Free Deros Vietnam by Doug Bradley Page A

Walt Whitman, the intergalactic guru himself, entered stage left. Apparently Ginsberg thought he could lower everyone’s temperature by his mere presence. Ooohhhmmmm …” Jones started chanting.
    â€œWell, did he?” Carter asked.
    â€œTruth is, our home-grown cosmonaut spent most of his brief time here scared—and I use the world in its literal sense—shitless.”
    A volley of laughter moved like a wave through The Shelf. Most of the reporters stopped talking and looking at their watches to listen to Jones.
    â€œTell them what Do-Re-Mi said about Ginsberg,” Van Slyke reminded him.
    â€œGood point,” Jones smiled. “Even the fresh faces among us know Do-Re-Mi, real name Ngo Rai Minh. He was at the center of the Buddhist uprising in ’63 and was famous for his impromptu press conferences about the Buddhist burnings.
    â€œLegend has it that when Sheehan asked Do-Re-Mi what he thought of Ginsberg, the cherubic bonze replied matter-of-factly: ‘He’s a spy.’”
    A wave of laughter rippled across The Shelf and out into Tu Do Street.
    â€œBut not just any goddamn spy,” Jones shouted above the laughter, “he claimed Ginsberg was a quote top secret, CIA-clearance spy!”
    More hoots and shouts.
    â€œSo, Ginsberg spends a couple hours chanting ‘Om’ with the monks who basically ignore him. After the combat police flattened the Pagoda gates, it suddenly dawns on the cosmic cowboy that this is a pretty dangerous place, so he spent the rest of his time here hiding in Sheehan’s office.”
    â€œâ€˜I’m scairt,’ he wrote to his boyfriend back home.” More snickers. “And within four days, the poet laureate of pop was long gone. Probably had to pick up some clean underwear.”
    Jones paused.
    â€œYou all know what happened next. More Buddhists toasted themselves for the benefit of the six o’clock news. Diem and his brother dug their hole deeper and deeper until Kennedy and the CIA had no choice but to take them out. And the rest, as they say in Vietnam, is mystery.”
    Jones made a royal bow, applause raining down from his colleagues.
    Hours later, the applause echoing in his ears, Carter lay awake in his bed, a delicate flower of Southeast Asian femininity breathing quietly next to him. Sleepless, he remembered seeing the 1963 protests on the six o’clock news back home in Richmond. His thoughts drifted to his days at the university, the all-hours debates with his dorm mates about God, religion and fate.
    His first marijuana high, and his romantic lows. And Allen Ginsberg and his favorite lines from “Howl”:
    yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
    Which sent him on to a restless sleep.
    Morning came early, the sun bright and boiling, the monsoon preparing its regular noon appearance. Jones and Van Slyke joined Carter for the stroll to 89 Huyen Thanh Quan Street. The Xa Loi pagoda, separated from the street by a gated fence, shimmered like a jewel in an otherwise drab downtown. Inside the fence, they were welcomed by a stone Buddha holding a vial of elixir in one hand and making a gesture that seemed to signify the removal of obstacles with the other.
    â€œLeft hand know what the right hand is doing?” pondered Van Slyke. “Could be a metaphor for the U.S. in Vietnam?”
    The interior courtyard resembled a travelling carnival with scores of monks, nuns and children zigzagging the premises. Amid the cacophony of bells and chants arose a stench, a rotting, cabbage-like smell which brought the three reporters’ hands to their noses.
    A wrinkled mama-san in black pants flashed her stained teeth and beckoned for them to follow. She guided them to stairs which led to the main hall of the pagoda on the upper level, then stopped, pointing to the stairs on the left hand side and saying