Gerry had issues; Gerry was haunted. Neither were going to ever go away. What actually caused the issues or haunting would never ever be known by anyone except Gerry. It is the natural way of some things.
I was in a bar, in Jomtien, but to be honest it does not really matter where that bar was. It could have been anywhere in Thailand. After eight small beer Changs and getting close to time to go, I was listening to the band rap out Loso… Then it hit me… Gerry. I had not thought about Gerry for a few decades. And as with such things, it came racing back.
Thinking of Gerry… Different from other military men like Ron the helicopter pilot or dapper Bob, of last helicopter off fame, who passed away in a way only men dream of or you hear in stories, but to be fair his temporary companion probably found it a nightmare.
I am not sure it was the music that caused the flood of memory or the face on the back of the Ex24.pro currency exchange. But that bloke on there was Russian to attract the customers. The Americans, Gerry was an American, have gone or are at least less, and the Russians have come, or are coming in huge and increasing numbers. It is nature. A vacuum is created; a vacuum is filled. But whatever the stimulus there was I, smiling as I thought of Gerry.
Now Gerry was from California and he looked the surf boy stereotype. He had the blue eyes, medium height, wide smile showing bright white teeth without a crookedness or stain to be seen, which was kind of odd considering the number of Lucky Stikes Gerry got through in a day, but there they were, good enough for a Colgate advert. His hair was blonde, growing out with just a hint of a highlight of some unidentifiable colour or other. Or was it the first sign of grey as Gerry was no longer the young boy who signed up for or got conscripted for Vietnam. I never did know if Gerry had signed up for or been conscripted and I never asked. I just listened. Anyway, there was Gerry an infantryman or marine or something who for some reason ended up doing something with explosives as an expert. The details of this or what it involved, I have no idea, for Gerry never spoke of his experiences of war. I only learnt those brief details at a later stage in this story. He never even shared war stories with others who had been there. In fact, Gerry avoided others from that background totally.
Gerry was different. At the time I met Gerry, there were many ex-Vietnam military men around Thailand, some working, some retired, some with a war-time girlfriend who had become a wife, some with children, some just visiting; there were many who claimed, but perchance were not, to be ex-Vietnam military men, too. But all seemed to be found in bars drinking anything they could get their hands on. Some were happy, some were unhappy, some were bitter, some had done well, some existed on nothing, but most of them were drunk. But Gerry was different. I had worked with or met many and saw the difference immediately. He was not like Ron who had volunteered young and become a helicopter pilot before he was twenty and had the stories and after a few drinks all that comes with the humiliation of losing your handgun when the Vietnamese resistance blew up the brothel you happened to be in for some reason or other, and walking out unscathed except without the gun. He was not like dapper Bob who had an ending that you only read about in fiction or hear of in men’s fantasies, and of course before this, an entire military career across Vietnam and in to tanks on the German plains, as a communications expert who had actually been on the last helicopter out of Saigon, as it was called in those old days. But we are diverging from Gerry here and others may or may not, be worthy of a story of their own at some time in the future. It was not that Gerry did not drink or smoke, but he just would not mix with the others at all, would not even deign to be present when Vietnam was brought up, and never once went anywhere near JUSMAG or the Veterans abroad places. Instead, he just seemed to have an innate happiness and desire to enjoy life and leave the whole previous episode behind, I noticed on first meeting Gerry. It turned out that initial reading of Gerry was slightly off base.
*****
It was back in the Cowboy days, of course, when I met Gerry. I wandered into the bar to order a drink in the late afternoon or early evening when it was still light outside, but the shade from the fading striped canopy outside allowed sitting at one of the counters that acted as some external barrier of the bar and had barstools on the inside but not outside, so you could sit and watch life go by. It was ideal. Fresh from ordering my beer I exited to take a stool at the counter. For the first time I noticed the back of a man shorter than I, with blonde hair and some aged looking Hawaiian shirt above a pair of beige Chinos.
“Oh well, it is going to be one of the days I chat to someone rather than just sit, dream, watch and listen. Let’s see how this goes.”
“Hi. Mind if I sit here?”
“Sure.” He says and immediately there is a smiling friendly face. That is a good sign. He takes a cigarette out of the pack of Lucky Strikes.
“Want one?” He says pushing the pack along the counter towards me.
“No, I’m alright, thanks, but thanks for the offer. They are a bit strong for me.”
“Sure.” He takes a long swig from his Singha bottle. In those days there was only Singha, Kloster, Amarit NB and any imported beer, so there was me also drinking Beer Singha.
“Cheers.”
“A Brit?”
“Yes. And you are American I think.”
“California… California…” He looks into the distance as he repeats it.
“Do you miss home?”
“I don’t miss anything from the past. I am not sure where home is now. Maybe I am just looking.”
