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  The War Inside by Mark Budz

  The War Inside first appeared in the Premiere issue of Pulphouse, the Weekly Magazine, June 1, 1991.

  Author's Note: “As a kid I played with toy guns, GI Joe, and those little plastic cowboys, Indians, and soldiers that seemed to embody some uniformly-minted, indestructible sense of national identity and pride. I burned scores of these miniature figures with a magnifying glass and dismembered them with a Daisy BB gun. At some point, around the age of ten or eleven, I became bored with the game of war. I don't know what triggered the change, but as draft-eligible seventeen-year-old a few years after the end of the Vietnam War, I registered as a conscientious objector. Still, that childhood infatuation with war haunts me. I've never stopped trying to understand it, in myself and others."

  "I KID YOU NOT,” Rick said. “The quim here will fuckin’ blow your mind.” He glanced at me with glazed black eyes that looked like small puncture holes in his round, heavy face and took a long swallow of San Miguel. “So, what do you think?"

  We sat on metal barstools in the Old Nam, a Denver strip-joint that had opened up on East Colfax a few months earlier.

  "How the hell should I know?” I said. “I've never been to Vietnam. I have no idea what it was like."

  "You will,” he said. “Believe me. This is as close as you're going to get to the real thing."

  According to Rick, this was his second time. He'd stopped in two weeks ago, and had only now gotten up the nerve to come back. It was that intense, he said.

  I didn't know if the place was for real or not. It was hot enough. The air was sticky and perspiration clung to my shirt, glistened on Rick's face, tickled my upper lip. I could smell rancid sweat, stale beer, and lingering perfume. Tinny music drifted over us. The floor was cluttered with small wooden tables and rickety wicker chairs. It was Friday and all of them were filled. The tables went right up to a low stage at the far end of the room. A thick layer of smoke hung below dim lights shrouded by wide sheets of sagging red cloth, the haze feebly churned by ceiling fans that rotated dark shadows across the crowd. They looked like the slow moving helicopter blades I'd seen on TV, Hueys preparing to take off into a stagnant blanket of jungle-clotted mist.

  I sipped my beer and looked at the people around me. Most were in their early- or mid-thirties. Post baby-boomers who had missed out on the war and were trying to find out what it had been like, driven by a sense of curiosity and the feeling that it was finally okay to explore what had happened. That, and the dancers, which is what had motivated Rick. I saw a few guys who might have been vets, but it was hard to tell and I asked Rick if any ever showed up.

  He shrugged. “Who knows. The thing is, they already know what it was like. It's a part of them the same way it's part of the poontang they've got around here. Straight from Nam and the war, man. No shit. The original stuff."

  I shook my head. I found what he said hard to believe. I wasn't even sure I wanted to.

  "You want to know as bad as anyone else. Admit it, man. That's why you're here.” He killed his beer, set the bottle on the sticky counter next to us, and signaled to the double-chinned, thickly-rouged woman working the bar for another. She had on a blue satin dress, sleeveless. Rolls of fat strained at the tight, glossy fabric around her stomach and wobbled under her upper arms.

  I gazed at the other waitresses sitting and walking around in high heels. Black shiny hair, heavily painted lips, thigh-hugging miniskirts and blouses cinched tight under their breasts. They seemed too young. They hadn't aged enough. Either they'd been too young twenty-five years ago, or they hadn't been in the war at all and Rick was feeding me a load of bullshit.

  After a while he elbowed me in the ribs and nodded toward the stage. “Get ready for some serious pussy, Ted ol’ buddy. It's show-time."

  She had on this sheer silk kimono, open in the front. I could see the black brassiere and G-string she wore beneath it. Her long hair swung gently around her bored, listless face as she began to dance, hips rotating, hands running up and down her body, loosening the lace brassiere finally and letting it drop to the stage.

  "Jesus,” Rick said. “Couldn't you just fuck that to tears? Asian women. God, I love ‘em."

  He finished his second beer, started in on a third.

