Monster Media 1993 #2/Image.iso/magazine/s_m0793.zip/S&M-12

Text File | 1993-06-20 | 16KB | 273 lines

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 ░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░She's Mine░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░by Lucia Chambers
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          Marilyn passed the bong to Tom and smiled. The smoke
     curled around her nose for a second while she continued to hold
     her breath. "Hey. What happened to the music?" Marilyn finally
     exhaled.
          Tom uncrossed one bell-bottomed leg over the other, stood
     up uncertainly, and stretched his arms up over his head. He was
     pretty sure the music had ended, and that the sound coming from
     the speakers was only the needle skipping over the LP label. He
     stepped over Denise and walked across the livingroom to the
     Deluxe Sound Unit situated at the base of the stairs.
          "Well, I don't know," he muttered, "but there are more
     records stacked up, and nothing is happening here." Tom hovered
     there, staring stupidly at the machine.
          Wayne suddenly appeard and manually flipped the LP-
     stacker so that the next record came crashing down onto the
     player arm. They all shuddered as the needle scraped its way
     across the Hendrix album they'd all just heard. "Oops." Wayne
     started to laugh. The others chuckled at the sound of Wayne's
     giggling; soon, they were all belly-laughing and crying from
     laughing and on the floor, laughing, and they couldn't stop and
     they couldn't remember why they were laughing, either.
          Denise wiped her tears and massaged her cheeks. Sniffling,
     she said, "I'm going for a swim. Anyone else?" A moment later
     they heard the diving board spring, and the refreshing sound of
     her splash into the built-in pool in Tom's backyard. Within
     moments, the four of them were in Tom's pool doing laps, diving,
     sunning themselves, and having a great time. It was early
     summer and the gardenias and oranges were in full fragrant
     bloom, the anti-war protestors were miles away in L.A., and
     everyone felt pleasantly buzzed and good.
          Tom sprinted back into the house for some snacks. He
     flipped on the livingroom TV set and set about chopping up some
     oranges, cheese, avocados and french bread his mother had
     purchased the night before. He set the bread into the oven to be
     warmed, and just as he was reaching for the napkins he spotted
     Steve Smith, the mailman, outside on the front walk. Tom bolted
     for the front door.
          "Hey Steve! Any news yet?" Tom yelled. Steve pursed his
     thick lips and hoisted the leather mail pack onto the middle of his
     back. "Nope. Sorry Tom, I didn't see any mail from any colleges.
     You got a postcard from your Aunt Fay; she says she's having a
     great time in Ontario."
          "And?" Tom shouted. He thought Steve was unusually quiet
     today. "What else?"
          "Well, um." Steve sighed. "You'll see when you read the
     mail. I have to go now." He hoisted the pack once again, and
     continued his walk up the hill to the next house.
          Tom frowned. He took the bulk of mail into the kitchen and
     half listened to the 'death scroll' on the TV set: "Private William
     Carlin, Penomh Penh. Private First Class Harold Caroll, Penomh
     Penh. Lieutenant Charles Centrano, Penomh Penh......"
          Tom saw it immediately. It was a white envelope addressed
     to him, and the return address was "Selective Service." He
     returned to the livingroom and sat down. "Greetings, " it began.
     He shuddered. Tom suddenly realized that his destiny was out of
     his own hands. He looked up through the sliding glass doors to
     the patio, to his friends, to Marilyn. After a long time he realized
     that the beautiful woman sunning herself in the bikini wasn't his
     girlfriend, but Wayne's. He sighed, folded the letter, and re-joined
     his friends on the patio.

