Three Short Exploited Stories
A Night at the American Hotel
(Remnants of the Cold War, 1970, Augsburg, Germany)
“Cheers, my friend,” said the stranger drinking with me and Sergeant Ralph Morgan at the American Hotel in Augsburg back in 1970, and he stood up “…to West Germany!” He added, after a hesitation.
A lot of us soldiers walked over from the military base three blocks away, and patronized the hotel’s basement bar and slot machine room, in those days.
We watched him get up and leave to go to the rest room, and I figured he was a spy, he was asking too many questions.
“What do you make of that fellow?” queried my comrade, Sergeant Morgan.
“I’m not sure, but he has to have a lot of money, he’s already bought the last several rounds.”
“Me either, but I bet he’s a spy!” said Morgan “what do you think, Evens?”
“Yes, I agree, he’s a spy, he was asking too many questions not to be.”
Then the stranger returned to the table, looked about, noticed the bar area where all the tables were, was pert near full, all twenty tables or so, and crowded at the small bar area, it was payday weekend, and Reese Military Compound was nearby, and a lot of American Soldiers, and German girls came there at the first of the month, and the hotel guests.
“We’re leaving soon,” the sergeant told me, “we’ll be gone for thirty days.”
“Oh, your whole unit is leaving soon?” questioned the stranger.
“Listen stranger,” Morgan told him “you can tell me tales all night long, if it pleases you, but don’t ask me any questions concerning my unit, that’s classified information and only given out on a need to know bases, and you don’t need to know.”
“I was just trying to make conversation, something to say, and nothing more…” said the stranger, in his late thirties, with a sport jacket on, and blue jeans and white shirt who spoke excellent German, and near excellent English.
“I don’t know you from Adam,” said Morgan, “matter-of-fact, why you are buying us so many rounds?”
“Cheers,” said the stranger, holding his glass of beer up high, and then stood up from the table, pushed his chair back, in back of him “perhaps another time,” he said, realizing Morgan was starting to ask too many questions, and he quickly found another table with GI’s and started to talk to them. Both I and the sergeant watched him closely.
“What do you make of that Corporal Evens?” commented Morgan, meaning to be a rhetorical question. Then the stranger bought a round for the four GI’s at the table. “If I told you of all the spies that came into this hotel, it would boggle you mind.”
No: 629 (6-19-2010)
Yellow Flash
(At the Gem Bar, 1982, Minneapolis, Minnesota)
As I started to walk out of the Gem bar to walk down the street to Gleak’s tavern (where I hung out some. in those far-off days writing poetry between 1st Avenue and Hennepin Avenue, and having it published in the small Minneapolis newspaper, called ‘Insight’), on 1st Avenue in the boiling hot July summer’s heat I felt serene, was cheerful and calm but felt a peculiarity—from my heel throughout my bones and to my throat, you know what I mean, something was up, bound to happen, and walking down the street alone, quickly all my euphoria melted.
I had figured as much, while drinking at the Gem bar, there might be trouble between two black fellows arguing, I was sitting at the bar, not all that far away from them.
“Come on, let’s go and get it,” the short thin Negro said to the other fellow, a taller and even thinner Negro. Any fool could see trouble was fermenting between them.
“No Fish, I’ll get it for you later,” said the taller one.
“Come on, let’s go and get it right now!” he said again.
“Nope!” He told Fish firmly, emphatically. And I put together, and I knew this was just another bad drug deal; I knew it even stronger when I seen the white ivory handle of a pistol sticking out of Fish’s side, tucked between his plaid cotton shirt, and his brown leather belt.
Fish took one big large gulp of his beer, swallowed it down and then he elbowed the tall thinner Negro in the ribs— jostled him good, that he spilled part of his drink—it looked to be whiskey and coke, or just plain coke. Fish looked around angrily, and just laughed.
“Well, let’s get going!” He pert near yelled. “Sorry I bumped you,” Fish remarked to his comrade.
