Vietnam Mike

When I got out of the service I roamed around the country for a while and wound up in Nashville, where I took a job waiting tables at Howard Johnson’s. One night we were completely swamped, and I couldn’t find a busboy to save my ass. The dining room in the restaurant was a disaster area—dirty dishes on every table with customers still piling in and wandering around looking for a clean place to sit. We were also completely out of glasses, silverware, salad plates and coffee cups. I ran back to the kitchen to find out where everyone went and saw the dishwashing station piled to the ceiling with food-caked dishes, pots, and pans. I went further, back to the break area, and there they all were—all the busboys and even a couple of cooks huddled there like galley rats with mouths agape while Vietnam Mike regaled them with one of his tales.

Vietnam Mike was our main swing-shift dishwasher. We called him that because Vietnam was all he ever talked about. Whenever he was around there was no theme or topic brought up for discussion that he would not find a way to hijack and turn into a Vietnam story. Trust me, we all tried, and it turned into a big inside joke at his expense. I’m not particularly proud of how I treated Mike; he was pathetic, and I should have had more empathy. I’m a work in progress, what can I say?

Anyway, here was Mike telling a story during a blowout dinner rush, and he had all these kids taking a knee around him while he gesticulated and moved his body like he was actually in the jungle creeping through some bushes or something. I always thought his stories were bullshit, but I never came right out and said it. So, this time, like all the others, I held my tongue in check and limited my comments to the condition of the dining room and lack of clean dishes. The small gathering broke up, and everyone reluctantly returned to work.

One night my roommate Ron and I had a couple of ladies over to the condo we rented. These chicks had some class, so we made ample preparations; we slicked up a little, I think Ron picked up some choice sirloins. We even threw a bottle of Absolut in the freezer because one of the girls had made mention of that being her beverage of choice. So, there we were, the four of us sitting in the living room listening to some light music, enjoying drinks and some good conversation. About that time an unexpected visitor knocked on the door. I volunteered to answer it and even made a joke about getting rid of whoever it might be.

You know who it was. When I saw him standing there, I first became confused that he knew where we lived, then irritated that he had shown up uninvited. I brought up both points immediately to Vietnam Mike in that order. He seemed genuinely shocked and offended. He said that Ron had told him where we lived and to stop by anytime. (Ron was the Food and Beverage Director at Howard Johnson’s, hence the connection between the two.) I took a breath and apologized for my rudeness. Then I explained to him our current situation with the ladies. I invited Mike in for one beer but asked him to respect the mood we were trying to generate and to not overstay his welcome. He scoffed on his way through the door as though I was out of line for implying that any such social transgression could even approach the realm of possibility.

I got Vietnam Mike a beer, introduced him to our dates and everything was great—for about five minutes. Then somebody said something about a movie that had just come out or maybe even a restaurant that they had recently eaten at when Mike interrupted with some obscure Vietnam reference that was totally inappropriate and created an awkward silence. That was it. I stood up and at that moment everything that I thought about Vietnam Mike came spewing out of my mouth in a toxic gush. I told him how I thought he was full of shit and all his stories were gross exaggerations, if not outright lies. I said he probably wasn’t even in Vietnam and that he created his entire persona out of thin air and even told him what a loser he was for having to be a dishwasher at his age.

When I was done, Mike stood up too. He asked me in a nonchalant voice if I wanted to step outside. I said that I absolutely did and that I thought he’d never ask. Everything happened very quickly. There was a narrow hallway that led out of the living room to the kitchen, which had a back door, to a tiny deck with four steps down to the grass of our small backyard. Mike followed me out there and we squared off. Ron and the girls were still in the condo, apparently not yet sure of what was happening and slow to respond.

Vietnam Mike was a short, wiry little bastard–maybe five­six and one-forty with those sinewy forearms you see on older men who have worked labor jobs all their lives. I guess he was forty or so to my twenty-two. I had my knees bent a little and my fists up, ready to go. Vietnam Mike asked me if I was sure I was ready and I nodded to indicate that I was.

The next couple of seconds were a blur. Mike used some kind of Judo shit on me and had me on my back, straddling my chest with his knees holding my shoulders down. A lit cigarette still dangled loosely from his lips, totally intact in its position from before we even got outside. He grabbed my jaw with his left hand, twisted my head to the right then burned my left ear with his cigarette. He got off me and we both stood up. We were standing there facing each other when Ron and our dates came out, wondering what was going on. Vietnam Mike asked me if we were done. I reached up and touched the painful blister that had already formed on my earlobe, and said that we were, which facilitated the avoidance of an embarrassing explanation of what had just happened.

Fast forward a few days to Howard Johnson’s. The restaurant looked like a suicide-bomber had detonated his vest at the hostess stand–dirty dishes everywhere, no bus staff in sight. I trotted back to the break area and there they all were, Vietnam Mike in the middle of telling one of his stories. He was standing in a crouch, fully invested in the moment while his captive audience watched him open-mouthed in awe as he spoke, his voice low and sinister: “…and the VC mortars were getting closer, zeroing in on our position. The rest of my squad was flanked to my left and to my right. I knew Charlie was practically on top of us, I could smell him. Suddenly, a twig snapped in front of me. I took a step back and tripped over a log and fell back­ wards. At that very moment a VC mortar round went off right where I had been standing. The only thing that saved my life was that damned log.”

“Bull fucking shit,” I said.

Everyone turned and stared at me as though I had just spit on General Westmoreland’s shoe. Vietnam Mike pulled up his shirt and there all over the front of his bare torso were deep vertical scars where shrapnel had razed his body as he fell backward when that damned log had saved his life.