boy

By Gentle Culpepper

boy stepped out of the bush, sat on a tombstone. mother sat in her favorite chair. she rarely spoke, cool air stroked her slender frame. boy lost his name in the jungle; lived in twisted dreams to escape the chaos. in basic, he sat in a shack filled with tear gas, sang to the earth in tides of flesh. boy was a silly vision. he walked through the jungle dining on marijuana, smiled through the heat and rain. death amused him. victory died in warm puddles of blood. he sat on a vietnamese grave, thoughts of his past slept in the bush. 

boy stole hubcaps after school. he sold them to young men who hated their fathers. the lost teen smiled into his soup. death was mute. his soul spoke to granite roads, ditches. it got no reply. he was a senior. his friends thought him cool. the senior swam in the ocean searching for redemption, none came. he told a lie. it went nowhere; kept boy awake at night. his eyes wept in silence. tiny spirits laughed. he graduated high school. the year was 1967. a quiet drizzle cleansed the streets of red town. boy’s hub cap business faltered. the us army called him. he had nothing. aspirations to succeed seemed vacant. humor waned on soft summer nights. daddy was not impressed with his son’s existence. daddy was a short man with huge hands. boy was an only child. the modest house sat alone drifting in a swamp of empty dreams.

boy’s right hand touched the sky thursday morning. the young grad promised god he’d defend america from enemies foreign and domestic. boy became something but remained nothing. 

boy loved high school. kids knew him, respected him. he liked golf, never played. he was fond of classical music, never bought an album, just talked about it. boy craved attention. his daddy, boy sr., ignored him. mother offered him quaint smiles in passing. she was ahead of his time. the neighbors were blue collar. every family had a car, a new tv, a cat or a dog, maybe a turtle. turtles were popular in red town. kids would paint their shells with fancy colors. los angeles was a small southern town in the sixties. cities like bell, southgate were not kind to blacks. negroes had to be out of town by sundown. deputy sheriffs were mongrels. blue-eyed demons infested the lapd. black folks thrived in spite of the carnage. boy boarded a train headed for fort jackson, south carolina. he didn’t care. los angeles grew smaller. seconds died in secluded frenzy.

boy sat on a vietnamese grave. they were slightly elevated structures. he grabbed a warm beer. his hand started to tremble. assumed a mind of its own. he panicked. 
“um gonna die. i can’t pull the trigger." 
curtis, skinny white kid from detroit, came running. 
“whatsa matter with you, boy?” 
“um gonna die. can’t defend myself.” 
vick, the big irish medic came running. 
“what’s the trouble, son?” 
“um a dead man, vick. look at my hand. can’t kill nobody.” 
“you goin’ to hell, boy. you a sinner!” said preacher, a crazy redneck from the 
     bible belt. in his mind everybody was going to hell. 
“you bein’ punished, boy.” 
“punished for what?” 
“for killin’ that kid.” 
“what kid, preacher?” 
“kee. you killed kee. you shot him in the head three times” 
“kee was blastin’ away with that ak, preacher. he killed miller. 
“miller had to die preacher. he raped kee’s sister. then he choked her to death. he’ll burn.” 
“you’re goin' to hell too. he was thirteen, she was twelve.” 
“he killed miller, preacher!" 
“your hand looks like rubber. you gonna burn, son. hee-hee.” 
the kids were assassins living in the dust; freely sanctioned with a license to kill. boy yelled for the medic. ted was a big irish kid from pittsburgh. he drank often.
     “whatsa matter, big shot?” 
“my hands shakin'. can’t shoot. can’t protect myself.” 
“hmmm, what should we do? hey, i know—you want some morphine? that should help.” 
preacher walked away mumbling. tom, the medic pulled the dope outta his rucksack. the medic, schooled in rampant passion, pushed the bloated syringe into boy’s arm. the assassin arrived in eden. the hand followed.

the grunt woke up in a hospital tent. the air smelled of blood, smoke, death. the hand was quiet. lots of drugs slowed it down. there were no rats present. the nurse with green eyes gave boy fresh fatigues. 
“i am immortal.” 
boy’s anus shrank to the size of a pea. he was cool. 
“who are you?” 
“kee!” 
“you ain’t kee. kee is dead. i shot him!”
“yes, three times in the head.” 
“you killed miller, kee!” 
“miller raped my sister. he slit her throat. she was twelve." 
“was?” 
“she fell in the rice paddies, drowned herself.” 
“you killed one of my boys kee, sorry.” 
“that’s okay, boy. miller is roasting somewhere. can you hear him screaming?”
“no, kee, i can’t. where are you?” 
“i’m sitting in a field of grass. the air is sweet, no bomb craters. i see giant trees cruising the horizons. soft winds hum a sweet song. i am alone.” 
the warlords sent boy’s shell-shocked ass home. he stopped being a hero at his daddy’s door.

