Stay Up All Night – Preview

 

Mrs. Holmes In New York

 1

 THE ammonia-like odor of a nearby hot dog cart bled into the fresh ink of a newspaper stand, whereas the snakelike hiss of a steam vent was quieted by the growl of a passing subway, hurrying through the Earth beneath our feet. All along 7^th Avenue, a current of yellow cabs had slowed to a crawl. They must have driven with their hands on the horn rather than the wheel in this town. Their honks resembled curse words.  Men hustled and bustled about the sidewalk in jackets, women in peacoats, many of whom were carrying shopping bags and Christmas packages already wrapped in bows. In Times Square, it was a brisk 49 degrees Fahrenheit and already rapidly dropping, as the sun had set moments earlier.

Welcoming us home from the Nam was a great big billboard, all aglow, which read: WAR IS OVER! IF YOU WANT IT. Included was an additional message from its sponsors, “Happy Christmas from John & Yoko.” It was a Thursday in December 1969. December the 11^th to be precise. Elsewhere in the world, David Holmes was thrown from a train, supposedly that very day, perhaps even the precise moment that we were staring up at the sign, though the newspapers wouldn’t be reporting on it. We were days away from the only murders that the Media cared about, and presently, commercial sponsors assailed us from every angle, though Mouse stared up at that one for a while, and I as well.

Oh, Mouse had a Christian name, alright. Phil, I thought it was, which may have been short for Phillip, though neither Sherlock nor I ever got around to learning his full name, as everybody who’d ever been to the Nam simply referred to him as Mouse, and he preferred it that way. For the record, Mouse was thin, though certainly not tall and lanky, falling a couple of inches under my own height of 5’11”. He was muscular as well, enough so that he made a lot of booze money during his military tenure—boxing. And, of course, I too did my fair share of boxing on the side, just not for money. Already, he was trying his hand at growing a mustache and goatee, though true to his name, nothing seemed more promising at the moment than whiskers. Eyes bulged from their sockets, giving him a natural thousand-yard stare, and his two incisor teeth certainly played their part in the overall description. Come to think of it, not knowing the man on a last name basis might prove a problem, practically speaking, seeing as how I was a minister, a discharged Army Chaplain, and officiating his wedding in the morning.

My return journey to Driftwood, South Carolina had so far proved to be a long and arduous one, involving little sleep, and seemingly without end. The flight from Saigon to the States had but two layovers, first in Sydney, and then Honolulu. In San Diego, many fathers, none of which were Mouse’s or my own, met their sons at the airport terminal with shouts of elation. My layover in NYC was elongated by something like 48-hours but only because I had promised to officiate Mouse’s wedding, a soldier whom I had ministered to during the war, and also because, as a rule, I didn’t travel on a Sabbath in peacetime. Afterwards, the final leg would involve a southbound flight to Driftwood, South Carolina, probably sleepless as well.

Now, normally, if Nam had taught me anything, it was to find a place of rest in a paddy field with a picture of the girl back home tucked away in my pocket. I might have done just as well nuzzling up to a dumpster in Hell’s Kitchen, but in the game of hot and cold, Driftwood couldn’t have been more than 780-miles away, and my heart pulsated for Elise, the center of my labyrinth—my Jerusalem. Had I bled out during the War, her name would have been the last pronunciation from my lips. Call that a stereotype, what do I care? I had just watched a lot of boys holding their guts in their hands while screaming for their mother.

Mouse had already gone out to buy a civilian shirt to go with his jungle khakis, though I was determined to hold out and remain in my officer’s uniform until the moment that I kissed my girl on the station platform. The incident in question occurred just outside of JFK airport. The My Lai massacre was that talk of the newspapers, and some long hairs accused us of being baby killers. They threw rocks our way, and afterwards, Mouse did not dare wear his uniform in public. Well anyways, he was done cocking his head up at John and Yoko’s billboard, which he seemed pleased enough with at the time. He now turned about in a half circle, seemingly disenfranchised and disheartened, perhaps even disgusted at what he saw. More like what he didn’t see.

“Where’s the nurse?”

I said, “What’s wrong—you sick or something?”

“Geez, Preacher. When the War’s over, you come to Time Square to lock lips with a hot babe in a nurse’s dress.”

“That was V-Day, Mouse. I don’t think they’re throwing one for us any time soon.”

Mouse’s appreciation seemed to return again as he afforded a complete three-sixty turn, taking in a deep breath as he did so, though I didn’t stick around for the photo finish. I was late for my dinner appointment and preferred not to keep the lady waiting. Which is why I began walking again up 7^th in the direction of West 49^th Street, knowing that I would eventually need to turn east in the direction of 5^th. Mouse caught up to me in a few seconds and said,

“You know, this is great. Two bachelors in the Big City, staying at the Y. Bros, hanging out, babes everywhere. A Private First Class and a gentleman officer. We spent the last three years trying not to get our butts blown off, and now, just look at us. Claiming the spoils of war. Sowing our wild oats. I say we stay up all night, catch a show, hit the bars, pick up a couple of chicks.” He nudged his elbow into my ribs at the last part, making sure to wink for added effect. “What do you say, buddy?”

I said, “I got a girl back home whom I’m getting married to as soon as I return, and you’re doing the same in the morning to Betty. Prowling for dates at the bar hardly sounds monogamous.”

“Small complication,” Mouse said.

“I’m officiating your wedding.”

“Okay, I admit it, picking up babes with the pastor is a little strange.”

