Maybe it would become a little less so with some of Bat's money. I was fighting back tears, knowing that the Purple Heart was the last of Jock's possessions. But the five twenties caused looks of hope in the two handsome, weatherworn faces and a glow of approval from Gerry's. Jock rummaged quickly in his knapsack and handed me the dark-green oblong case that contained his medal and citation; I gave him the money. "Are you sure you want to do this, Jock?"
"Eating medals makes the dog puke." His sarcasm was bitter, to which he had a right.
I opened the case to find the Purple Heart in pristine condition and the citation folded in the lid. Once I read his name, my conscious got the better of me; I kissed the medal, closed the case and handed it back. "Go ahead and keep it along with the money." I wiped my eyes. "I don't deserve this; you do, Joachim."
"But--"
"--let's say we paid for a peek." I wiped my eyes again. "See ya."
When we started to continue down Pearl Street, the two men jumped to their feet to block our path. Joachim's eyes were searching mine. His hair was about a year's growth and tangled; his long beard was matted. His breath smelled of Thunderbird, and he hadn't had a wash in a while, but oddly, he didn't stink. "How can we thank you?"
Hoping briefly that there were no parasites, then not caring if there were, I pulled him in close. "Just give me a hug, and we're even."
He took a step back, looked at me in shock and shook his head. "Shit, Man, you're one fuckin' beaucoup dinky dow mother." His laughter was approaching manic. "Most people won't let me near them, and here you go giving me a hug."
Buster placed an arm over his friend's shoulder, sort of letting me know that I may have gone too far with the hug. "You wanna know how Jock and me got our Purple Hearts?" Gerry and I nodded. "Our CO shot us in the legs when we wouldn't kill unarmed villagers for no reason."
"So, you refused to kill people in Vietnam?" Gerry sounded surprised.
"Yeah, with the exception of one." Joachim laughed wickedly. "When we got out of the hospital, our fucking Butter-Bar CO got a frag grenade in a bowl of diesel under his wall locker."
"Bowl of diesel?" I wondered how that worked.
"Ya put rubber bands 'round the handle," Buster grinned conspiratorially. winking at his partner. "and ya pull the pin before ya put it inta the bowl. It takes couple a hours before the diesel eats through the rubber. And by that time, yer nowheres near the fucker's hooch."
And as we took in the information, thanked the men and continued on down Water Street through the financial district in the direction of the Army Building on Whitehall, where Gerry and I had met for the first time, I thought about the information on how to frag an officer. It had likely been well worth Bat's hundred bucks.