Jodie
Michael W. Rodriguez
Copyright 1996
I pull a tray from the stack and get in line.The messmen serve me whatever it is they serve on the chow line; I sniff at it.
I move on down the line.
I turn to the giant urns that hold the jelly and peanut butter; both are so badly mixed together that I cannot tell which is which. Monkey-shit brown and purple and red and -- is that yellow?
I pick up a slice of bread and slop on both peanut butter and jelly, or either, on it; hard to tell.
Aw, fuck it.
I pick up my tray and glance around the battalion's chow hall.
Carter.
I walk over to his table and sit.
"Hey."
"Hey," he says.
"You seen Parker?"
He picks at his chow. He holds up something I have never seen. "What is this?," he asks, staring at this strange-looking thing on the end of his fork.
I stare at it, afraid to look down at my tray.
"Don't know, man. Have you seen Parker?"
Carter takes his eyes from this thing on his fork. "What?"
I hold his eyes, and speak as if to a retarded child:
"Have...
"You...
"Seen...
"Parker?"
Carter blinks at me, blinks at his fork.
"Um, no. Not since this morning. Not since mail call."
"You see?"
He frowns. "See what?"
I grin at him. "See how easy that was?"
He smiles at me, this big wide easy smile.
"Fuck you."
I smile back at him and stir my chow around.
"Gonna eat that?," asks Carter.
"Eat it?," I aks, amazed. "Man, I don't even know what it is."
He laughs.
"Me neither," he says, and laughs again.
I smile at him, enjoying the moment.
"Get anything at mail call?," I ask.
"Yeah, he says. A letter from Bev. You?"
I shrug. "Nah. But I think Parker got something."
Carter throws caution to the wind. He closes his eyes and spoons chow into his mouth. I watch carefully as he chews, then swallows.
He opens his eyes.
"Well," he says. "Didn't kill me..."
... Yet, I think. I shrug again, then start eating my chow.
Lunch.
We chow-down in silence, slurping and stirring and drinking Kool-Aid from canteen cups. I swear to God, I think to myself, I get back to the World, I will never drink Kool-Aid again. I say as much to Carter.
"Same-same, homeboy," he says.
I grin at that. Carter had never heard the term before we became Bro's.
Homeboy, he'd said, then. He'd rolled it around his mouth, saying it again. Yeah, he'd decided, one night at the EM club. I like the sound of that, he'd said.
Carter and Parker and I are homeboys.
We finish chow without dying and light cigarettes.
"What," Carter asks, "Do you think Parker got at mail call?"
"Dunno," I say. "Saw him just before that fucken Right Guide announced mail call, then I saw 'im wander off toward one of the bunkers near the perimeter."
"You wanna go look for him?,"
I stub out the cigarette. "Thought I might."
"I'll go with you."
"Good," I say.
We take our metal trays outside and run them through the hot-water bath; three cans, three dunks: soapy (scrub), rinse, rinse. Supposed to kill anything that lives on the trays.
The Grunts of 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines, know better. We know that shit lives on these trays that defy science and the laws of the Marine Corps.
If it can live on our mess hall trays, it will.
Murphy, as Carter once explained to me, was a Grunt.
We pull soft covers onto our heads and go in search of Parker.
We make our way through the battalion area; no Parker.
We root through the platoon's hooches; no Parker.
I scratch my head. Where's that little shit go?, I wonder.
"Let's check the perimeter," Carter says.
We make our way to one of the perimeter's bunkers, the one closest to us.
No Parker.
We make a full perimeter check: every bunker, every fighting hole.
No Parker.
Well, godamn, I think.
Carter says, "Where ain't we looked?"
"Fuck'f I know, man."
"So," he says, "Let's start over."
One more time through battalion: Supply, the gook barber, motor pool, the armory, the EM club.
No Parker.
One more time through the platoon's hooches.
No Parker.
Gaddamn me for being an idiot, I think.
I whack Carter on the arm and lead 'im through the rear hatch of the 2nd Squad, First Platoon's hootch. Our jungle boots clump heavily on the hootch's wooden floors as we make our way to the rear hatch.