“I would say so.”

Mouse must have been distracted again, as he suddenly disappeared from my side. Craning his neck towards the skyscrapers perhaps, though more than likely it was the darling in the red dress. In another moment he was back and busily asking the questions. He said, “So, where are we going, anyways?”

“I’ve got a dinner date.”

“Who’s the broad? Tell me she’s bringing a friend.”

“Her name is Desarae, and I haven’t the faintest clue.”

“Huh, can’t you make up your mind?”

“You asked me two questions. I answered both of them in turn. And FYI, Desarae is Sherlock’s wife.”

“Hey, man—” Mouse stared at me in disgust.

“Relax, Sherlock and I go way back, even long before the war. Desarae and I go back nearly as far. She also happens to be Elise’s older sister.”

“Hey, that’s really sick, man.”

“Your mind’s in the gutter.”

“Can you blame me? Look at me, I’m miserable. I haven’t had a girl in—” He began counting the months in his head. “When was the last time that I had some horizontal refreshment?”

I looked at him for a moment.

“Hey, hey, prostitution may have been common among members of my platoon, buddy, but I kept to the Coka Girls. Especially after what happened to Huey and Cactus Jack in Dong Thap. Everyone knew those guys couldn’t get enough boom-boom and caught ‘the clap’, the drippy dick. And let’s not forget Skippy. Skippy fell into bed with that Viet Cong assassin woman in Pinkville who wore a razor blade in her woo-hoo, God rest his soul. Nah, I’m only taking my chances with American made. And with the way things have been going, you’d think I took a vow of celibacy, no offense.”

“I’m not that kind of priest.”

“I’m not actually miserable. I don’t want you to officiate the wedding thinking that. It’s just, we’ve never had sex, you know. Betty and me. The irony is that we didn’t even meet until the weekend before I was drafted, but let me tell you, we were hot and heavy, Preacher. Hot and heavy. I was like, ‘Babe, I’m leaving for the war in the morning, and I don’t want to die a virgin.’ But then, Betty said she wanted to wait until the wedding night, can you believe that? She said she wanted it to be a gift for the man she married.”

“And why is that a bad thing?”

Mouse shrugged. “I’ve never stuck around for a girl who didn’t hand out a hot dog or two from her cart once in a while.”

“Mouse, if you left for Vietnam a virgin, as you say, then nobody ever handed you a hot dog from the cart.”

“Yeah, well—” Mouse cleared his throat at the discomfort of the thought. “Betty, she’s different, and totally worth waiting for. She’s part of one of them Protestant denominations, you know, or is she Catholic? Either way, I guess it’s part of their ‘theology’ or something. I mean, I’d normally wonder about girls like that, if they were hiding something about their nighttime habits, low sex drive or something, but not Betty. She’s a fox and a true belle, a regular World War Two pin-up girl. She could be painted on the sides of a B-17. A girl with a body and face like that…” Mouse formed a woman’s figure with both hands, making sure to dramatize the top portion. “…you figure she’s got to be some Grade-A afternoon delight.” He paused to consider the possibilities. “She even let me reach up her shirt and feel her sweater-stretchers. That was nice. Quite the Jell-O molds.”

I turned now in the direction of 5^th. If my acute sense of direction was as fine-tuned as I’d hoped, we’d arrive at The Understudy in a matter of moments.

“You know what else is messed up?” Mouse laughed as he said it. He waited for a response, one which I didn’t give, and then continued. “So anyways, there I was during the Tet Offensive, minding my own business. The Viet Cong attack and the APO slips me a Dear John letter, as if Betty had planned it that way all along. She said she fell in love with some guy named Bobo.”

“Hold on, this is Betty. The same Betty who sent you the Dear John.”

“Yeah, but we’re past that now. She wrote me a couple of months ago and said it was all a mistake. She said she wanted to get hitched right away, the moment I returned home.”

“And you haven’t seen her since.”

“Nah, she said she wants to keep herself a surprise for the big day.”

“Doesn’t that seem a little odd to you?”

“Well, when you put it that way.”

“I do put it that way. Not that it’s any of my business, but I would have thrown my arms around you and locked lips at the airport terminal—if I were Betty.”

Mouse widened his eyes even further at the thought, though they naturally bulged as it was, and his mouth gaped open. He stopped in his tracks, which was fine anyways, seeing as how I’d reached my destination, and he said,

“Yeah, I would too. What woman can resist me?”

I held the door open. “You coming in?”

“Nah, man. I gotta’ brush up for my big day tomorrow. Meeting Betty’s parents and all. They’re from Long Island. Old money.” Mouse not only grinned, but he also exponentially widened it at the thought, though I figured it was only to impress me. “Her old man runs a furniture company, got a big warehouse and everything, and he ain’t got any sons to run it after him. He’s setting me up with a desk job—big promotion.” Only now, Mouse seemed to slump down with each accumulating word, and to the point of a dejected spirit. “Betty said it wasn’t the best timing and that we’d honeymoon later, which means it’s straight into work, come Monday morning.”

I said, “Yes, well, see you at the Y in a couple of hours?”

“Yeah man, we’ll catch up later.”

Mouse turned and began his slow slinking crawl into the city. I hadn’t seen him this miserable in Nam. Not even in the meat grinder.

“Hang in there, buddy. We’ll both be married to the love of our lives in a couple of days,” I assured him, not sounding very convincing as I said it, and proceeded to enter the joint.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Mouse mumbled, probably to himself.