T-shirt.”
The basement was divided into a poolroom and a barroom. The pool table had been pushed against one wall and covered with a plastic sheet. Both rooms were packed. Half a dozen people were dancing on the pool table. The music was loud, the floor was wet, sticky with beer. People were dancing barefoot in puddles, gyrating their bodies without lifting their feet. Akins squeezed through; Wapinski followed. He didn’t recognize the song, the dance, or any of the people. People kept banging his shoulders and arms. To him the students looked young. “Let’s get in there,” Akins shouted and pointed to the doorway to the barroom.
“What?”
Akins squeezed between two girls standing in the doorway. They squeezed back against him brushing their breasts on him. The three laughed. He grabbed one by the ass and squeezed and one pinched his ass hard and he jumped into the next room. Wapinski slid between the girls. They were both braless. He hesitated, smiled. The girls slipped past him into the poolroom. He looked over his shoulder, down at them, at their butts. One had her mouth at the other’s ear. He sensed they were talking about him. Fuck it, he thought. Drive on.
“What?” Wapinski shouted back at Akins. Akins had pulled him to the far end of the bar where the music wasn’t so overwhelming.
“I said, ‘Are you deaf?’ Ha. This is Rick Tayborn. He’s house president. Mickey’s little brother.”
“Pleased to meetcha.” Wapinski nodded. The bar was less crowded than the poolroom, and the speakers were smaller but it was still tight and noisy. Against the far wall a group of students were passing a joint. Through the ceiling lights, the haze glowed. Wapinski was taken by the long straight hair of several of the girls, put off by the length of Tayborn’s.
“You met him before,” Akins shouted. Tayborn handed them each an overflowing red plastic cup of foamy beer.
“You’re the guy who’s a green beret, aren’t ya?” Tayborn asked.
Several people at the bar turned, caught by the words. One very drunk, very large boy, maybe a defensive tackle, put his arm around Wapinski and kissed him on the forehead and laughed good naturedly, almost elfish except for his size. “Welcome to my house,” the big boy said. “Ricky, gimme more beer.”
“He just got outa the army,” Akins shouted to Tayborn.
“Not green beret,” Wapinski said, “101st.”
“What’s that?” Tayborn asked.
“Hundred and First Airborne Division.” Wap could see that that didn’t register either. “Screaming Eagles,” he tried. No recognition. “I commanded an infantry platoon and then a company,” Wapinski said. A few more people pushed in close. Someone turned the music volume down. It was still loud but not so loud that they had to shout.
“Is that right?” Akins asked. “I didn’t know that.”
“Where was that?” An older man to Wapinski’s right asked.
“Huh? Ah, Three Corps and I Corps.”
“Viet Nam?!” Akins said.
Wapinski’s head snapped to Akins, back to the man at his right, back to Akins. Again he was caught off guard. “Yeah.” He was shocked that Akins didn’t know.
“Holy shit, no wonder you look so messed up,” Akins said. “That musta been horrible.”
“What did you do over there, Mr. ah ...”
“Wapinski.”
“Mr. Wapinski. I’m Professor Tilden. Arnold Tilden.”
“Bob Wapinski.” He extended his right hand. The professor either didn’t see it or ignored it. “Commanded an infantry platoon down along the Cambodian border until they moved us up north. I worked in operations and as a liaison to the ARVN and to the Marines. Then I commanded a company out along the Laotian border.”
“Weren’t you afraid,” Professor Tilden began, “of being shot by your own men?”
“Ah ...” Wapinski floundered. He found the question very odd. He knew there were circumstances of officers being shot by their own men, but he knew also that it was rare. “No,” he said.
The basement was divided into a poolroom and a barroom. The pool table had been pushed against one wall and covered with a plastic sheet. Both rooms were packed. Half a dozen people were dancing on the pool table. The music was loud, the floor was wet, sticky with beer. People were dancing barefoot in puddles, gyrating their bodies without lifting their feet. Akins squeezed through; Wapinski followed. He didn’t recognize the song, the dance, or any of the people. People kept banging his shoulders and arms. To him the students looked young. “Let’s get in there,” Akins shouted and pointed to the doorway to the barroom.
“What?”
Akins squeezed between two girls standing in the doorway. They squeezed back against him brushing their breasts on him. The three laughed. He grabbed one by the ass and squeezed and one pinched his ass hard and he jumped into the next room. Wapinski slid between the girls. They were both braless. He hesitated, smiled. The girls slipped past him into the poolroom. He looked over his shoulder, down at them, at their butts. One had her mouth at the other’s ear. He sensed they were talking about him. Fuck it, he thought. Drive on.
“What?” Wapinski shouted back at Akins. Akins had pulled him to the far end of the bar where the music wasn’t so overwhelming.
“I said, ‘Are you deaf?’ Ha. This is Rick Tayborn. He’s house president. Mickey’s little brother.”
“Pleased to meetcha.” Wapinski nodded. The bar was less crowded than the poolroom, and the speakers were smaller but it was still tight and noisy. Against the far wall a group of students were passing a joint. Through the ceiling lights, the haze glowed. Wapinski was taken by the long straight hair of several of the girls, put off by the length of Tayborn’s.
“You met him before,” Akins shouted. Tayborn handed them each an overflowing red plastic cup of foamy beer.
“You’re the guy who’s a green beret, aren’t ya?” Tayborn asked.
Several people at the bar turned, caught by the words. One very drunk, very large boy, maybe a defensive tackle, put his arm around Wapinski and kissed him on the forehead and laughed good naturedly, almost elfish except for his size. “Welcome to my house,” the big boy said. “Ricky, gimme more beer.”
“He just got outa the army,” Akins shouted to Tayborn.
“Not green beret,” Wapinski said, “101st.”
“What’s that?” Tayborn asked.
“Hundred and First Airborne Division.” Wap could see that that didn’t register either. “Screaming Eagles,” he tried. No recognition. “I commanded an infantry platoon and then a company,” Wapinski said. A few more people pushed in close. Someone turned the music volume down. It was still loud but not so loud that they had to shout.
“Is that right?” Akins asked. “I didn’t know that.”
“Where was that?” An older man to Wapinski’s right asked.
“Huh? Ah, Three Corps and I Corps.”
“Viet Nam?!” Akins said.
Wapinski’s head snapped to Akins, back to the man at his right, back to Akins. Again he was caught off guard. “Yeah.” He was shocked that Akins didn’t know.
“Holy shit, no wonder you look so messed up,” Akins said. “That musta been horrible.”
“What did you do over there, Mr. ah ...”
“Wapinski.”
“Mr. Wapinski. I’m Professor Tilden. Arnold Tilden.”
“Bob Wapinski.” He extended his right hand. The professor either didn’t see it or ignored it. “Commanded an infantry platoon down along the Cambodian border until they moved us up north. I worked in operations and as a liaison to the ARVN and to the Marines. Then I commanded a company out along the Laotian border.”
“Weren’t you afraid,” Professor Tilden began, “of being shot by your own men?”
“Ah ...” Wapinski floundered. He found the question very odd. He knew there were circumstances of officers being shot by their own men, but he knew also that it was rare. “No,” he said.
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