Deros Vietnam by Doug Bradley Page B

and sincere, but his audience doubled over in laughter almost as soon as he started. Adding to Myron’s discomfort was the Club itself, which reeked of beer, cigarettes, and hamburger grease. Myron wanted to hold his nose and breathe through his mouth to avoid inhaling anything toxic but that was nearly impossible since he needed his hands free to display his props and brandish his plastic pointer.
    By any standard, Myron’s Clamato Club meeting was a disaster. To begin with, he didn’t have a clue about teaching. Myron rocked back and forth in front of the graffiti-strewn bar, waving his pointer wildly and punctuating the air with his lofty plan. Every portion of his talk took twice as long as he’d planned since Mai, when she wasn’t laughing, had to translate everything he said. There was no guarantee that whatever Mai was saying related in any way to what Myron was trying to communicate.
    Worse yet, Swenson and his crew repeatedly strutted in and out, using any excuse to parade in front of Myron’s class. “Sarge, don’t you think the ladies would like to sit on cushions instead of those shitty old chairs? Sarge, can we show your students how to get some real exercise?”
    The last straw for Myron was the fact that not one of the women took a single sip from the cans of Clamato juice he’d distributed. Mai in particular turned up her nose. Myron didn’t even bother passing around the boxes of exercise shoes.
    It was getting late and the women were fidgeting. As recommended by Dr. Maxwell’s Quick Weight Loss Diet, Myron had begun drinking eight glasses of water a day. He desperately needed to pee.
    â€œClass dismiss…” he started to say when Swenson appeared at his side.
    â€œTake five, Sergeant Swoboda.” Swenson patted him on the back. Instead of arguing, Myron hustled to the latrine.
    On his way back inside the club, Myron was startled to hear the women singing something that sounded like “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” in rounds. There was laughter, too. At the front of the room, Swenson was conducting the class with a large cucumber as his baton.
    When they stopped singing, the women burst into applause. Mai was clapping the loudest.
    â€œSar-Jen ver lee good swinger,” Mai directed at Swenson.
    â€œHoney, you don’t know the half of it,” Swenson patted her cheek. Myron wanted to run and hide.
    â€œAll yours, Sarge.” Swenson turned to leave.
    â€œWhere you going?” Even to himself, Myron sounded helpless.
    â€œGotta go. Got beaucoup work.”
    As if on command, all the Vietnamese workers rose to leave with Swenson. Myron pleaded with them, especially Mai, to take their cans of Clamato juice with them. “You drink, Numbah One,” his voice rising. “Stay thin, go to America!”
    No one turned around.
    â€œDoesn’t anyone want to go to America with me?” Myron mumbled under his breath, defeat beating him down yet again. He looked up to see Swenson handing each of the workers two cans of Clamato juice and a pack of Salems.
    â€œYou gotta know how the local economy works,” Swenson said with a wry smile. “We’ll find a way to use the stuff, just wait and see.”
    * * *
    â€œThat’s it,” Myron admitted to Swenson the next time he dropped by the NCO Club. “This entire damn nation can stay fat and Communist as far as I’m concerned.”
    â€œDon’t sweat the small stuff, Sarge.” Swenson patted him on the back. “These slopes care more about nuoc mam than your special brew. Besides, we’re just fattening ‘em up for the slaughter anyway.”
    Myron changed the subject. “My buddy in New York said he’ll take all the cans back and not charge me for them. Can you return those cases of Clamato juice to the APO today?
    Swenson let out a whistle. “No can do, First Sergeant.”
    â€œWhaddya mean, no can do?”
    â€œWell,