“I have been here for a few years now. I think I will stay.”
“Thailand – maybe, but I want to find something worthwhile to do.”
“Have you been looking.”
“Yes. I did a few classes teaching English for a school.” He says.
I wait.
“It was not really satisfying though. I think I need something more. Maybe I will look around the region.”
“Well good luck.” I knew I had no good advice on that to offer.
“Have you looked anywhere else? Some Americans prefer the Philippines.
“Nah. I hate the Philippines. Too American. Too many Americans.”
“Well Laos has the ferry crossing but I doubt there is anything there. And the war in Cambodia is now done, but I ain’t sure about things there. Vietnam?”
“I’ve spent enough time in Vietnam and I think they deserve to be left alone by the likes of me.”
“OK. Well I am not the person to ask. Good luck on the search.” I say wondering.
“Yeah. I will see what is around. But not too fast. It is not like I need money, but need something to do and something that feels right. Another beer?”
I had not noticed that I had finished my bottle as we talked and it had sat on the counter empty for some time.
“Sure, why not.”
*****
Sometime later – a month or two, I just happened to be wandering aimlessly through The Cowboy again, with no real intention of going into any bar or buying anything. It was one of those days times where you just drift aimlessly and your feet take you where they will with absolutely no plan or thought. An experience that seemed to happen when tired, deep in thought or after some shock or sudden emotional upheaval.
I was not really looking or paying any attention at all, but that head of longish curly blonde hair protruding from a fading shirt sat at the bar over there reminded me of someone. I wondered who?
“Hey, how you doing?” It was Gerry I quickly realised.
“Good. Yourself?”
“Things are good, man, Life is good.”
I sat down next to him at the outside counter overlooking the street, and signalled to a waitress. A beer was quickly ordered.
“So? You must tell me how things are good! Last time you seemed a little confused about what to do.”
“Yes, that is the past now. I just got back from Cambodia. I am on a short break from my work.”
“Good to hear that you found something. What are you up to?”
“Clearing mines.”
“Wow! Like things that go bang and blow legs off?”
“Yeah. I am sure you have read about how Cambodia is full of mines.”
“Yes. I read about it in the Post recently. Farmers and children losing legs, lives or feet.”
“It is bad, but we are working on it.”
“What is this some military thing.”
“No. I ain’t working for our military no more. That is done. I am just a volunteer for a group that does this over the world. People from everywhere plus Cambodian soldiers help.”
“It sounds dangerous.”
“It would be for you! But I know about explosives, mines and bombs, so it is not that bad if you take precautions and follow the plan. It is slow work though and a child got killed down near Battambang, near where we are working, the other day. It’s bad. We failed her”
“Sorry to hear that.” I have nothing sensible to say. We both take a drink and stay silent for a minute or two or more.
“How is life there?”
“It is coming back to normal, which is part of the problem. People have to live and work and children have to play. We have marked some areas but the mines are all over the place.”
“How about for you?”
“Its quiet. Work, eat, sleep. I don’t speak the language or French and there are only a few English speakers on the team. It’s like being a monk but risking your life every day!” He laughed at the last part.
“Why do it?”
“I owe them, this. Well not them, personally. I was never in Cambodia before, but I owe them as an American.”
I left it there. War stories or damaged people from those times a while before this were neither my thing of interest or something I wanted to know, talk or God forbid end up bar counselling someone over.
We drank a few more and chatted and the early evening became night and as it did so, we both decided to leave and go home, or in Gerry’s case to his hotel.
*****
Over the next period, was it months or a year or more? I can no longer remember, but it was a period of time. I saw Gerry a few times in the bars. At times I would catch him for a drink; at times I would just notice him and walk on by. It was odd how our paths crossed I rarely went to the Cowboy at that time, but when I did, I would always see Gerry. And when I spoke to him, he would always be on R&R from the clearing, and increasingly just want to get back and keep working. He had become a man driven over time to demine Cambodia or at least the small zones marked for him near Battambang.
I do not remember the conversations from then, so we will just leave things there.
*****
Some time later, I was making another rare visit to the Cowboy, once again in the late afternoon. I was heading to the same bar as usual to sit the outside counter and just watch life go by for an hour or so before meeting some friends for dinner. I wandered inside and ordered the beer and picked the newspaper up from where someone had left it.
“May as well catch up on the news and sports results,” I thought.
I sat and started to go through it.
The usual Byzantine local politics – skip that.
The usual world events – skip that.
Some local news – that seems more interesting.
People killed in tragic car crash – too many of those.
Celebrity caught with drugs – no surprises there.
Foreign dignitary visits local school – boring.
Articles on priest supporting ex-prostitutes and the slum angels – read those several times over the years.
Some regional news – always worth a read.
Ex-US military visit Vietnam – wonder how that really went?
