The Last Time I Flew Into Saigon

This is an attempt at flash fiction. Thoughts and comments welcome!


"The Last Time I Flew Into Saigon"

The roads were choked with weeds and ruts. The sight of bomb craters told me more than I needed to know.

At the cathouse, Charo (her real name, Nguyen Thi Lam) seemed as friendly as ever, but nothing else did. The place was perfect for an attempted assassination of or by Viet Cong infiltrators, the second reason I was there.

“Things aren’t looking so good, Yankee Doodle,” she said after our usual happy session.

The pop of small arms fire somehwere in the city drove home her point. Wiping sweat from my forehead, I felt for my loaded .45, making sure it was still handy. “I noticed.”

I could hear Big Mama whispering frantically in the next room over, negotiating with another john, maybe. I imagined her – about the size of Twiggy but meaner – extorting more money.

“They’ll be coming,” Charo said. “I want out.”

“I’ll see what I can do, honey,” I assured her. Whatever that meant.

“I want to be a stewardess on TWA,” she said in a hushed manner, nothing on but a scrap of linen sheet and wrapping a white kerchief around one hand. The kind of kerchief that kept her face protected from the sun and dust outside, kept her skin smooth and pale. That kept me crazy and coming back no matter how bad the latest developments in country.

“I’m sure some of the boys would like to have you as part of the team,” I said. “Cuchi-Cuchi.”

I winked at her, smiled weakly, grabbed my boxers and uniform. Leaving the .45 by her two pillows, I headed for the cleanup closet; it was no bigger than a shower stall but had a mirror and small altar. And a thin panel I knew I could leap through to reach the street if necessary.

There was a lit glass candle on the altar, sandalwood incense, a thin bejeweled Buddha, a ceramic pearly crucifix with flecks of dried blood. And a tiny red star, made out of some kind of fabric.

I splashed water from a bowl on my face, glanced at myself as I climbed into my uniform. I retrieved forty American dollars from my wallet, folded it. I took a breath and emerged into the main chamber of Charo’s room.

“Here’s forty bucks,” I counted out, knowing this best for the black market. “Until next time.” I was thinking she’d have to give Big Mama a tenner for rent, thinking about my next move when I saw Charo pointing my pistol at me.

From the next room, Big Mama yelled something.

I heard a loud crack, instantly felt a scalding hot sting somewhere between my right knee and stomach. I spun back, lurching toward the altar in the cleanup closet. Blackness.

* * * * *

Despite the shock of being shot, I must have made good on my escape through the thin panel and out into the street. Next thing I knew I was back at the base hospital, tagged for Stateside return.

From Intel, I later learned that Charo had been promoted to local cadre leader in the VC. The MPs never found her, dead or alive. And then we evacuated Saigon altogether.

* * * * *

Years have passed. I walk with a limp. I can’t deal with American women after Charo’s show of strength. This time, I’m flying into Ho Chi Minh City, and I’m going to find her again.

If she’s dead, I’ll leave flowers at her grave. If she’s alive and single, I’ll ask her to marry me and move to Toronto. If she still wants to be a stewardess, she can work for Air Canada or British Airways. TWA doesn’t exist anymore; neither does South Vietnam.

If she has to shoot me again, I hope she hits me right between the eyes this time. The first time, she’d saved both our lives with one perfectly aimed shot.


Today's Rune: Flow.

Xin chào tam biet!