I didn’t have much choice. I switched rooms to an equally disinterested woman. It didn’t take long for me to complete my business, even with the sudden interruption, and based on the lack of any sound or facial expressions, I’m sure the moment was as anticlimactic for the woman as it was for me. It didn’t even feel like sex. It felt more like that first cigarette Cruz handed me to calm my nerves.
I had no sooner finished my business when the woman slipped on her thin dress and left the room. I took that as my cue to leave, except Cruz was still going strong in the bed behind the blanket where my clothes lay on the floor. I hoped to hell he wouldn’t yell “Switch” again. I figured I’d just wait in the room, but then the girl reappeared with another GI. She’d no doubt spent the minute in between the two of us getting a quick checkup and nod of approval from that doctor. If I didn’t have the clap by nightfall, it would be a miracle.
Cruz came through the curtain ten minutes later, but I told him I’d only been waiting a minute or two. We put on our clothes, took the merchandise, and left.
“Nothing like Vietnamese boom-boom to take the edge off, am I right?” Cruz said.
I smiled and nodded and generally played my part. I know I should be grateful. Cruz could just as easily have chosen one of the other guys in our squad to accompany him, but I just can’t help but be disappointed by my first experience, and to feel bad for the two young women, but mostly I fear that I’ll finally be out on a long patrol and I’ll suddenly be scratching like a bitch and crying when I pee.
Chapter 9
June 8, 1979
William moved slowly the following morning, and I deduced he hadn’t stopped at three Jamesons at Behan’s. Mike had told me cocaine was the drug of choice and prevalent among many of the Northpark Yankees, along with marijuana and hash.
On the other hand, I felt pretty good. I arrived home from Behan’s too late to catch up with my friends, which allowed me to drink a lot of water, spend the night watching television with my dad and younger siblings, and get to bed at a reasonable hour. I’d also consumed quality beer, not the piss water my friends and I frequently drank.
Regardless of how we felt, there wasn’t time for William, Todd, and me to discuss the prior evening. We had a huge glulam beam to set, and Todd said it would crush us if anything went awry. Setting the beam meant getting up on the second story, giving me a chance to peek into the bedroom window and peer down into the backyard pool for my Lucille. No such luck. My Lucille never showed. It was just as well. When the crane arrived, Todd was all business. While Todd guided the boom operator and put the beam at the exact angle, I worked with William to attach the walls, so the structure tied together and didn’t collapse. Once we had secured the framed walls, we put up joist hangers and slid two-by-six roof joists in place. Unfamiliar with the work, I had to learn on the fly watching and mimicking William. Eventually I got the hang of it. Getting the ridge beam in place, securing the walls, and framing out some joists took all day. We quit at five. William and I had a softball game to get to.
We played in the top league. The guys in this league were men. Huge. Or maybe by comparison, I wasn’t. The bases extended just sixty feet from home plate, which meant the softball exploded off their bats like a screaming missile. As an infielder, I was supposed to stay in front of that howling explosive and knock it down at all costs, including playing the ball off my chest if need be. Any sane human being would have stepped out of the way, but some on the Northpark Yankees weren’t sane. Far from it. Tough New Yorkers, they didn’t take shit from anybody and were not averse to provoking the other team. Our left fielder, Greg, had done time for a drug charge and was quick as spit. He would stand on the edge of the outfield grass screaming at the other team in a thick Brooklyn accent, daring the hitters to hit the ball over his head. Many frustrated batters tried and failed to hit the ball over his head, then yelled at him to shut his mouth as they returned to the bench. That only egged him on. The chirping had progressed to some on-field scuffles, and we had been warned by the league that any additional complaints would result in a forfeit.
The game this night, however, finished without incident, a victory that was never in doubt.
We gathered at Village Host Pizza with wives, girlfriends, and friends, and relived each pitch and hit while eating slabs of pizza and drinking pitchers of beer. The team wouldn’t let me spend a dime and, as long as I wore the Northpark Yankees jersey and hat, no one carded me.
I’d just sat down at a table with a glass of beer when I felt someone lean close and whisper in my ear. “Vincenzo,” William elongated my name. “They’re here.”