A/N: Some timeline experimentation with this one. This was originally supposed to be part of a separate one-shot, but I decided to include it as part of the main narrative.
"Slate, Paper" advertised itself as "The Village Voice: without the money, editors or talent!" It was a small independent magazine, which despite its self-effacing tag line did pretty well for itself in the late 1960s/early 1970s before going belly up in 1975, just in time to miss the American Bicentennial, oil wars and Disco. My friend, Ben Hoffmann, was an "Associate-Associate Editor" or something along that line.
Ben and I met in college, he was a senior and I was a freshman when we first learned the art of activist journalism through the Tulsa Echo. "Is the Cafeteria really skimping on meat in their famed 'three meats sandwiches?
For my freshman cornerstone project, a fancy term for a anxiety attack in paper form; I planned on submitting a 'true narrative account' to a verifiable publication and then write about the entire process of drafts, edits, rejections and more edits, rejections and finally publication; a process which, if I was lucky would repeat itself until I retired.
After finding out that the Tulsa Echo didn't count as a "verifiable publication" since 'they publish anyone,' I sought out Benny.
I halfway considered just updating my old essay I wrote in high school about the week Johnny, Dally and Bob Sheldon died, but then one evening my brother Sodapop, as he did so many times before, came to my rescue.
Dear Benny,
I was fifteen when my brother joined the army, sixteen when he came back from Vietnam. He didn't see me for a year; I didn't see him almost die in an ambush. When he came back he was both the exact same person and a completely different person from the one that left us. I have a hard time explaining it, even to myself, even now. It was like all of those qualities that made Soda "Soda" were still there, but altered.
I have difficult time writing about my brother in the war, first of all because of all he went through and secondly, because it was not my story to tell. I didn't think I could do justification to him or to his story.
To Americans, it is known as "The Vietnam War," apparently in the North Vietnamese call it, "The American War," to me, it simply became my brother's war.
But it was Soda, who told me his story and encouraged me to write it down.
"Ponyboy," he began, his gaze both intense and soft at the same time, "write it down man, I trust you."
That did it. I started to cry and couldn't stop.
"Fuck, ain't I fucking bawl baby." I tried to laugh it off and curse again, but all that did was cause a new round of crying, this time complete with snot bubbling out of my nose and my throat crackling; which, I assure you, was as attractive as it sounds.
My brother, clad in only a pair of dirty Levis and a long sleeved undershirt stood up and not saying a word, gave me a hug.
I figured that if he could bare his soul to me and then have the presence and heart to comfort me, at the very least I could try to share with the world what he went through.
To two of us sat up and talked for about 6 hours straight that night, me smoking cigarettes, my brother smoking pot, both of us chugging down some watered down Bud.
"Don't write about Basic," my brother tells me, "that shit is boring. Ain't no one gonna want to read about me throwing up after running a fucking obstacle course."
So, let's just say that Basic wasn't fun for Private 1st Class Sodapop P. Curtis.
"Sometimes, after a particularly hard obstacle course or run, I'd almost wished I was in Vietnam. Ain't that something, Pony? By the way, how the hell did you do all of that running in high school smoking like a chimney?"
I shrugged, "don't know, can't do it now, that's for damn sure."
Sodapop crocked one eyebrow, a little trick he'd picked up from an old buddy of ours from way back, "mmm, serves you right," he said with a smirk.
"Yeah," I reply, my eyes focusing on the bag of weed in his hand.
As the dark turned to dawn, our oldest brother came home. Even though the two of us were high as kites and tired as shit, we insisted on telling him all of the stories. Of course, at that hour I can't vouch for the accuracy of anything we were saying.
You remember Darry, right? Big guy, probably voted for Richard "send us all to the poorhouse" Nixon, and all that? Well, Mr. "I don't smoke cause I'm too proud of my athletic health," bummed some Mary Jane from Soda. I know it's not acid or anything, but I never thought I'd see the day when Darry Curtis decided to smoke pot. Soda and I looked at him like he was off his rocker.
But Darry, smoking pot like it was the most natural thing in the world, just looked at us, rolled his eyes and said "grow the fuck up you two." *That* sent us all into another round of laughter, when Darry, rolling on the floor and heaving in hysterics (it was a long night), looked at me, and not missing a beat said, "Ponyboy Curtis if I catch YOU doin' any drugs I'm gonna skin you alive." Apparently, this 'parenting' kick he has going ain't ever gonna end. He then blew a huge smoke ring in my direction and gave me Cheshire cat grin.