In a shallow mortar trench outside, one of those little drags in the dirt the Gunny made us dig in case the battalion gets jumped by the whole fucken North Vietnamese Army, when everybody in the entire fucken world knows we'll be hugging the deck or running for bunkers should that ever happen, in this eight-inch deep trench:
Parker.
"Hey, man. ¿Que paso?," I ask, jumping down into the trench beside him.
Parker look up at me. Saddest eyes I have ever seen. He holds up a letter and a picture.
"Jody came calling," he says.
"Jody done fucken stole my baby-san."
Aw, hell, I think.I glance at Carter. His eyes are narrowed, mouth set.
I know he thinks the same as me: Fucken Jody.
Jody.
No idea who thought up the name, but it stuck.
Jody.
Grunt goes away to war, leaves his baby-san at home; Jody'll come sliding by. School, nice car, loose cash...
Whatever it takes.
Jody.
We can hate the VC, the NVA.
We reserve loathing for the slimy, oily, gutless little cocksucker back in The World we call Jody.
Jody.
Safe at home; don't risk nothin' but his time and a couple a coins:
Jody.
The WW Eye-Eye guys used to get "Dear John" letters. We get 'em, too, but because this is The Nam, we shortened it to Jody.
I got mine a couple of months ago.
I got to go party, she said. Can't stay home and wait. Got to go out, she wrote.
And besides, she wrote, there's this guy, from over in Montebello...
So, I think. Some Montebello cholo stole my baby-san.
Fuck him. Fuck her.
I hope they get married and have 13 fucken kids. She'll get big as a house.
Chicanas, I think. Raised to be like their mothers...
Fuck that.
Now this.
Parker looks lost.
I look over at Carter.
We both know Parker is no good to the Company for a day or two.
The unspoken rule is: You get a letter about Jody, and you don't go out: No ambushes, no patrols, no ops.
You go out, your head's somewhere else, you'll get everybody killed.
I raise my eyes to Carter, and he nods.
He'll got tell our platoon commander, Mr. Novak.
Carter'll say, "Mr. Novak? Parker just got Jodied."
Mr. Novak will groan, look down and around, then say, "Tell Parker he's in for the night."
Carter will say, "Aye, aye..."
Fucken Jody.
"Hey, vato," I say to Parker.
He raises a hand, the one holding Becky's picture.
Becky.
Little white chick outta Pensacola.
I take the picture and stare at her image.
Pretty, I think. What is she, 17, maybe 18?
Weak chin, though.
Still...
I shake my head. Don't matter how pretty she is, she dumped my man Parker.
Fuck her.
Parker's face got no color. He's drained.
Betrayed.
He hands me the letter.
Dear Lou, it says. I'm so sorry I have to write this. I kmow it's tough for you there. I don't know how to say this, but...
Goddamn me, I think.
... But the war is wrong, she writes. I think maybe it's better to end this now than to lead you along. I can't... Blah, blah, blah...
I glance over at my man.
Parker is whipped. Beaten down.
"Hey?," I say.
"What time is it?," he asks.
"Uh, almost 1400."
"Got a joint?"
I shrug."Always."
"Gotta do a number, man."
"Um, maybe wait 'til later?," I suggest.
"No, man. Now."
"Hey," I say. "Mr. Novak is cool, but we do a number now and Gunny Thomas will have our asses."
"Asshole," he says.
"I agree."
"Not Thomas," Parker says. "You."
"Oh."
"No," he says. "Not you."
"Okay," I say.
"So?," I ask Parker as I light a cigarette. "What'cha going to do, man?"
He grunts, a sound like He might have made when those Roman Grunts nailed Him to the cross. Parker takes the cigarette I hand him.
"Do? Man, I don' know. Some asshole comes along..."
Yeah, I think. Some asshole . . .
Carter has gone away to talk to Mr. Novak, so only me and Parker are hiding out in the mortar trench.