Malaysia has bumper durian crop forcing price down for Thai farmers – farmers always lose out/blame another country.
Contractor killed in tragic blast while clearing mines – tragic really.
Smuggling ring busted in Singapore – usual.
“Hold on, what was that other one about mines?”
“That looks bad,” I thought. Must be a load of people doing that. I was about to turn the page to the column on bar gossip when I noticed it…
I thought and started to scan the short article in the corner.
Gerald something mundane but I cannot remember the last name. Aged… Killed when a mine exploded… He was a volunteer working with… to clear mines in Battambang… ex-US… Served in Vietnam with distinction… US Embassy looking for friends who may know… Military record lost…Family…
“Gerald… It couldn’t be, could it?” But something in me told me it was, and I started to think; I started to remember.
I was confused but I knew I had to go to Gerry’s bar. The bar he was always sat. It was similar to the one I now sat in, but it had to be there. The place we met.
*****
The walk was short. Oh no fat Sly was there, sat right where Gerry would always be found. Now, Sly was one of those who could be found in bars telling stories to whoever would listen of their great exploits in the past and hoping to get a drink or two for free from someone gullible or someone as equally lonely as they. People like Sly added colour, laughs, and for some the reassurance that nobody could be as big a loser as they, so they served a purpose. But as with all things, there was a time and place and today of all days was not a day for live and let live with Sly. I walked up behind him thinking that I must ignore Sly.
“Hey how are you doing. Not seen you in a long time…” Ignoring Sly was not going to be easy. I ordered my drink and a glass. That was unusual for me, but Gerry had developed a habit of drinking from a glass, and when with him I had found myself copying it.
“Hey did I tell you of the time our unit, my unit was down the Vietcong tunnels? And we wiped out…”
“Jesus.” I thought “This is going to need action” as I looked at Sly. He must have weighed over 150 kilos and his butt cheeks hung each side of the stool with his gut nestling on top of huge thighs. His almost triangular face with huge jowls bright red.
“Sly! Shut the fuck up.”
“What’s up with you?”
“My mate has just died. I want some peace and quiet.” I still was not sure it was Gerry in truth.
“Everyone dies. Don’t worry about it. I saw hundreds go in Nam There was the time…”
“OK Sly! Here is what you are going to do. You are going to finish that beer and then fuck off out of this bar… Actually, no there is a lot in that bottle. You are going to get you fat arse off that stool, now and fuck right off…”
He stood and looked at me, extending his finger and trying to look serious as his face reddened further and he gulped in air.
“Don’t even think about it,” I said. “Go home and keep whatever reputation and dignity you have. Getting your butt whipped by some nobody ain’t going to do your credibility much good as a special forces vet getting free drinks on stories only fools would believe. Go… And make sure you pay your bill on the way. I ain’t paying it. You don’t want to go getting banned from here…”
He took his pot of bills and turned. He had gone silent. He slowly headed into the bar before taking the circuitous route avoiding me to slowly amble out of the bar and head off.
“Good.” I thought not feeling at all guilty. Sly had needed someone to call his bullshit for a long time. It was strange it ended up being mild mannered me, but we do not get to pick our courts, judges, their verdicts, or their sentences.
I called to the waitress and asked for another glass thinking about if I should say anything to her or the other staff. Gerry was known and liked here. But selfishly I decided that today was just for me and Gerry. Sly had left his almost full bottle and when the glass arrived, I poured that beer into it. And placed the glass in front of the stool Gerry would always sit.
“A last drink.” I thought noticing the bright light of the day passing through the glass, the amber and the condensation running down the outside. I raised my glass. “To Gerry!” And sat thinking about if it was actually him, but knowing it was. And remembering the times and other conversations and laughs. I wondered how it happened, why it had happened, if it had been an accident or had Gerry… Had he been in pain or gone swiftly. These thoughts interspersing with the memories, good memories.
The afternoon drifted into evening and as it did, I ordered two final beers – one for me and one for Gerry. Let a final streak of light from the sun pass through a final glass. As always at dusk would we depart.
“Cheers my friend…”
Corollary
Fat Sly had a heart attack down the Cowboy about six months later. He was resuscitated by one of the EMS gangs with those electrical things and rushed to hospital in a less than salubrious manner. After some time in there and after an operation, he was released. He had lost a lot of weight and continued to take care of himself. And as his weight faded away, so did his appearances on the scene and gradually he was mostly erased from memories and sightings within the year that followed.
During the near death experience drama, it came out that Sly had made money, a lot of money – several million dollars in the finance industry and retired young. Many people wondered why he never wanted to talk about that rather than the obvious lies of a military career. Some people who care about such things wondered why he was always begging drinks, food and money off of people when he was rich. I was not one of these.
Leave a Reply