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Show 5^0? to whoever sat beside me at the counter, the one time I had gone to dance to the weird, writhing, strobe-lighted music that others my age seemed to use for acting out the deep drug-fantasy that waSAVietnam, a l l the moments when I had reached into thin air to grasp for something t h a t would make me feel that my l i f e was not passed away, dying on a napalmed h i l l - the "Gunny" mocked, looted, raped those moments. "You don't know anything about my husband, do you?" I was standing s t a l k - s t i l l in the middle of the dance floor, speaking loudly above the band. "What?" "Gunny " was bew^ildered. He stumbled toward me. He took my elbow, t r y i n g to lead me back to the t a b l e . "You haven't done a thing to help us, have you?" I said louder, and stopped, turning to face him. "Well., . a c t u a l l y - . . 1 put in a c a l l t h i s morning. Let's go back now, see i f i t ' s come through. The s t a f f sergeant might have an answer by now." We walked back s i l e n t l y . The summer sun s p l i n t e r e d the sidewalk into the painful, glaring cracks that characterize reality. The gunny looked older than ever, his skin creased ana Peking-. The nausea l e f t me and I f e l t almost sorry for him. "You have a wife?" I asked. He nodded. "Then you know how I f e e l . . . h ow I want him back." Thank heaven he had not r e - e n l i s t e d . I couldn't bear to think of him as a ' l i f e r ' like the "Gunny." He shook his head. " I t ' s been dead for years between us. We move one place, then another. She -lilcoo- the money I make. |