I carefully eyeball our perimeter. No one around. Maybe I can--
I stop the thought, still-born. Do a joint out here in broad fucken daylight; let Gunny Thomas find me smoking and toking, I'll do hard time in the brig this fucken fast!
Later, maybe.
Parker breaks the silence.
"Shoulda seen it coming, Rod."
I shrug. "How, man? We never see this shit coming."
"You did," he reminds me.
"Aw, man; I knew she was a tramp when I was seeing her, back in East L.A."
He grins, in spite of himself.
"Bullshit," he says.
I admit to it. "Okay, man, I say. Yeah; you're right. She was no tramp."
(And I have a bad moment, right here, imagining my former baby-san in the arms of that cabron from Montebello. I shake my head, trying to clear the image. Doesn't work. I ever see them together in East L.A., we gonna throw some hands! Puta!)
"I know she wasn't," he says ....
My hand shake as I light a cigarette.
My baby-san had included Parker and Carter in the two care packages she'd sent me. Becky had included me and Carter in her care packages. Becky'd even written me a couple of notes. Take care of Lou, blah, blah.
Carter's old lady don't even know we exist, me and Parker.
"You know when I first met her? When I first dated her?"
I do, 'cause he's told me.
"No, man. When?"
"The junior prom. Ain't that some shit?"
I say nothing.
"She was wearing this little pink dress, I'm in this tux. I was a senior..."
I got nothing to say.
"She was pretty, man."
I'm thinking, She dumped my man Parker. What's pretty about that?
"She looked so good," he says, and I hear the pain of loss in his voice.
Don't look so good, now, I think.
"She smelled good, you know?," he says.
Probably not like it smells here, I think.
"We danced, we drank punch...."
Punch?, I think. Must be nice...
"Took her home...." he says. "To her home," he adds quickly, glancing up at me.
"Then I left," he adds. "You know; first date, and all..."
Took her home?, I think. All this action, and all you did was take her home?
"Thought she'd wait...," says Parker.
Yeah, well, I think. We all think they'll wait. I hate Vietfuckingnam!
Some do; some don't, I say to myself. Mine didn't. Yours didn't.
Fuck it, I think. Don' mean nothing.
Perez and Sanchez drift by; they ran into Carter over in officer's country.
They know about Parker.
"Hey, vato," says Perez. "¿Que paso?"
Parker don't answer. They don't expect him to.
Sanchez looks at me. "¿Quien tiene el ambush?," he wants to know.
"Nosotros," I say. "We got the ambush; First squad."
Sanchez nods: "Mejor tu que yo, ese."
I smile at him. "Better me than you?," I ask.
I grin again at him, no anger in my voice. "Fuck you."
He grins back at me. Be his turn, tomorrow night. He knows it; I know it. He glances at down at my man.
"¿Bueno, Parker?"
Parker sighs again. This dude is really down, I think.
"What time is it?," he asks.
I look at my watch. Goddamn, I think. Where'd the time go?
"Gotta go, man. I got the lead tonight."
He looks up, first time in what seems like hours. "You got point on the ambush?"
"Rodge'," I say.
Carter shows up.
"Mr. Novak says you're in for the night, man," he says to Parker. "Maybe tomorrow, too."
Parker expects no less from our platoon commander.
I look at Perez, hold his eyes.
Perez nods; he knows. He and Sanchez will watch out for Parker 'til I get back.
I nod back. "Gotta go, Parker," I say to my friend. "Me and Carter got to sky out."
Parker nods, eyes looking back at the deck of the mortar trench again.
"Hey?," he says, as I turn to go.
"Yo?"
"Do that number when you get back?"
"Fucken-A, homeboy. Big fat Chinese joint. Finest-kind dope."
He smiles a small smile. In this moment, he looks 10 years old. Becky, I think: Goddamn you!
"Far out," he says in a whisper, and looks off into the distance, like he can see Pensacola and Becky from here.
"Far out," he says again.
Carter and I make our hat for ambush duty.
Parker is in the worst kind of funk.He feels fucked, used and abused. He feels drained.
He doesn't give a shit.
Not about the Nam...
