Rembrandt

Ah, Vietnam, you unforgiving mistress, you cruel mother.

Months I lingered in your putrid belly, killing the best of your sons, and dining with your many lovers. You weren’t betrayed with a kiss, but instead were ravaged by disease. You brought forth destruction on the children of your fertile womb.

Did you know that French charm would only last so a few years, or were you surprised when the benevolent West turned on you?

I wasn’t surprised. I’m not surprised by anything anymore. I had no expectations going in, and even fewer coming out. At the time I left you, the monkey on my back was slowly pulling my brains out through my ears, and I had no mind to deal with your paradoxical embrace.

Coming out of ‘Nam, personal appearances were not a part of my thinking. Women were women, men were men. Black was black, and white was white.

In ‘74 I got a girl. She wasn’t much to look at, but she had a hell of a personality, and enjoyed IPAs almost as much as your’s truly. She could handle my irate state, or at least she did for the two months we were together. She left in a fit of passion, and took the last bottle of Merlot from the cabinet. If we had any more Elijah Craig, she’d’ve taken that, too.

I didn’t miss her, but I missed the nights, and I missed her complaining, and her subpar cooking. I decided I needed to make myself more attractive to the people with the breasts. Therefore, on the day Nodar died, I went in and got my hair cut to above my ears. I hadn’t gotten it shorn so short since boot camp, and my newfound cleanliness let me feel good about life. I left the barber shop and headed down to North Ave beach, to get a little sun. Disappointment struck me down again, the same way it did everyday since Ấp Bắc. Turns out, Lake Michigan doesn’t have nearly the same tanning power as the glorious flash of an M-121. To see that majestic sliver of splendor fall neatly from the bottom of a distant plane, to watch it disappear behind the trees, and to be nearly scorched by that warm, bright splash of color and heat. Nothing compares to it. It’s like comparing and Rockwell to a Rembrandt, Rembrandt being the bombs.