Deros Vietnam by Doug Bradley Page A

come Sar-Jen Myron beaucoup fat?” Swenson pulled his eyes sideways as to appear Oriental. Mai kept laughing.
    â€œDung Lai.” Myron shouted, trying to get them both to stop. His face was redder than the ketchup on Mai’s tray, so he knew he had to get the hell out of there.
    â€œMihn oi!” Swenson shouted after him with his fake accent, using the Vietnamese word for sweetheart. Mai was still laughing as Myron’s heart beat louder and louder with every step he took away from the NCO Club.
    Myron headed back to the mess hall to finish taking inventory, but he found himself distracted by his fantasy of making love to Mai, of taking her home and showing her off to his old co-workers at the Piggly Wiggly. Then he thought of Swenson and his heart sank. He would’ve come down every day on the E-5 if it weren’t for the deal he’d just cut with Swenson about the Clamato juice and the exercise shoes.
    Their arrangement was pretty straightforward. Myron’s materials would be sent to Swenson who’d pick them up with his usual shipments, transport them to the NCO club and keep them hidden, the cans of juice slapped on ice in back of the club’s frosty fridge. Myron, in turn, would surrender a cartoon each of Kools and Salems, along with a bottle of Hennessy, to Swenson every Thursday, just before Clamato Club was to convene.
    â€œYou should be teaching these dinks how to spread their legs, not slim their thighs,” Swenson volunteered during one of their conversations. “A GI needs something to hold on to, not some baby san on a diet.”
    Swenson’s grin was as wide as his boonie hat. Myron quickly looked away to avoid Swenson’s omnipresent wink.
    â€œYou shouldn’t talk about them that way,” protested Myron. “They’re good girls, they work hard, and most of them are working two jobs to support their families. They’re not here for your entertainment.”
    â€œSarge, you are living in la-la-land.” Swenson rested his long arm on Myron’s shoulder. “It’s all about entertainment. The war, the girls, the clubs, the booze, the dope, the VC—even you and me!”
    Swenson dropped his arm from Myron’s shoulder. Myron stared at his massive forearm and the tuft of matted hair bleached blonde by the Southeast Asian sun. The sooner he got away from Swenson, the better.
    â€œLighten up, Sarge.” Swenson made a mock salute. “But don’t push me too far or I’ll tell everybody about your little weight-watchers’ scheme.”
    â€œAll right,” Myron shuddered. “You win. See you next week.”
    Walking back to his hooch, Myron wondered how the Army spawned soldiers like Swenson. This draftee from Minnesota seemed to have his hand in everything that went on at Long Binh Post. Why did the Army allow that to happen?
    But this was no time for distractions. Myron had to get his ducks in a row. Over the next few days, he worked on a diagram showing the benefits of Clamato juice and how it was a combination of tomato juice, clam broth, and spices. The Vietnamese liked clams, didn’t they?
    He drew charts outlining the six steps on the Quick Loss Diet. He made a sign that said: “NOTHING ELSE IS PERMITTED ON THIS DIET—NOTHING! IF IT’S NOT MENTIONED IN THE SIX STEPS, DON’T EAT OR DRINK IT.”
    When he finished, Myron fumbled frantically through his Vietnamese dictionary, trying to find the right words to communicate his vital message.
    When Thursday afternoon finally arrived, Myron summoned the Vietnamese workers to the NCO Club. Women of all shapes and sizes stood in the center of the room, smiling as he entered. One of them pushed Mai toward Myron. The rest giggled. As Mai moved closer, Myron led her to a folding chair and gestured for her to sit down. Giggling, the others copied Mai.
    Myron began his presentation, complete with props and charts and gestures. He was earnest