     ***



          The first evening of Tom's leave, he put on his uniform
     again, sucked in his gut and ran his fingers over his freshly
     sheared blonde head. He stared into the mirror, stuck out his
     chest, and admired the effects of six weeks of bootcamp. Yes, Tom
     thought, "I look good! I look mean! I look like a killing machine!"
     He swelled with pride, and then suddenly deflated. "What the hell
     am I thinking about?" Tom frowned, "What, am I crazy? I don't
     believe in war. This is stupid." But he caught sight of himself
     again in the mirror, faced front, and took another look at his
     Army-issue shoes. "Shiny. Neat. Perfect, " Tom admired. "Fit and
     ready to defend my country." He smiled a satisfied smile. Tom's
     mother was waiting downstairs with her new Poloroid Land
     camera. "Tom? Tom are you ready yet?" she called.
          He heard Wayne's new Volkswagon Beetle honk from the
     front of the house and ran down the stairs two at a time and then
     out the front door.
          "Hey, Tom," Wayne called, "can you check on her little
     sister sometime tonight? We're catching a feature at the drive-in."
     His eyes widened. "You look like a boyscout. What is this?  Why
     are you wearing your uniform? You some kind of establishment
     commie?" He pulled the brake and sat there with his mouth open.
     Marilyn stopped teasing her hair for a moment and flipped the
     mirror closed. "You look pretty good, Military Boy." She smiled,
     creasing her mocha lipstick, leaned over and said, "You look
     better in a uniform than in dungarees. Do you have to go back
     right away?"
          "Here we go again," Wayne thought, "she just can't make
     up her mind. Slut."
          "Oh my mom wants some pictures is all. I get a week off,
     then I go to Infantry school at Fort Ord. What movie?"
          "Some stupid movie Marilyn wants to see. Of course, she
     probably won't see the movie at all," Wayne slyly grinned.
     Marilyn pinched his leg. "OW you bitch!" He rolled his eyes at
     Tom. "See what I have to put up with?"
          Tom backed off the car and shrugged. "I see what she has
     to put up with, yeah. Later. I'll call your house around 10," he
     smiled. Then Tom saluted the VW, spun around, and marched up
     the walk to the front door.
          "Shit. This is unreal. What happened to him?" Wayne
     muttered. "Couple of months ago we were talking about hitching
     to Canada, and now look at him."
          Marilyn wasn't listening to Wayne. She was watching Tom
     as he disappeared into the house. "Not bad," she thought. "The
     uniform looks good on him."

          The next morning, Tom went for a swim by himself. The
     water felt good and he felt strong. He began to lap from deep-end
     to shallow, push off, shallow-end to deep-end, push off; he lapped
     and enjoyed cutting the water and turning his head to draw and
     expel deep swimmers' breaths.
          "Hey!" Marilyn called from the side gate. "Can I come in?"
          Tom saw her, flipped onto his back, and floated toward the
     pool edge. "Hi yourself!" He boosted himself onto the cement
     sidewalk bordering the pool and grabbed a towel. "Did you bring
     your suit? What's that?" Tom pointed at the white box she was
     holding with both hands.
          "Apple pie, Tom. I made you one of my famous apple pies.
     It's still hot. Want some?"
          "Definitely. Wow! I can smell it from here!"
          Tom followed Marilyn into the house and stopped for a
     second to towel off his feet, one at a time. He smelled the apple
     pie all right, but it was her perfume that caught his breath.
     "Beautiful," he muttered. "That smells good." Marilyn turned and
     smiled, pursed her lips for a moment, and then began to undress,
     slowly, one piece of clothing at a time. Naked, she took Tom's
     hand and led him back outside to the pool. The last thing Tom
     heard before diving in was "Sloop John B," coming from the little
     radio next to the pool. He felt like he was stoned.

     ***

          Wayne was pissed off. She wasn't home, he didn't see her
     at the park, and he even drove over to Denise's house but she
     wasn't there either. "Goddamit, I need to talk to her," he
     muttered. Tom had become Establishment lately so he didn't
     want to hang around him anymore, but he decided to drive over
     there anyway. "Really piss me off if she's over there. I've had it
     with that bitch." Wayne wiped the sweat from his forehead, and
     his hands on his shirt. He shifted gears and spun around the
     corner, rolled down the hill, and came to a screeching halt in
     front of Tom's house. "Shit. She's here." He jumped out of the VW
     and ran up the steps to the front door.
          Wayne pressed the bell again and again, but got no answer.
     He walked through the front garden to the side gate, crushing
     every plant in his path. He reached the gate and squinted in the
     general direction of the pool. What he saw made him want to kill.
     He wanted to kill everyone and every living thing. He never felt
     so violent in his life. His heart was pounding and sweat broke out
     all over his body, but he turned around. He walked deliberately
     and slowly now, stomping on the plants, and returned to his car.
     Then Wayne made a careful U-turn in the middle of the street,
     and drove back up the hill.