It was one of those nights.
Around 8:00 A.M. in the morning, Soda looked at his watch, "shit, y'all I'm tired, I'm heading to bed." Looking at my notebooks filled with his stories, I had one last question before he hit the hay.
"Well, how should I start out?"
"With Phil, start with Phil."
Please see attached the rough draft of "My Brother's War"
Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
P.M. Curtis/enc.
P.S. I thought about cleaning up the swearing, but it felt more authentic to me with the swear words included, besides, it is how people talk, if some higher up at "Slate, Paper" doesn't like it-well fuck em. ;)
P.P.S. I'm gonna assume you're smart enough not to actually forward this letter to anyone at Slate, Paper.
I look over the letter one more time and consider whitening-out the part about me breaking down like a baby. I mean, I ain't ashamed, really, it's just that I usually don't share that side of myself with other people. Heck, I don't even cry in front of other people. But, I left it in. Benny's a good guy and he knows how much Soda means to me, but also I figure if I kept in the sentimental part Benny would have to publish my story-he'd feel too guilty not to.
As I was placing the manuscript in the envelope, I looked over at my sleeping brother. He still looked younger sleeping than he did awake. As I looked at him, the only word that came to my mind was 'thank you.'
I didn't know who I was talking to, to Soda, to God, to the Vietcong who never hit my brother; maybe to everyone and no one at the same time.
My Brother's War
Phil Mihailovich stood 5'10 and weighed about 175 lbs. He had light auburn, almost red hair and piercing green eyes which earned him the nickname "Irish" despite the fact that no Gaelic blood flowed through his veins.
Among the items Irish brought with him to Vietnam was a book of Sufi poetry, an "Introduction to Buddhism" and an abridged version of the "Marahabata." Phil had been interested in eastern religions ever since he was a little boy growing up among the fishermen and loggers of Pulomaka, Washington.
While the other guys in the platoon were writing letters to their sweethearts and buddies back in the states, Irish read the Marahabata.
At first, Soda was worried that Irish didn't have a family to write to, and that made him pretty sad. But, it turned out Irish did have a family, and they did write to him and he wrote back to them, he just preferred reading.
He had three sisters, all older, and one younger brother. His father was a professor of Oriental Culture and Religions but even a professor's salary wasn't enough to support a family of seven, so in the summer while most of his colleagues were busy doing research projects Mr. Mihailovich worked a logger camp. His real passion though was fly-fishing and Mr. Mihailoivch, usually a rather calm and inoffensive man would go into a tizzy if anyone dared suggested to him that bait fishing was a better alternative. I first thought about writing 'rage', but Soda assured me that Irish used the word 'tizzy.'
"I don't think Phil's dad ever got real mad Pony, maybe it's a professor thing?"
But when Irish was ten those debates about bait fishing vs. fly fishing became as worthless as the flies and worms which gave the two forms of fishing their names.
A freak accident at the logging camp caused Mr. Mihailovich to lose 7 fingers, four on one hand, three on another. He would have bled to death if it wasn't for a man by the name of Carl Hopkins who served as a medic in Korea.
The loss of his fingers caused Mr. Mihailovich to go into a deep depression, go on disability and spend all of his time reading Greek poetry-in the original Greek.
"Five time state champion" Irish said sadly, "can you believe it Okie? He was a Professor up at Washington State, but his real passion was fly fishing. Then suddenly, 'poof' it's all gone.
You know, I used to pray to God that he would take my hands and give them to my father, as some kind of transference. I read a lot I figured I didn't need my hands for that, I could just turn the page with my toes."
Soda jotted a mind note to ask me what 'transference' meant when he wrote to me later that evening.
Phil Mihailovic liked Soda, but then again, so did most of the guys in their platoon. Soda was wild and fun, nice-to his fellow soldiers and Vietnamese civilians alike and a good soldier.
The only guy in their platoon that didn't seem to like Soda was Tate Parker who thought Soda was a little bit too wild and way too damn cheerful for this malaria infected hellhole.
Most of the other guys would have just made a smart remark about Phil's reading habits, but Soda seemed genuinely interested.
