1 In the Beginning
[Augsburg, West Germany, 1970 They were troubling times back in the late 60s and early 70s: the war in Vietnam was going on, protests all over the United States; a time of unrest, and the sounds of the Beatles and Elvis Come Back. As was the war inside of Chris head, slowly ending. Love does not have a name in my story, although it has side effects, for both involved. Love as we knew it was the wealth it gave us, for what it was worth at the moment, we bothI think bothforgot to look at ourselves; what was important was grabbing the moment for our own personal reasons, or gains. It was perhaps what we wanted though, and needed; perhaps that was the best combination of the whole affair. Possibly, just possibly this was more an affair than what we bargained for, yes, thats precisely what it was, more of an affair, yescertainly. But I prefer it inhabit the river of truth, so I place it in the space that lies between two people as growing pains. She w as twenty-four years old, I was twenty-two.
2 A View in The East
[Chick Evens The street was narrowan army compound, with its towering concrete walls in West Germany, towered above my head, as I walked along its narrow sidewalk. In the distance you could see the emerging city as it started to surround you: as you walked this location. Towards the end of this wall were guard towers, trees, and more streets. At night when I walked home along this walk, this wall, the lights seemed always to be twisted, but then I was seldom sober; perchance, a little twisted myself.
Until the huge wall emerged, the compound was completely concealed; therefore, until that moment, that very moment the element of surprise remained. New recruits, assigned to the military compound would seldom dare to leave, walk, or even glance along this walk, this long side view of the compound in fear they would not find their way back: back home, to this compound I believe. They were you ng and unraveled for the most part, their contempt for being in this foreign land and city of Augsburg, and even for being assigned to a small complex like Reese, knew no bounds in disappointment. We even had our protesters in the ranks of the military, in the platoons at Reese.
The water tower, in back of the compound could be seen above the large concrete walls as could some of the trees when I walked steadily along the side of the tower wall going down the street as the VWs and Mercedes passed me. Very cleaver I thought if anything, for surely World War Two, the Nazis could have used it in part, for spying; but the more I think about it, I suppose, the more I think they were used for more sophisticated meansand spying on whom, themselves?
The area around the compound had a gothic kind of look; medieval not like the inside barracks in the compound. The barracks were painted green and patched with red and brown colors: gave it a drab and rustic feeling, if not a flat affect on the mind. I never liked the colors, but then Im no decorating freak anyhow, it would do, it did do.
Its countless windows with decaying iron and wood could have never contemplated another defense against any new war of the 60s or 70s other than the war it had, the Silent Cold War; for Im sure its painful memories of the Nazi era filled its spaces. On all four of the barrack sides were doors, as heavy as the church doors down in Augsburg, in the middle of the city that is, with its iron sides like an old fire-escape. This iron went to the upper and lower parts of the doors.
The rooms were small, four men to a room, and in some, two men to a room (which would be half its four-man room size), and if you were a part of the Security Police Force, as I was, one to a room, but the room was like a prison cell, one could say, in that it was a thin emplacement: no more than 12-feet long and six feet wide. Thank God I was not claustrophobic.
There we re upper rooms to these three stories barracks, filled with staircases on each side of the building, and in the center of it, as if there were to be constant drills [meaning: having soldiers running about, hence.
The windows were dark at night, only a lifeless light could be seen from a distance: our bed check sergeant could be seen walking up those lonely steps at night with his flashlight as to check each room and see who was missing at twelve-midnight. He was an asshole, one who loved to kick people in the ass as they walked up the stairs, I often said to myself, Dont, dont you dare! I think he read my mind, the bastard, because he never did play around with me like that.
Now that I think of it, looking back at the building over the wall, one might think of a Peeping Tom; the reason being, as you look through the windows you can see the light shinning in and on the stairs leading up to the second floor; I somehow can picture a crazy old man with a toothless mo uth peering through the doorways like a guard in a prison cell: thinking about escaping.
As I continued to walk down the street, smoking a cigarette, I walked along this wall, I walk it almost every day, my mind would produce these visions as I pressed forward with the excitement I knew would be ahead of me: simply excitement for a Private First Class, in the Army like me, nothing to wake up the dead. Id think of the coming bar scene, the smooth tasting mouth-watering dark German beer, and the girls, and a few friends that might be at one of the bars (in this case, the one I was headed for): that was my excitement, waking up from the dead excitement that is. I knew by walking, not by hiding at the damn compound Id survive this adventure, aloneness, ordeal at times you could call it; Id get there, and the night would start, which would make me focus on the here and now, not the bullshit of the Army life. And so I did exactly that, kept walking, looking ahead, and close r and closer coming to my lifeless adventure for the evening.