  The dancer was on her knees now, legs spread wide, body twisting back, hair swaying as she let the green silk fabric slide off her shoulders. Her breasts shuddered under the hot spotlights, and when I glanced around I saw prostitutes leaning over the men or sitting on their laps, arms draped around their shoulders while they whispered in their ears.

  "Bitches'll do anything you want,” Rick said, his eyes locked on the stage. “Suck your balls dry more ways than you can count. The sweetest dick-squeezing pussy you could ever want if you'd just crawled out of the jungle, your guts all knotted up from getting shot at, thinking every shadow that moved was out to slit your throat."

  I nodded and swallowed hard, took a quick swig of beer and tried to keep my sweaty hand from shaking, the cold wet beer bottle from slipping out of it.

  My head was filled with the articles, news reports and documentaries of what it had been like, the sense of shame I felt every time I saw a vet, knowing they'd given up more than one or two years of their lives and the whole country had spit on them when they'd come home, either because they'd fought in the war at all, or fought and lost.

  "You worried about Judy?” Rick asked.

  "A little."

  "Now you know what a lot of the guys in Nam felt like. Be pretty damn hard to ignore all this available pussy when your girlfriend's ten thousand miles away and the next day might be your last.” He grinned at me, winked, and then returned his attention to the stage.

  I felt her behind me before I saw her. A warm presence surrounded by nauseatingly strong perfume that cut through the reek of cigarettes and tensed my neck muscles. I turned on my seat, looked into full crimson lips and black eyes beneath heavy mascara and green lids. She wore a tight red halter top and a short, black leather skirt.

  "I've been watching you, man. You make me so horny. So horny I can't believe it.” She licked her lips, ran a hand down one thigh.

  "Now's your chance,” Rick said. He grinned again. “Fifty bucks for the experience of a lifetime."

  "Forty,” the prostitute said. “I'm so horny.” My gut clenched. I could feel a wave of heat running down my cock, and gritted my teeth.

  "I'll catch you later,” Rick said. “Have fun, buddy.” He slid off his chair and disappeared into the crowd.

  "What you say?” the woman asked, her breath warm and sultry. “You want it like never before, or not?"

  She sat on the empty stool next to me, straddled it with both legs and leaned forward. “I'll love you good. Long and hard like your girlfriend. I'll give you what you want, make you forget everything else."

  I felt her hand on my leg, and fear exploded inside me. Terror, ripping and searing like shrapnel. I smelled shit and wondered if it was my own. My mouth was dry and metallic-tasting. I could feel the warm beer bottle in my hand, but I couldn't move it. My hand was paralyzed and it seemed like my intestines had unraveled, dropped out of my asshole.

  I don't have to go through with this, I told myself. I don't. It was a lie, though. Inside, the war had already begun.

  * * * *

  She lay back and drew both legs up alongside her stomach, the miniskirt bunching around her waist. I stood a few feet from the end of the bed, my shoes, pants and underwear in a pile on the floor, the tails of my unbuttoned shirt trailing against my thighs and buttocks. A naked light bulb hung from the ceiling, cast harsh shadows across the bamboo walls, the soft angles of her face. I saw a pile of yellow paper napkins on the table next to the bed, a jar of cold cream. Then she too
k off her top and let both knees fall open, butterfly style. There were teeth marks on her breasts, yellow bruises down her legs and the inside of her arms.

  "What're you waiting for, man?” Glossy red fingernails stroked her crotch, traced their way upward across her belly and nipples as she brought her arms up over her head, wrapped them around the gleaming mass of tousled hair on the pillows.

  Her hips made small, rhythmic movements on the rumpled sheets. I took a step forward, and dropped to my knees between her legs. I leaned over, planted my hands beside her, and breathed in perfume laced with sweat, the pungent smell of flesh. When I lay on top of her I closed my eyes, not wanting to look into the bored, lifeless pupils staring past me.