     ***

          Tom's mother stood up and changed the channel. "Why do
     they always show these 'death scrolls.' It makes me worry to
     death about you and feel sick for the unfortunate mothers. I'm
     turning it off."
          "Aw, don't worry. The fighting is going to end soon
     anyway."
          "Why don't you just go to Canada like you and Wayne
     planned?"
          "They need me, Ma." Tom took out the lint-free cloth and
     reached for the oil again. He began to disassemble his new rifle
     onto his lap. "Besides, I know how to shoot now. I can make a
     difference."
          "I don't know, son. I don't like it at all. Why'd you buy that
     thing, anyhow?"
          "Look, I like weapons, they're cool. Look at the sight on
     this, it's real precision." Tom had been consistently first to reach
     the school Arms Room, and last to relinquish his weapon for
     evening lock-up. He'd hated to part with his rifle ever since that
     embarassing time he'd called it a "gun." His Sergeant had made
     him hold it in one hand, over his head, for four hours, reciting:
     "This is my weapon (shake rifle) and This is my gun (grab crotch);
     One is for Killing (shake rifle) and the Other for Fun. This is my
     weapon..." That day he'd learned humility, and respect for his
     weapon. He never liked to be without his weapon since. On his
     way home for pre-shipout leave, he'd purchased his own rifle, and
     carried it with him everywhere around the house.
          "Son, I'm glad you got two weeks leave before going to Viet
     Nam, but I really don't want to talk about where you're going and
     I'm tired of seeing you with that gun."
          "Ma, I like to keep it cleaned and oiled."
          "Yeah, baby. I don't like to think about your shooting one
     though."
          Tom had finished up at Ford Ord with three Certificates of
     Achievement. Not only was he good, but he was fast and accurate
     as well. "You're a natural," his Sergeant had said proudly. Tom
     knew it was true. He enjoyed trying to be as precise as his
     weapon. Tom loved the smell and feel of his weapon.
          Tom abruptly excused himself from the livingroom and took
     his rifle upstairs to practice in front of the mirror. His mother
     sighed, turned off the T.V., and went next door to visit her
     neighbor.

     ***

          Wayne's father's belt caught him right below his left eye.
     "No!  You little shit! You're not going!"
          "Too late, Dad. I'm over eighteen and I already signed the
     papers." Wayne wiped the scattered droplets of blood from his
     cheek. "Ten days. Then it's bootcamp, training, then out. I took
     pay, no leave." He bared his teeth and said, "Bye."
          "I need you to work in the store. You can't go. I'll go talk to
     the Head Recruiting Asshole myself."
          "Whatever, Dad. It's too late." Wayne turned and left the
     room, still wiping his cheek. He suddenly thought of Marilyn. "I'll
     show her a uniform," he grinned. He strode into the bathroom,
     extracted the small scissors from the medicine chest, and slowly
     and methodically cut off all of his long dirty blonde hair. "The
     bitch is mine."

     ***

          Tom couldn't breathe. His fingers searched the helmet
     strap then grabbed the standard issue bottle of insect repellant.
     He twisted the cap with his teeth and squeezed the oily liquid
     onto his face. Then he smeared his face with the back of his hand,
     and replaced the bottle. He hoisted his pack and pushed his
     helmet back in one unconscious gesture. It was hot and he hated
     the jungle bugs.
          There was a sudden movement to his left, just inside his
     peripheral vision. Tom swung his rifle up and around, into
     position, and locked his sights on the general area. He froze, bent
     slightly at the waist, one foot in front of the other, waiting for
     confirmation.
          Brief rat-a-tat fire suddenly erupted from behind him, and
     he swung around and dove right for cover. He bent in, covered
     himself with vegetation, and peered through his vertical blanket
     of leaves. Something was stinging and sucking blood from his
     neck, but he didn't dare move to kill it.
          Then he saw them. They were about fifteen yards from him
     on the right, moving away from him. The Viet Cong were good at
     moving invisibly, but once he saw one fragment of black pajamas,
     he was able to identify several more.
          Rat-a-tat fire erupted again, and all the pajamas dove for
     cover. Tom looked to his left, and then saw him: Wayne was
     standing in the middle of the path, and his rifle was aimed
     directly at Tom's face. "She's mine," he snarled. Wayne's face was
     covered with swollen red bites. "She's mine."
          Tom wasn't sure what to do. Wayne was giving them both
     away! "Wayne," Tom's mouth formed the silent words, "On Your
     Right." Wayne rubbed the sweat from his cheek with his
     shoulder. "She's mine." Just as his finger touched the trigger,
     Tom pulled his own and shot Wayne in the ribs. Wayne's eyes
     bulged out of his head.
          At the same moment, the Vietnamese fired at them both.
     Wayne fell into the bush, and turned around on his knees. Wayne
     and Tom started shooting into their general direction, and kept
     shooting until the Viet Cong ceased fire. It was suddenly over,
     and Wayne folded to the ground, dead.

          Tom thought for a moment, and then reached for Wayne's
     weapon. He shifted the others toward the middle of his back, and
     cradled Wayne's rifle in his arms. Tom stroked it gently with his
     fingertips. "No, Wayne," he murmered. "She's mine now, all
     mine." He sang a little Army marching song to his love, as he
     carefully polished her barrel to a gleaming, oiled shine.

                                -end-
                    Copyright (c) 1992 Lucia Chambers