The very air above me seemed fresher now that I had left the compound with its military madness. Ski would meet me there at the bar, or be there, most likely be there, at the guesthouse that is, several blocks northeast of the compound. He merely put up with the military; his head was some other place it always seemed, wondering why he was still here, here at Reese [meaning: this military compound in Germany. It seemed to me the way he acted was like he was on some expensive vacation: he is separated from the real army, mentally anyway, like the Army is from the Marines.
As I observed my watch, I noticed I was making good time, I do when I talk to myself. I was now far from the great walls of my assigned military compound, my home away from home: out of sight, out of mind. That is how a draftee thinks I think. Or I wonder if I simply act the way I think other people expect me to act: sometimes I just dont know. It seems about half the people in the Army actually joined the Army, not sure why, but the other half like me, got drafted. You know the ones that didnt make it to college, or got married before 1965; a cutoff date someone came up with to appease us peasants. They have all these rules so they can figure out who is dispensable and who is not. I am one that is dispensable I guess. But then so was Elvis, everyone over here seems to like him, that being: the Germans in particular. Perhaps the US Government wanted to cool his heals back a decade ago, and this was their way of doing it. I think the U.S. Government tried to get rid of Elvis so they could get back to the old ways, the old music; but of course it didnt work, He has changed the world in one way or another; and now thinking about it, he was surely a rebel for his time, all the way up to this time: again I say, if anyone changed America, it was him. Hes settled down now somewhat I hear.
I can see th e guesthouse now from where I am at, catching the wooden beam crossovers in the middle sides of the guesthouse like a sloppy-x, it always looks so medieval heavy; and along the sides and front of the establishment is the walkway, it looks deserted, yet it is only 8:00 PM, early for night life, just wait, it will be swinging soon Chick!
3 The Guest House
The guesthouse always looked alive, or maybe it was I as I approached it, felt alive. I read the name as always, over the doorway, the heart of the inn: The Lions Den, denI liked the tone to that, I liked that word, back home in Minnesota den den, would be for some rich folks with an entrance in a house, up on Summit Avenuethe rich district in St. Paul, so it had a rich tone to it, echo to it; such rich and famous folks lived there such as the writer: F. Scott Fitzgerald used to live there, back in the 1920s and the tycoon John J. Hill.
Anyhow, the Lions Den was two stories high, with a slanted roof, laced c urtains and old German beer mugs on the windowsills. There was wood on the lower part of the sills, varnished, which had allowed it to have a glow to them, fresh manure: I should have been an artist or photographer, for I liked taking pictures with my eyes, but never could afford a camera: but Ill never forget them, they were shinny as a bald head freshly polished. Now that Im on the subject: I loved great art, and the structures of buildings and bridgesthe texture, and the colors of bricks, their tones, and mortar.
Hello, I said as I sat at a table near the window inside the inn, waiting for Ski, my friend, or perhaps Sergeant Mac, thats what we called hima sergeant from Vietnam, buck sergeant, he was part of the security platoon I belonged to; younger than I by a year or two, and being a machine-gunner on a helicopter I think got the best of him, but he only had ten months to go and hed be home.
I was often mistaken for an office rather than a private, not sur e why maybe its my smugness with these surrounding walls, it makes me put an air of insignificance sailing throughout the place with no lion.
You could see a portion of the building structures huge chimney across by the bar area: --it towered past the next level [second floor and through the ceiling to the outside sky. I loved the iron stairs that linked the back of the bar to the upper floor. As you looked up, you felt you were in a courtyard of sorts, and as you walked about the upper level, it was like walking around a gallery.
I turned to my side, then half turning again, looked toward the door, it opened to the March air, I then looked back at the bar and its twisting iron stairway again, there was a new waitress walking down the steps, laughing: shes new, havent seen her before, I mumbled. But Ive not been here for two months either, I told myself, could she have been coming here for possibly that longI bit; she walks like she knows the place well (I alway s talk to myself, always).
Tonight maybe Ill be dancing, if the bar fills up. Disco music is filling the air I dont really like it, but I like dancing to it. I feel as if my guardian angel has something in store for me tonight, I shouldnt say that, Im not much with the God thing, but I do respect the angels, they got to be someplace, why not here, Im still alive, and with all this drinking I do, only an angel could be responsible for my still kicking. Maybe Mac will come, he likes to drink, Ski, I like him but he doesnt drink much.
I seem to get a silent sense of humor and a smug look to my continuance: damn, every time I drink I get into this mode. The Waitress is giving me a joyful smile, I like that: funny, every man thinks a smile from a pretty waitress is an invitation to the bedroom: I wonder way [?
Hi, I said with a grunt, and then looked on.