Not about himself...
Not about his people...
Not about nothing.
Fuck!, he thinks. He doesn't want to be here.
Ah, Becky. Becky...
He slides a thumb across her face in the picture he's protected for almost six months.
Becky's hair is cut short in the picture, and she smiles a closed-mouth smile. She is looking off-camera; looking at me, he used to think.
Becky.
Perez and Sanchez flank him, one on each side, in the mortar trench.
They speak in low voices, when they speak at all.
Parker does not hear them.
He hears Becky:
I love you, she said.
I'll wait for you.
Please take care of yourself.
The light fades; he can no longer see her face.
Just as well, he thinks. Still see your face in my mind.
Love you, Becky. Really love you.
He feels a heaviness in his chest, and he brings her picture close to him. He can feel the heat of her next to him.
I know you're gone, he thinks. Ain't gonna try to get you back.
He feels her loss, and he misses her.
He thinks of what might have been, and he misses her even more.
Ah, Becky. Goddamn, Becky. Wish we--
A soft commotion grabs his attention. Perez and Sanchez stand up, on full alert.
Parker hears the sound of Marines scrambling for gear, hears the harsh commands of sergeants in the distance.
"Tony," calls Parker to Perez. "¿Que esta pasando?"
What's happening, man?
A quick exchange: Perez and another Marine.
Perez comes back.
"First squad sprung the ambush," says Perez. "Don't know about casualties. First squad's running for it."
A hard fear grips Parker's soul.
I got people out there, he thinks.
Parker puts Becky's picture away and starts to make his way to the platoon CP.
The React squad gets the word: Saddle up. Standby.
He hears radio traffic as he nears the CP: First Squad's wasted no time making their hat for the perimeter. Couldn't have been too far away when the ambush got blown, thinks Parker.
Perez intercepts him at the CP's hatch. "They're almost back, esé. They're coming in through the East-West gate."
Parker turns, starts to head in that direction. Perez grabs an arm. "They be back mo-skosh, homeboy. No puedes hacer nada." Ain't nothin' you can do, man.
Parker nods at the truth of that. There it is, he thinks.
Mil gracias, Dios. Thank you, God. Over before it started.
He heads back to the mortar trench to wait for his friends.
Parker is laying comfortably in the trench when he hears movement on his right flank. He turns his head, sees his people.
"Hey," he says.
Carter's got this big dumb-ass grin on his face. "Hey," he says.
I am on such an adrenaline high that my eyes want to burst from their sockets. I am grinning my ass off.
"¿Que paso?," asks Parker.
Carter and I drop our gear just outside the mortar trench that Parker seems to call home.
Carter's as high as I am.
"¿Que paso?," asks Parker again, impatiently. He wants to know.
"Nothing," says Carter.
"Nothing?," Parker wants to know. "What do ya mean, nothing?"
I do not say a word, letting Carter tell it.
"N-o-t-h-i-n-g," says Carter again.
He goes on. "We musta been a halk-click from the back gate; our man," nodding at me, "is on point. Some little rice-burner steps out on the trail; guess he wanted to see where we were -- whatever.
"Anyway," says Carter, "this dink steps out, Rod sees 'im -- sees movement, anyway; the gook sees Rod. Rod comes up with his shotgun. Boom! Misses! The dink fires -- Rod ain't there! We hit the deck! We fire, they fire, everybody fires. Rock'n'roll! Caps popping everywhere!"
Carter draws a breath, looks at me. "We hit anybody?," he asks.
I shrug. "Doubt it," I say.
"No shit you doubt it," says Carter, laughing.
He turns to look at Parker.
"Should a seen us, Lou. We were shucking and ducking, throwing rounds all over the AO. Our man here makes his way back to the squad; we decide tonight ain't gonna happen, so we hat up for home. Last I heard, the dinks were still shooting at us."
Carter grins and Parker grins with him. Another night in The Nam.
He sobers. Could been worse--
I wave a hand at him, the adrenaline beginning to leave my system. I feel strangely deflated.
