Free Dragon Lady by Gary Alexander

stinker in this neighborhood at this hour, with only blossoms to defend himself , had to be off his rocker. Demented people in any culture were dangerous to handle and were given a wide berth.
    Quyen, the big sister, answered the door. “You, huh?”
    “Sorry to barge in on you at this hour, ma’am. Do you speak English?”
    She shook her head so quickly that I knew she did.
    I played the game. “For Mai. Biết ?”
    I was ashamed to admit that biểt ,Vietnamese for “understand,”was one of the few non-profane Vietnamese words I’d troubled myself to learn.
    “I biết . You with captain war hero today, huh?”
    “I do. I am. I mean I was.”
    Quyen smiled and extended her thumb and forefinger two inches apart. “Captain, him like this.”
    A wonderful anecdote told in passable English. I had to smile.
    “What you want?”
    I’d frozen in a moronic grin, my tongue tied in knots. Even if I could stammer out the words, I could think of nothing further to say. Jesus H. Fucking Christ, where was I? In the seventh grade at the Friday afternoon sock hop in the gym? Too bashful to tap a girl on the shoulder and ask for a dance?
    I thrust the flowers in Quyen’s hands, idiotically repeating, “For Mai. Biết ?”
    She did not accept them. She stepped back, and I thought she was going to slam the door in my face. Then she called inside. I didn’t understand a word, but they held the tone of a command.
    Mai came out and took the flowers.
    “For you, Mai.”
    Without a word, she blew me a kiss and quietly shut the door.
     

 
     
    7.
     
    I GOT back to the room, all atwitter, too wound up to sleep. To grab a wink I tried to get my mind off Mai by counting, not sheep gamboling over a fence, but those Vietminh ants in their black pajamas and coolie hats. I finally dozed into half slumber, half recollection. The ants had led me not to the French garrison at Dien Bien Phu , but to Seattle ’s Armed Forces Processing Center on the 9th day of 1964.
    Doug Hooper and I were taking our draft physicals together. And why not? We’d been best buddies since the middle of the fifth grade, when his family had moved in across from us in West Seattle, in a modest neighborhood of crackerbox ramblers and competitive lawns. They were Navy people and Doug had attended four different schools, but his dad was retiring soon and they stayed put. Upon graduating from high school, we went our separate ways, me to professional studentdom , Doug to Boeing, working swing shift at the Renton plant, bucking rivets on the 727 wing line.
    As previously stated, the Selective Service System was losing patience with me and my academic meandering, a career in itself. They cynically presumed that six-plus years with umpteen majors and sophomore status did not constitute scholarly achievement. They likewise cynically presumed I’d stuck in school only to hang on to my student deferment. To avoid Uncle Sam in those tense times, either you went to college or you knocked up your girlfriend and did the right thing by her.
    I think Judy was willing to go along with the knocked-up part, but I wasn’t ready to do the right thing. That entailed buying a ring, saying “I do,” picking out furniture, settling down, et cetera. I knew Judy was losing patience with me, too. I couldn’t blame her. The role of sort-of fiancée left her in romantic limbo.
    Doug wasn’t serious about anybody at the moment, although I suspected he had a secret crush on Judy. He was no keener than I about going into the army, but when he told me what he was gonna do, I didn’t believe him. Doug could be as full of shit as a Christmas goose and you never knew when.
    It was nearly as cold inside the processing station as out. They marched us from here to there with our shirts off, poking and probing and measuring and ordering us to fill a bottle whether we had to take a leak or not. I might’ve known from that goofy grin plastered on Doug’s face that he wasn’t kidding. Nobody