Phil didn't know why Soda seemed to take such a shine to him, they seemed as different as two people could be. Phil was the quiet the son of a fisherman-intellectual, Soda was the loud, wild former greaser who talked about getting into rumbles the same way Phil's dad used to talk about capturing an elusive catch.
Until he met Sodapop Curtis Phil's one interaction with a greaser was Johnny Skinozi, a boy whose vocabulary seemed limited to "fuck" "you" and "asshole." Johnny spent four years bullying Phil, knocking books out of his hands and throwing Phil down the stairs. They graduated high school a year ago, and then suddenly, poof Johnny just disappeared.
Soda's face would light up when he talked to Phil about all of the rodeos he used to ride in. Phil was allergic to horses.
Soda could talk up a storm, while Phil preferred to watch and observe.
He didn't speak great English, his speech peppered with slang and ain'ts, and Phil, the son of an English professor, had to stop himself from correcting Soda's grammar.
Phil was a draftee. At first Soda had a hard time believing that a professor's kid ended up a private in the Army, but Phil reminded him, "former professor's kid."
Soda, like most of the kids, and they were kids, who ended up in Vietnam joined the army.
But despite their differences they both found it easy to talk to one another and despite everything that separated them, a friendship formed.
"Hey, Curtis how many times have you gotten laid?" Soda turned around and saw Tate Parker sitting in his bunk, his arms crossed a bemused smile on his face.
"We're taking an informal survey," Parker continued, "the guy with the fewest fucks, I'm taking him over to the Can-Can Club, my treat."
Soda shouted out a number that may have exaggerated his sexual prowess but maintained his reputation.
Irish's ears turn bright red, and Soda realized that Irish was probably still a virgin.
"What about you, Irish, you pop any cherries?" Parker made a popping sound with his mouth.
Parker is leering over at Irish, and Soda is getting pretty uncomfortable, because it seems like Parker knows that the answer is, and just wants to embarrass him.
But, not missing a beat and in a nonchalant voice, Irish answers honestly.
Soda cringes. Because, man, there's a time and place for honesty and a time and place for exaggerations and bravado and if Irish didn't know the difference between the two than he was even more SOL than Soda thought.
"Well, I'll be a fucking monkey's uncle, I knew you were weird Irish, I didn't know you were that weird."
"Fuck off, Parker" Soda glared at him. He didn't understand why Irish just didn't make up a number. He also made a silent vow that he would look after Irish so that Irish would be come back home and find a nice little American girl to screw.
Tate boasted that he lost his virginity when he was twelve.
""Yeah, fucking your sister ain't nothin' to be proud of," Soda said to him.
Before he knew it, Parker was up in his face, his fist pointed directly at Soda's mouth."
"Say that again, pretty boy, and I'll knock all em pretty teeth right out of your pretty face." Soda insisted that this is what Parker said to him, despite my consternation that it sounded like bad movie dialogue.
"Shit Pony, ain't my fault the guy talked like that, I'm just tellin' you the story as I remember."
Soda was never one to back away from a fight, hell, he liked fighting. But, he wasn't the same kid he was at 16. He knew that he, Tate and Irish were all on the same side here, and when a guy is responsible for your life, it's best not to piss him off. Besides, Soda hated dentists.
Soda put his hands up in a surrender motion, "don't mean nothing by it man, let's just cool down." He stuck out his hand in a peace offering, and to his surprise, Parker shook it and walked away.
It was right then that Soda remembered what his mother used to say to him every time he tried to get out of trouble as a kid, "Soda Curtis, you could charm the pants off the devil."
Soda was right about Parker though. He had no intention of "treating" Irish to a night on the town, he just wanted to embarrass him.
Irish didn't appear embarrassed at all. He just shrugged his shoulders at Parker and went back to reading his book.
"Hell," Soda whispered to Irish that night, "I bet half of these guys are still virgins. You and me, we'll go to the Can-Can Club tonight, on me."
To his surprise, Phil looked at Soda with an earnest grin and said "sure."
The Can-Can Club was officially a little bar/peep show and unofficially a brothel, located on base.