kee traveled with him. the veteran walked city streets; citizens paid no attention to his rants. red town was filled with crazies. his conduct didn’t matter. people spoke in hushed tones. children ran down bumpy streets laughing. “boy be smokin’ that weed.”
boy sr. watched his son’s behavior with detached confusion. “what happened, son?” 
“i killed this kid. he keeps talking to me.” 
“what’s he saying?” 
“keeps sayin’ he’s immortal.” 
“i am free!” 
“no, kee. you’re dead. your rotting head has three bullets in it!” 
“you’re scaring your mother.” 
boy didn’t mind being haunted. he felt he deserved it 
"you are not sending my baby away. i want him home!” mrs. boy worked at the toy factory. her name was edna. she rarely spoke. she was anointed. edna loved her husband, didn’t know him. 
“sweetheart, the va can help him." boy sr. said. he called edna sweetheart when he needed something. “our son needs help. he walks the streets talking to himself. neighbors are watching.” 
“miller is burning, boy. my sister giggles. she can hear him.” 
mother drove her blue bug to work. she did not want her son entombed. 

boy sat in his corner. his bed was too soft. he languished in the psych ward of the va hospital. the massive structure sat in the cradle of west los angeles. the city was warm. the homeless were neat, polite. 

the psych ward housed shells of broken soldiers. men subjected to fate’s dark side. you didn’t have to be infantry to be damaged. destruction of the soul comes in one-size fits all. boy sat in the corner staring at himself. 
“the angel visits me.” 
“angels. no such thing, kee.” 
“of course there are. billions, trillions.” 
“what’s this angel’s name?” 
“tim. his name is tim. he was murdered by a group of sexual deviants. they were put to death. can you hear them screaming, boy?” 
“i was famous in high school, kee.” 
“the scope of man’s existence sleeps next to me, boy." 
“women loved me, kee." 

"timmy, we need to go visit the brother.” 
“what brother is that, rain?” 
“we need to go see boy.” 
“what for? word is he had some sort of breakdown.” 
“he’s one of us, timmy.” 
“he was really somethin’ in school. i heard his daddy took him to the va.” “we’ll pick him up saturday night.” 
“i can’t go, rain. i promised tanya i’d take her to the movies.”
“you still messin’ with tanya? you know she stabbed her mother!” 
“she’s fine and nasty. the charges were dropped.” 
“wanna see him, tim. he helped me kick larry’s ass. remember when big time larry stole my ride?” 
“yeah rain, i remember. larry was a bully. boy busted him upside the head with a wine bottle." 
“larry drowned in vietnam. that was one mean-ass brother.” 
“saturday night, timmy. we be on a mission, homey.” 
“nurses, doctors—they’ll all be gone. skeleton crew. if anybody stops us we’ll just tell them we old army buddies.” 
“we wasn’t in the service, rain." 
“boy was cool." 
“yeah, rain. boy was cool.” 
“your friends are comin', boy.” 
“i won’t talk to them. where are you, kee?” 
“i’m sitting in the park. children are playing on the swings. we didn’t have swings in vietnam.” 
“go home, kee.” 
“i am home.” 
“you don’t belong—” 
“i am spirit. your friends are on the way. prepare yourself.”

the va was a cavernous castle after sunset. spectres of past campaigns floated through pictured hallways. clerks, doctors, custodians, escaped the confines of toxic reality promptly at 4:30.

rain, tim, urbane soldiers of the cross, entered the facility. 

rain knew the psych ward. he had an uncle who served in korea. uncle nate was an alcoholic, a kindly man. he died sitting in his chair by the window.
boy said, “i know you, rain. stay out of my corner.” 
“time to go, bro.” 
“tim, rain, what'chall doin’ here?” 
“we goin’ for a ride, homey.” 
“where we we goin’?” 
“the queen mary!” 
“yeah, kee might like that." 
“who da hell is kee, boy?” 
“a kid i killed in nam.” 
“where is he?” 
boy points to his head. "my nerves are shot, rain.” 
“yeah bro. let's get to the boat." 
the boys launched themselves into the confines of a '63 chevy impala. it was cherry. 

rain worked in a warehouse. he lifted heavy boxes filled with stuff. 
the city hummed with nighttime joy. vacant rage lay buried in bumpy, calloused minds.

laughter is born in the darkest of shadows. 
burned out shells of courage chant to each other. 
the sniper sat in the tree thinking of home. 
the moon scolded his visions. nobody listened. 
patients fought their own wars in silence. 
“boy, how many bullets did you put into my head?” 
“three.” 
“i keep losing count. miller is burning. can you hear him?” 
the queen mary was a retired luxury liner. she was old, but still pretty. the grand ship was a troop carrier in wwii. it was moored in long beach. 