"Ah, man," I say. "Could have, would have, should have. Whatever might have happened, didn't."
Parker nods, and I know: He is relieved we are home.
"Still got that joint?," he asks.
Vietnam is not held to the Earth by gravity, I think.
It sucks.
I glance at Carter, then at Parker.
Becky, I think.
Becky.
The night has grown darker and still Parker and I sit in the mortar trench behind the hootch we call home. We smoked our last joint an hour ago and the high is almost gone. We're coming down gently, and enjoying the silence. We sit, thinking our own thoughts: Thinking of home, of our last R&R, our last firefight, our baby-sans...We think of Jody.
Wonder who came up with the name? Had to be some Chuck dude thought that one up. The splibs woulda come up with, what?, Cyrus or William, or maybe Rayford. La Raza? What would we have this egg-sucking, baby-san-stealing, chingada madre cabron? Juanito? No; that's what we already got over here: Dear Juan letters.
"What would we have called this dude, eh?," I ask Parker.
He look over at me. "Who?"
"Jody," I say. "What would La Raza have called him, 'stead of Jody?"
Parker thinks about it. Finally, he says, "I dunno know. Carlito? Guillermo? Puto? Cabron? Hijo de su chingada madre?"
Hmmm, I think. Son of a whore? Nah, too crass.
I say to Parker, "I kinda like Guillermo."
Parker grunts. "Don't make any difference what we call that shithead," spits Parker, "he's still a shithead."
I nod in the darkness. Hard to argue with that.
"I'm going to miss her," says Parker.
I grunt, knowing kinda how he feels. I missed Esther for a while, after I got my Jody letter, and then the feeling went away.
No, that's not right, I think to myself; still miss her, just not as much, or as much as I thought I was gonna.
I ain't Parker, though. Esther was a chick I dated in East L.A. because not having someone to date or go out with on Friday or Saturday nights could be the shits. Still, Esther had been a lot of fun. Pretty, too.
I smile in the darkness: Nice ass, too.
When I got my orders for The Nam, when I had to leave, she said she'd wait for me. I knew she saw herself as June Allison or Donna Reed in those old World War Two movies, bravely fighting back the tears as her man goes off to fight for freedom and the American Way.
I light a cigarette and I feel my face tighten. Lots of problems with that kind of thinking, though; she wasn't some white chick like June or Donna; she was a Chicanita from East Los Angeles who likes to party her ass off. I wasn't coming to The fucken Nam to fight for freedom ('less it was my own freedom); and she couldn't wait for shit.
I got to admit, though, that reading her letter hurt. I wasn't surprised when I got it, but it did hurt. Not much, as I remember, and then it turned into some kind of dull ache and late at night I lay awake, eyes open, for a couple of weeks after I got the letter. I would see her face in my memory.
And then one night I realized I couldn't remember what she looked like. Ain't that something?
I look over at my main man. Won't be like that with Parker. He really loves that chick. Too bad. Gonna take him a long time to get over her.
"Got a light?," he asks.
I hand him my Zippo and say, "Glad we ain't on no goddamn bridge. Remember that time? We're sitting on the bridge; you asked me for my lighter; I hand it over. You light your smoke, then wait for that fucken tank to start crossing the bridge. It gets close to us and you throw my fucken lighter under its tracks. You wanted to see how tough that damn lighter was. Shit!"
I can hear in the smile in his voice when he says, "Got you a new lighter from Zippo, didn't it?"
I lightly punch him on the arm. "Shithead," I say.
Parker ducks below the edge of the trench and fires up, then quickly snaps the lighter shut. He inhales, holds it a moment, then lets it out, slow.
"I'm gonna miss her," he says again. "Man, I never saw it coming, but maybe I should've. Remember? I'd get two, three, sometimes four letters a week from Becky, then the last month, six weeks, I'd get one a week, one every 10 days. I fucken shoulda seen it coming."
We sit in silence as he smokes, then he asks, "You still miss Esther?"
"No, man; not anymore. Tell you the truth, esé, I barely remember even being with her."