It looked as if the Fourth of July and a cheap Vietnamese Brothel had gotten in a fight and you weren't quite sure who had won. It was decorated with posters from John Wayne movies, colored paper lamps, pictures of Playboy Bunnies and a Buddha statue sitting on an old night stand. On the night stand someone wrote in marker, "me suck you dick Joe."
The waitresses were local girls, dressed in tiny red, white and blue skirts with sequined stars attached to their lapels. They called themselves "Mary Jo," "Barbara Anne," and other wholesome all American names. All that seemed to do was remind the soldiers of how far away from home they really were.
All Soda thought of was how much trouble, er, fun, his buddies from back home would find in a place like "The Can-Can Club."
Soda didn't planning on having sex that night, just talk, drink a few beers and serve as moral support for Irish. But, like most plans involving the Americans in Vietnam, those plans went to waste. He slept with a girl who called herself Roxanne, or was it Roseanne? She was pretty had real soft skin and long hair. Soda rubbed his fingers over her breast, watching her nipples turn hard, which made him get hard in turn.
After they were finished, Soda gave Roxanne/Roseanne some money and walked out of the room. It felt nice at the time, but he realized it didn't mean anything to him.
When he came out of the room Soda saw Irish talking to a girl. Soda gave the thumbs-up sign, but as he moved in closer, he realized that Irish was speaking to the girl in Vietnamese.
"You've got to be shitting me man, I had no idea you could speak Vietnamese."
"I don't speak it very well, I mostly just rely on this," he said, pointing to a Vietnamese-English dictionary in his lap.
"Shit," Soda said with a grin, "you are something else."
Soda had given Irish instructions for that night: "take it slow, make sure she likes it, and don't forget about them titties." He also supplied Irish with some condoms and cash, but seeing that Irish was still talking to the girl, and Soda still had an itch to scratch he took some of the cash back and went off to find another girl.
When Soda returned, Irish and the girl, whose name it turned out was "Van" were still talking. Van made wild gestures with her hands and spoke in a loud, animated voice. Irish just looked at her, his eyes sparkling, every now and then letting out a huge loon laugh.
That night at camp Irish gave Soda back the condoms and the cash, all unused. "Here you go Okie, thanks for everything."
"Keep it Irish, ya never know when you're gonna need it. Besides, you seemed pretty sweet on that girl in the Can-Can Club…"
Irish just smiled at Soda, but Soda knew he was thinking only about Van.
"Thanks for everything, and um, can you not call me Irish? That nickname annoys the hell out of me. Call me Phil."
"Sure thing, Ir-I mean Phil, only if you call me Soda, I ain't too wild about being called Okie either."
Phil couldn't stop talking about Van, about her childhood in a hamlet outside Saigon, about her family, but most of all about her dreams of traveling the world, seeing the Eifel Tower and meeting Bridget Bardot.
"Irish is really sweet on this girl, her cooch must be as wet as a fucking waterfall." Phil walked up to Parker and before anyone had time to react, punched him in the nose-breaking it.
Usually, when guys like Parker are humiliated they react in two ways: they lash out or they bow down. To everyone's surprise, Parker stopped his beef with Phil and developed if not quite a friendship, a grudging respect for the guy.
"Fuck, all Parker had to do was insult Irish's Mama San and Irish fucked up Parker's nose like it was sloppy joes."
That made Private Curtis instantly remember just how much he missed eating sloppy joes.
Vietnam, when you're not being blown up or ripped apart, is a beautiful country.
"Like an acid trip, a fucked up acid trip where half of 'em little goblins are trying to kill you, but if you get a break, you see just the most peaceful and beautiful colors, I miss that Pony." That's how Soda tried to explain it to me and I nodded, but I couldn't really understand.
Pony gave me a copy of his rough draft and I looked it over. "What do you think Soda?" His eyes are bugging with a need for approval, and because I love him and because I can't give him anything else, I give him that.
"Real good Pony."
Darry beaks out into a grin, "this is great Pony," and I give a weak smile to my brothers.
"nice to his fellow soldiers and civilians alike," aww man Ponyboy, if only you knew, if only you knew.
Darry knows the truth, at least a fraction of the truth, but there is some stuff I can't even tell Darry about.
I look at Darry and he's teasing Pony about something and I'm watching them, and it's like they're on T.V. and I'm sitting in the living room watching them but not being able to interact with them.
Just watching them.
A/N: S.E. Hinton owns