  There was a violent thrust and I found myself face down in a muddy quagmire that sucked at my sprawled-out arms and legs, making it hard to move. Rotting leaves clung to my lips and nose, and I struggled to breathe, short choking gasps that wracked me. The sun felt like a heat lamp, and in the distance I could hear the dull thudding roar of an air strike, feel it reverberating through the dank ground, echoing in my ears. My right leg throbbed. I reached down blindly, touched slick dirt on tattered cloth, and when I twisted onto my side and looked I saw that below the knee it was gone. Panic squeezed my heart, crushing it, and bile burned in my throat.

  A land mine, I told myself. Jesus fucking Christ. I thought I could still move my toes even though they weren't there, feel them pressing against the hard leather of my missing boot.

  After a while I heard voices, felt the steady pulse of choppers hammering through the air, and blood pooling inside me somewhere. I laid my cheek down in the cool mud and felt myself go numb all over, not caring anymore whether I lived or died.

  * * * *

  The sound of a dead-bolt being unlocked jolted me awake and I sat up fast, the room spinning crazily. I tried to clear my head. Sunlight ricocheted in through the bedroom window above me, glanced painfully off the walls, the mirror above the dresser. Out in the living room I heard the front door open and close, footsteps padding softly across the carpet to the open door a few feet away.

  I rubbed my eyes and squinted through the opening, saw Judy's shadow on the rug and then her face, bright as ever above faded jeans and a white sleeveless blouse. She came over to the edge of the bed and sat down. I groaned, eased onto my back again and closed my eyes, put a hand over my forehead to massage my temples.

  "Must've been some office party,” she said. I felt her hand on my chest, moving in slow aimless circles.

  "A few of us went out afterwards."

  "I figured.” Her fingers moved under the covers. My stomach tightened and I reflexively caught her wrist, not wanting her to feel the stiff matted hair farther down.

  Judy leaned forward, red hair and blue eyes spilling over me. When her lips were a few inches from mine she suddenly stiffened. “You bastard,” she said softly. “Who was it? One of your hot little secretaries?” She tried to pull away and I held her wrist more tightly, fear knifing through the haze.

  I moved my head sideways on the pillow. “A joke,” I said. “It's not what you think. Some of the guys started spraying perfume, testers they'd picked up at one of the department stores.” It sounded lame, even to me.

  Judy stared at me for a moment and I let the hand on my forehead drop to the bed.

  "Not even very good stuff,” I went on. “You'd think a bunch of financial execs could have done better. Obsession, Chanel No. 5 or something like that.” I tried to laugh, but it hurt too much and my mouth was thick and cottony. It was the first time I'd lied to her about anything in the year we'd known each other.

  She took a deep breath and I felt her relax. “At least you could have showered,” she said.

  "Sorry. I didn't think it was that big a deal."

  "It will be if we take Erik to the zoo. Nothing will come within a hundred yards of us."

  "Shit,” I said, glancing at the clock on the night stand next to me.

  "It's all right. I don't pick him up until eleven.” She gave me a quick kiss and then straightened. “I'll fix breakfast while you get cleaned up, take care of that headache of yours."

  "Right.” I waited until she left, then hurried out of bed to the bathroom.

  * * * *

  I let the warm water stream over me, sluicing through the residue of last night. I slumped against the shower stall and tilted my head back. The water felt like a heavy rain. It dripped from my hair and pounded down around me, mixing with the rank smell of sodden vegetation, napalm and burning thatch.

  My eyes snapped open. Beyond the shower curtain smoke mingled with the steam fogging the mirror of the sink. I thought I could see shadows moving in the mist. Goose pimples raised on my arms and the back of my neck. I shut the water off and trembled, the heels of both hands pressed hard against my face as I breathed in the smell of scrambled eggs and toast.

  * * * *

  "You look terrible,” Judy said.

  I nodded. We were in her car, heading west over one of the viaducts that connects downtown to the surrounding metropolitan area. The sky was clear and blue over dark green foothills and silverhued mountains. Ahead of us I-25 shuffled four lanes of north-south traffic along at an uneven crawl. Judy's ex-husband lived on the northern edge town, and I could tell it was going to be a long day driving there, back to the zoo, and then on to her place farther south.