“my sister giggles, boy. she drowned herself in the rice paddy.” 

queen mary sat quietly in long beach kissing moonbeams. the ancient ship served as a haven for adulterers, happy drunks… 

rain, tim, boy approached the old ship with vulgar ambitions. the grand lady was festooned with multi-colored lights. 
“i’m going to sit upon a bench.” 
“go where you please, kee.” 

the nubian knights parked themselves at the promenade. the bar was rain’s favorite hangout. he took his fiancé there one night. rain was happy. her name was denise. rain wrecked her car that same night. denise called the wedding off. rain cried in his sleep. 

the gents found a table. the promenade was encased in 1940’s décor like rick’s cafe in casablanca. rain was happy. tim was glad to be away from tanya. she spent his money, had no kids. vodka martinis came swift, fast, heavy. he sought out a victim.
miller screamed. 
the sister giggled. 
kee’s spirit sat on a wire bench in the netherland. 

new orleans jazz flowed from the walls. bessie smith, ma rainey, big mama preached hymns of vigilance, sadness, defiance. 
rain could hold his liquor. he drove at high speeds chewing on gallons of vodka.
boy was not a drinker. when he got full he started to shout, loudly. 
the promenade was full of creatures that lived for the moment. the future did not exist for these nomads. 

rain, awash in carnal desires, bought a woman a screwdriver. gretchen smiled, told a lie. she had two kids. music spread joy for the moment. daylight would usher in toxic beams of reality.

boy shouted at the patrons, the darkness enveloped all. the evil brew spurred him to the dance floor. boy displayed an eloquence that defied reality. he was a talent. tim, rain sat with their guest. they spoke of deeds that never existed. the martinis dragged them back to infancy. the girls drifted through a new adventure.

in the advent of a new storm, boy laid out his testimony: 
“miller was big and black. on a tuesday he called out my name and died. now miller was sick. he was a fellow grunt. he was also a rapist. he liked to cut off a dead enemy's ears. we was brothers. the judge sent him to nam instead of jail. miller fell in love with this little twelve-year old girl. she was a whore. her daddy was a pimp. the vietnamese were dirt poor. i named her sue. that wasn’t her real name. she hated it, but her daddy beat her with a stick if she didn’t work. miller told her to stop. he was going to take care of her. sue laughed in his face. she fed the whole sorry ass family. you didn’t laugh at miller. he slapped her. she spit in his face and he just flipped. he raped her right by the old french guardhouse. he left her there bloody and naked. the villagers were terrified. 'specially dear old dad. he cried like a baby. his meal ticket was dead. i told miller: 'boy you really did it this time.' 'it don’t mean nuthin’ he said. we was all standin’ around. sue’s brother, kee, walked out of his hut. he was fifteen. he was a good kid. he used to hide our dope when the brass came around. well, he was armed with a shiny new ak47. don’t know where he got it. he just started firing at miller. i used to steal hubcaps—did i mention that? miller fell, dead as a nail. i thought kee was gonna kill somebody else so i pumped three shells into his skull, split his head like a cantaloup." 
the bouncer, half-brother to king kong, had been listening in. he whispered to rain: 
“get him out of here before i do.” 
tim, rain, both born in county hospital, rushed to boy’s side. they grabbed rain by the arms, rushed him out the club. he smiled to the crowd. nina simone, dinah washington blew kisses to vaunted champions wearing tombstones. 
the crowd returned to pointless frivolity. boy soiled himself profusely.
“boy, what the hell was that all about?” 
“i’m a soldier. the best. that’s all i had. i stole hubcaps." 
"not anymore," said tim. 
“leave him alone, tim. who knows what he went through? these kids ain’t the same.”
“damn rain, they sure messed him up.” 

tim, rain returned boy to the psych ward. he changed into dry pajamas mrs. boy bought him. edna was very neat. he fell asleep in his corner, thin blanket wrapped around his head. 
tim, a fugitive fleeing from a sober environment, stole a wheelchair. he'd always wanted one. 
“i have to go, boy.” 
"where you headed, kee?” 
“i’m going to see my sister." 
“how will you find her?" 
"i blinked my eyes and this road appeared. it wasn’t there before.” 
“i’m sorry i killed you, kee. but miller was a soldier.” 
"that’s okay boy. things are better, quieter, my sister still giggles. that silly giggle. miller still screams." 
“i was cool once, kee.” 
“yah boy. the wind nipped at your heels." 

****

Gentle Culpepper has been writing for 40years. He is compelled to create works that details the conduct of the common man. He is licensed Minister and a graduate of Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary in Boston Massachusetts.