I pause and light a cigarette of my own. I glance in Parker's direction and say, "She seems like a long time, man. A long time ago, in another life."
"I wonder," he says. "I already got another life; I wonder when Becky will seem like a long time ago."
My man's a fucken poet. I turn to him and say, "When it happens, you probably won't even know it."
Maybe," he says. "Hope I do, though. Hope I know when the chick I love stops being the chick I love. But for now, man; for now, I gotta remember who she is, and what she means to me.
"Wish you coulda met her, man. You woulda liked her. Smart. Pretty. Great legs, man. Really wish you could have met her . . ."
He goes on: "Met her in elementary school, man. Fell in fucken love with her so fast it made me dizzy. We been going steady since - what? - 1959? And we here we are in '67; lotta fucken years gone to shit in two months."
Parker sighs, a deep, chest-deep, heatbreaking sigh. A Jody sigh. He says, "Two months, man . . ."
Two months, I think, wanting to snort my disbelief at the idea that this thing went down in two months. Jody moved in on Becky long before she wrote that letter. Six months maybe? I use my fingers: I been here nine; Parker seven. Add a month in Staging Battalion, then time spent getting here. Six months. Sly motherfucker, that Jody. Parker hits the road for the Nam and Jody hits the road for Becky's house.
Parker is rejected and dejected. Sad and lonely and fucken broken-hearted.
I am pissed. I am angry. Little sumbitches back in the World; no balls. Can't hit on a chick that's free; gotta go after the ones that need someone, 'cause their someone's off somewhere getting his ass shot off.
Fuck 'em; fuck 'em all. Don't need 'em; don't need Jody or the chicks who can't wait.
Parker breaks our silence: "Wish you could have met Becky, man. Really do . . ."
Yeah, I think.
The first signs of false dawn are beginning to show in the Vietnam sky. One more night in The Nam.
One more day yet to go. One more one more one more.
Maybe I will meet her, I say to myself. Maybe I will meet Becky. Her and the... Guillermo who took her from my man.
In the meantime . .
"Come on, man," I say to Parker. "One more day in The Nam.
"One more day to serve the Corps."
We crawl out of the trench and head for the hootch we call home.
Epilogue
We are back at Battalion a couple of months later, at the mess hall. I find Parker sitting with Sanchez and Perez and Sandoval. I head in their direction and find a seat.
"What you eatin', man," says Sandoval.
"Same as you, esé."
"No," he says. "I was hoping you could tell me what it is!"
We laugh at the oldest joke in the Marine Corps and I point to his mess tray. "¿Que? No sabes que es?"
Our laughter is louder and a couple of Chucks glance over at us. Sandoval stares at them and the white boys turn away.
"Hey, 'mano," says Perez as he leans in my direction. "Parker got a pen pal, ese."
"No shit, Parker? Who is it?"
Perez jumps in before Parker can answer. "She's my cousin, esé. A cheerleader in El Paso. Chula, man. Real cute."
Sanchez says, "Parker's sly, esé. Gonna turn on the charm with this chavalita, que no?"
Parker grins.
"Got a picture, Parker?," I ask him.
Parker pulls a photograph from a pocket. He unwraps the plastic, stares at the picture for a second or two, looks at me and says, "I want it back, man."
"Yeah, yeah, sure. Whatever you say, man. Lemme see it."
He hands it to me across the table.
Holy shit, I think, staring at the picture of this kid from El Paso. Holy shit. She's beautiful! I mean, the picture is black-and-white high school yearbook kinda thing, but she is drop-dead beautiful.
I tear my eyes from the picture. "¿Como se llama, esé?"
"Elena," says Parker. "Elena."
Elena.
"¿Le vas hacer la movida?"
Perez stares at me, disbelief plain on his face. "Fucken-A he's gonna put the move on her. Right, Parker?"
Parker grins and ducks his head.
I grin at my man. I am happy for him.
"¡Orale, Parker!," I say to him, and to our friends at our table.
"Way to go, Parker . . ."
Parker grins and I grin back. Our friends are laughing and all is right with the world again.