  "How's your mother these days?” I asked after a while.

  "Better. I talked to her last night when I couldn't get a hold of you. I don't know how she stands it there, as warm as it is."

  "Some people like that kind of climate,” I said.

  "I guess you get used to it,” Judy said. “Like anything else."

  "I suppose.” My palms were sweaty even though she had the air conditioning on, and I had to keep wiping them on my pants. I tried to block out what I remembered of Florida, but I couldn't. We'd flown to Orlando after her mother had suffered a mild stroke, and the unrelenting heat and humidity still beat heavily in my head, like a bad memory. It had been terrible then, but it was worse now, and my stomach felt queasy.

  "She still wants to know when we're going to get married,” Judy said.

  "You're kidding."

  "That's what I said. I told her I needed more time, and she started in on how Erik's at that age where he needs a father."

  "He's already got one."

  "A full-time father. I tried to reason with her, but she won't listen. You know how stubborn mothers can be.” Judy smiled. “It could be worse. At least she likes you."

  "Yeah."

  Judy reached out and put a hand on my knee. “Don't worry. I'm not desperate. Not yet, anyway."

  "I'm not worried,” I said, the words sounding strange, like they weren't my own. Before, I'd wanted it to work. Now I wasn't so sure. It seemed that I was kidding myself, that what I was looking for, a certain measure of stability in my life, would never happen. Not the way I wanted it to, at least. No matter what, I would always be lacking something, freedom or security. I had the feeling there wasn't anything I could do about it, that she could never really understand what I was going through, so I turned my head and stared blankly at the rundown commercial buildings sliding by like the gutted remains of a bombed-out, deserted city.

  * * * *

  Judy pulled into the wide half-circle drive of the house, a huge plantation style mansion with elegant white columns and hand-carved woodwork. Her ex was a corporate lawyer and made good money. That's how he'd managed to get the kid.

  "I'll only be a few minutes,” Judy said.

  She got out of the car and I watched her walk up to the porch. The house and those around it seemed out of place, not quite real with their manicured lawns, sculpted shrubbery and expensive vernacular set against the arid plains of eastern Colorado. It reminded me of the French-style homes I'd seen in Saigon, the discotheques and billboards advertising American movies, as if an entire culture had been transplanted—displaced. It didn't make
sense, dragging what you knew and loved into a war so you could watch it be destroyed, and I shook my head thinking about it before I realized that the memories couldn't be mine.

  When I looked again Judy was gone and the house was shrouded in jungle, a colonial mansion in southeast Asia. It wavered unsteadily and I squeezed my eyes shut, pressed a thumb and forefinger into them hard and watched an explosive kaleidoscope of buried faces swim out of the darkness. Men and pimply-faced boys who'd come home in telegrams or body bags. Dead NVA laying face up in a swampy ditch, flies crawling out of their nostrils, over parched shriveled eyes that stared up out of the corpse-infested earth.

  The car door opened and my head jerked up. Judy had Erik by the arm and was herding him into the back seat. He had a Dinorider with him, one of those battery powered Tyrannosaurus rexes that come with an array of high-tech weapons. He plopped down, and Judy slid the driver's seat back, climbed in and slammed the door shut. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands, her face flushed but rigid, lips welded grimly together.

  "That son of a bitch,” she whispered, her hands locked on the wheel. “He's planning to move to Dallas. Says he's going to take Erik with him."

  "Can he do that?"

  "I don't know. I'll have to call my goddamn lawyer. Christ, I thought this shit was over with."

  She sucked in a sharp breath. Behind me Erik was making rapid-fire machine gun sounds from behind his teeth. Each burst sent a tremor along my nerves, and I could feel the muscles in my neck and back begin to twitch and crawl.

  * * * *

  I called Rick from a pay phone at the zoo. The receiver shook as I punched in the numbers, and I had to steady it with both hands while I waited. He answered on the fifth ring, drunk. In the background I could hear a college football game, interrupted every now and then by loud cheering and swearing.

  "What?” he said, shouting above the noise.

  "The war. It’ s still with me."