Death in the Jungle by Gary Smith (most inspirational books .txt) 📕

As we progressed into downtown Saigon on a tree-lined avenue, I studied the sea of humanity. The sidewalks were crowded with hucksters peddling their wares. Vendors with two-wheeled carts full of coconuts and bananas seemed to be everywhere. Many people rode bicycles that were stacked high with boxes and sacks. Young men on motorbikes zigzagged through intersections, ignoring stop signs. Simply put, the place was clogged.

The first place we went on that day was to the Continental Hotel for lunch. Pearson parked the truck in a luckily found spot a block away, and all eight of us bailed out and walked to the open-air terrace cafe. We confiscated two small tables beneath the veranda and sat down, four men to a table. The cool, shaded area under the roof quickly revived me, as the stifling heat of the city had caused me to feel faint just a minute earlier. So many people, so much traffic, so much carbon monoxide was in this place.

Soon, a waiter came to take our orders. All of us wanted a cheap, cold Tiger beer, except Funkhouser, who decided to splurge and drink a Heineken.

“I’ve had a rough morning,” Funky declared, giving Doc Brown the evil eye. “I’ve had enough cheap shit for one day, so I’m gonna put something of quality into my system.”

I looked at Doc, who was smiling. Don’t worry, Doc, I said to myself, we’re going to pay you back. And payback can be hell.

I caught the waiter before he left and ordered a Chinese soup with noodles, pork, and red peppers.

“Easy on the peppers,” I told him. “It’s hot enough today without burning up my throat.”

“Da,” agreed the waiter as he imitated the wiping of sweat from his brow. “Very hot.”

“Also, I want some fried rice,” I added.

“Com,” he said, writing it on his pad as he walked away.

The eight of us kidded around for a few minutes until the waiter returned with a tray full of bottles of beer and glasses. He set four bottles and four glasses on each table, making sure the Heineken went to Funkhouser.

“I’ve got a Thanksgiving Day toast to make,” announced Funkhouser, holding up his bottle. The rest of us lifted our bottles in the air. I glanced at McCollum, who saw my look and shrugged.

“This is a toast to the three sins of stealing, lying, and drunkenness,” Funkhouser stated with a smile. “If you must steal, steal away from sin. If you must lie, lie with one you love. If you must drink, drink with me, for I am your friend.”

Funkhouser tipped his bottle into his mouth and drank.

“Aw, shit,” muttered Brown, “wasn’t that nice?” I gave him a hard look, but he was smiling. When he sipped his beer to honor the toast, I drank mine, too.

“Where’d you get a toast like that, Funky?” asked McCollum after a long swig from his bottle.

“Out of a toaster.” Funkhouser grinned.

“Very funny,” McCollum retorted sarcastically.

“Actually,” returned Funkhouser, “I made it up.”

Everyone chuckled and hooted at this apparent lie.

“Made it up, hell,” spat Brown, who was sitting at the other table. “A moron couldn’t come up with something that good.”

We laughed. Funkhouser didn’t. Instead, he raised his beer bottle before his eyes and stared at it. After a moment’s reflection, he said, “Then let me offer another toast from a moron’s perspective.” The rest of us hoisted our beers as Funkhouser continued slowly and carefully, “What goes around, comes around, and no one can escape this rule.” He paused to think, then added, “So here’s to one who thinks he will, but he won’t, I assure you, to Doc Brown, the fool.”

“Hoo-yah!” I whooped, and everybody laughed except Doc this time. Then down the pipes went the beers.

Two dozen beers and ten dozen laughs later, we were all done with our lunches and headed to the post exchange in Cholon. As we traveled there, I studied the masses of people on the sidewalks and crossing the street. As always, I was amazed that we were totally ignored. No one waved or smiled at us. No one uttered, “Chao” or “Cam on ong.” No one yelled “Good afternoon,” or even “Kiss my ass.” Yet Katsma had given his life for these people’s freedom. And I might even have to give mine. Or Funkhouser. Or McCollum. Or one of the others. That was why a smile would have been nice. Just one to have given me a little peace. But as I watched the hundreds and thousands of faces, I saw not one.

At the PX, all eight of us collected our month’s supply of liquor and wine. I picked up Early Times whiskey and some Italian wine. Then, while the others paged through mail-order catalogs and perused the floor merchandise, I decided to take a walk by myself outside on the street. Perhaps, I thought, the people would greet me if I was alone and on foot.

It took but a block of walking to realize that only the hawkers would address me, and they only in an attempt to get at my money.

“GI, buy naked virgin very cheap?” a young male peddler called to me from behind his little table on the sidewalk as I stepped past. I glanced at the statues of nude maidens he had stacked before him and shook my head.

“No, thank you,” I pronounced over my left shoulder while accidentally bumping into someone with my right arm. I turned back to apologize, but no one acknowledged the slight collision. No one looked at me; everyone just kept walking.

Continuing my journey, I traveled a couple more blocks as an insignificant part of a maze of pedestrians. I walked past the peddlers and their wares: the hanging parrot cages, ceramic elephants, cheap jewelry, watches, seashells, and Chinese herbs.

An old woman shoved a tin cup under my nose and begged, “Please?” I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out a ten-piaster coin, which I dropped into her cup. She smiled at me, revealing broken