calliope

           Calliope leaned close to Sonya and whispered, "Come on. Let's go somewhere."
           The hospital room had become a boy's clubhouse. Reefer talk, newspaper talk, and a garden-variety guy talk loaded with the storm-seeds of a pissing contest.
            Silently, like ninjas they departed: sleek winds blowing down the corridor.
            Two counter-culture chicks bonding with every step.
            In the shade of an elm there was a pushcart falafel vendor on the sidewalk corner.
             Aromas were over-powering.
             The women smiled and walked up to the man with a red bandana tied around his head.
            "Doud, how's it going?" Calliope asked.
            "Very fine! Give me a hug!"
            They hugged, and he squeezed her ass. Old friends.
             Sonya grinned, thinking, This is a very sexy man!
             "Doud, this is Sonya."
             "M'lady--"
             She shook his offered hand, discovering a delicate, almost mincing grip.  Wow! This is so cool!
              "We need two falafel supreme, and two sides of feta and black olive salad," Calliope said.
              "Coming right up!"
              Sonya had never eaten falafel, and was relieved to see it served on pita bread. Like a gyro.
              They took the food over to a bench on the grass.
              A little park bordered a pond with Canadian geese.
              "My new friend!" Sonya gushed. "Calliope!"

apache

          Macomber fixed a mug of what he called Café con Leche, using Pet Milk and Instant Maxwell House. Radio: "Good Morning, Vietnam!" and then it was the Animals, We Gotta Get Outta This Place! He lit a Lucky and opened the new Stars and Stripes.
           Fucking Erskine Brown walked in and sat down with him at the card table. Face registering shock.
           "No Freedom Bird for Morrison," he said.
           "What are you talking about, Douche Bag?"
           "The dude's dead."
           "I saw him leave this morning."
           "Never made it. He was standing in line at departure when  rockets hit Tan Son Nhut. One came through the ceiling and took him out."
            "Christ--! Say, where'd you hear this?
            "Spider Monkey down at the mess."
            "Oh, man. Can anything suck more than that?"
            "That's how Charlie is gonna win this war," Jones stated. "One thousand cuts and a little bit of terror--"
             "Break our resolve--"
             "Whose resolve? I want outta here."

                                                                                          *

              Macomber often took work home with him. He sat now on his cot, cropping pictures. Hated cropping pictures. Why? he asked himself. There was nothing to it.
              Most people hated proof-reading. For some reason he found it painless.
              Same with writing headlines.
              His boss, Master Sergeant Kwilecki frowned upon this after-hours activity, but, knowing how flakey Macomber  was, and figuring it would ensure making deadline, he said OK.  "But, the first time you lose something, Son,you're ass is grass, and I'm the fucking lawn-mower!"
              Beer.
              All work required beer, and so he was on the third one.
              Radio was playing I'm a Girl-Watcher when Erskine Jones flapped in wearing a Hawaiian shirt with his fatigue pants. "Hi Guy," he grinned, bucktoothed fool. "Not gonna get any Am Dao sweating in here!"
              Am Dao. Pussy.
              "Nope," Macomber clucked. "Right about that."
              And that got him thinking about Nguyen, and her platinum blond blushing-pink-slit beaver.
              "Hey, Mac, ya got a brewsky for me?"
              "Help y'self."

                                                                                          *

               Brown drank all the remaining beer, three of them, belched, farted, and then bummed a Lucky. Macomber smirked and shook his head. "You're a real piece of work, Ersky."
               Off came the Hawaiian shirt, then the fatigue pants, then the GI skivvies.
               "Well," Brown stated. "It's time for Long Dong to hit the shower."
   
                                                                                           *

                By the time Brown returned, wearing soapy shower clogs, Macomber was putting his work away, filed in a manila accordion folder.
                "Hey, Mac, what do you know about that gook girl they called Apache?"
                "The sniper who could capture guys, slice off their eyelids during interrogation, making sure everybody on Hill 55 could hear them screaming?"
                 "Yeah, that's the one."
                 "Story's bullshit."