Ski, came in, I see him standing by the side of the door, actually concealing the doorway of the gues thouse somewhat, it looks like he spotted me, not sure if he wanted to especially after seeing the new waitress, he looked at me again. She had caught his eyes just like mine, a beauty, and she knows it. Funny thing, pretty girls are always so sure of themselves: I suppose they feel if you do not smile the other guy will: and if they want to give you more with the smile they will, and if they want to toy with you, with the smile they will; I think they got, and like power with them smiles. I think they test out how powerful their smile can be. She had walked to a table to put linen-sheets on it, as the disco-music started to liven up the joint a little more. It was getting louder: the club, guesthouse, bar, all the same, and it was getting louder.
Three or four minutes he stood by the door not quite taking off his hat checking out the scene, then caught my eyes again. She caught Skis eye again also I see, and was a little embarrassed it seemed, sometimes Ski can be like a bulldog, and out stare anyone. I wonder if Mac is going to stop on by [?
All kinds of people must have seen her walking down those stairs, they were all watching those shapely legs, and her wiggled that ass, and those fine looking hips, her silky white German skin. She brought the drinks for the four GIs in the center of the guesthouse. They looked like they were still chilled from the frosted air outside, as they were rubbing their hands together. She had told one of the four gentleman in advance to be patient: as he asked for two drinks and she only brought him one, matter-of-fact, she only brought each person, each one drink, one at a time; it is her first night I over heard her say to the group. That was bullshit; it was their first night, not hers, and she just wants a bigger tip I bet:
Just hurry up with the drinks bab! one of the GIs replied as she walked away to get their second order in advance, as they turned their heads to watch her walk awa y, checking out her ass more, making cat-calls. She paid no attention, and just went about her business.
I noticed Ski now, he noticed me noticing him also, and Ski noticed the man that was a bit demanding, if not rude, to the waitress. Even at his best, Ski has a trigger for a temper that is almost uncontrollable. Life had treated him harshly I felt, especially in terms of respect. And god-forbid who got on his bad side, although we were about the same height, both built solid and fighters, he avoided getting me mad, or mad at me, I suppose he needed a friend, and was never sure of me; we both could fight, and I gave a ore (image or some kind of signal out) that I was unbeatable (or perhaps not afraid to be beaten if indeed he could beat me).
Ski, seemed to me as if he spent some time in some kind of unthinkable institution; his guard was always up. He had explained to me a few times: friends were far and in-between for him. But for some reason, he tried hard to keep me from running away from him, or better put, turning on him; I being his only real friend I suppose. Thats how I felt at any rate. I liked Ski, but I wasnt about to be controlled by him, and he liked to control.
It was out of respect Ski went straight from the door to my table without stopping at the rude table full of soldiers, and letting them know how he felt: which would had been normal for him. But he had it on his mind none-the-less, Im sure, and came directly to my table; when he sat down with me, putting a dollar on the table for a beer, it took a little doing for him to put a smile back on his face, twisting a ting to see the rude table of soldiers somewhat to my left, and a little to his side, since he was sitting in front of me and sideways to them, his should twenty feet away from them anyhow.
You find something funny? Ski asked me.
Mr. Ski, who are you going to hit tonight, cool down, the night hasnt even started yet. Ski smiled, and t hen kind of laughed: I read his mind and he knew it.
Im ready ☻, he explained.
Ski was pleasant enough, even had some wit to him, and at times he even could be charming, and in another way, so charming if he wanted to he could catch the new waitresses eye, if that was to be his goal for the evening. If so, I prayed, that that table of rude soldiers be gone when Ski got wound up with alcohol; but then he usually didnt get as drunk as I.
I continued to drink and look about, I was one who didnt quite know when to stop drinking it was fun for me, and yes I liked to drink, drink and drink; like Mac, he liked to drink, drink and drink until he could forget those machine-guns in Vietnam, and the helicopter that fell, I mean crashed. He had some of that Post Traumatic Stress stuff; he was seeing a doctor at the clinic, and sometimes went to Frankfurt to see a doctor there. He told me once they had to take him out of Vietnam before he went local, crazy.
Ski on the other hand drank slowly, was cool and calm, a thief in disguise, not many people liked him, but I did, and that allowed him to join with the others I suppose; and if, and I say if, because I seldom seen him drunk, but if he got drunk, usually I couldnt tell, perhaps I was already drunk, but like I said, he was more into other things: stealing cloths at from the PX, finding girls wherever he could, fighting whenever he could, but he could be fun. Yet, Mac was wild fun also, not dangerous fun like Ski though.
Ski said, surprisingly, That gal over there keeps looking at you, she even took her finger and waved: signed you over to her.
Ski, I think you are checking her out for yourself, she is waving at you, I replied.
Having said that, I did a double take on the young lady over in the corner, she was with a few girlfriends, her presence did seem to stand out: somewhat animated. A sudden anxiety came over me she did take her finger and wave it at m e, Ill be, she really did.
See.Ski.see, youre right! I said, hastily, should I expect her to come to me, or I to her? I was asking for Skis advice, totaling, I was just thinking out loud?
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Chapter Story
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