The tall thinner Negro’s cloths were dirty and wrinkled, and worn. His eyes deep pitted, unshaven. Quite the opposite of Fish’s, whom was very short, his face char co darkened. The taller Negro had lighter skin. Fish had a leather jacket on, covering his white handle—I assume snub-nosed 38-revolver.
As I started to walk down the street I noticed the tall and thinner negro on the corner, across the street was Gleak’s, then Fish came running out from behind several surrounding cars in a parking lot, spotting his prey—then I heard the crack of a pistol, and saw a yellow flash, and Fish running down the street towards Hennepin Ave, and the tall Negro wobbled, and unable to hold onto anything he crashed like a falling timber onto the sidewalk, he had twelve-minutes to live, he’d die in the ambulance I’d find out tomorrow morning, in the newspaper.
No: 628/6-19-2010
Written at Starbucks Coffee shop, Lima, Peru (Surco)
The French Private
(WWI, 1918, somewhere in a trench in France)
Standing under a shelter of the trench, he was wet with sweat, hunger and very thirsty and simply empty inside, a flat look on his face. Fear brings on a dry mouth and thirst—just knowing an attack is eminent is enough, as it was for the French Private. And dying uselessly, especially when you know its over nothing, and you do not have proper support, because someone someplace, wants to impress some other person, so he can make rank, and is far-off in some safety zone, you have a right to be angry, as Tony was.
“Yo u sur e yo a re A-mer-ican…” said the French Private, a slight intoxicated, “you look more like da en e my tha n da e ne my…! He went on to say, in his babble.
“He’s an American-Russian,” said the American Sergeant to the French private.
“Whoopee do…” said the Private.
“He’s the cook in my platoon, what’s the problem here?”
“Where’s he from, sergeant?” asked the French soldier, trying to be and act more sober.
“Where you from, rummy?” asked the Sergeant.
“None of your business,” said the private, even more proudly.
“There are no enemies in my platoon,” commented the Sergeant.
“That’s a broad statement,” remarked the French soldier.
“We hate the Germans as much as you, but just remember it’s your war we’re fighting, not ours.”
“Man, you American’s are arrogant,” said the French private.
“Yaw, I suppose so, especially when we got to fight foreigners, on foreign lands, who are fighting other foreigners. What do you expect?”
The French soldier looked over to his drunken comrade, said “These Americans have odd ideas, to say the least.” And reached for a refill of his cup, from a wine jug his comrade was protecting along side of him.
The sergeant looked at the French private, he was unshaven, haggard looking, had been fighting this war going on three and a half years, whereas the American Sergeant, had been there only three and half months, it was 1918.
“Keep your head down,” said the sergeant to the French man, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. There were a lot of stray bullets wheezing over head. Then he started to turn around towards Tony, an American Private, frying an egg in a frying pan, and mumbled—not sure to whom, perhaps he, himself:
“I don’t mind the bullets; I just hate fighting all those foreigners when it isn’t an American crisis.
No: 631 (6-19-2010)
A Night at the American Hotel
(Remnants of the Cold War, 1970, Augsburg, Germany)
“Cheers, my friend,” said the stranger drinking with me and Sergeant Ralph Morgan at the American Hotel in Augsburg back in 1970, and he stood up “…to West Germany!” He added, after a hesitation.
A lot of us soldiers walked over from the military base three blocks away, and patronized the hotel’s basement bar and slot machine room, in those days.
We watched him get up and leave to go to the rest room, and I figured he was a spy, he was asking too many questions.
“What do you make of that fellow?” queried my comrade, Sergeant Morgan.
“I’m not sure, but he has to have a lot of money, he’s already bought the last several rounds.”
“Me either, but I bet he’s a spy!” said Morgan “what do you think, Evens?”
“Yes, I agree, he’s a spy, he was asking too many questions not to be.”
Then the stranger returned to the table, looked about, noticed the bar area where all the tables were, was pert near full, all twenty tables or so, and crowded at the small bar area, it was payday weekend, and Reese Military Compound was nearby, and a lot of American Soldiers, and German girls came there at the first of the month, and the hotel guests.
“We’re leaving soon,” the sergeant told me, “we’ll be gone for thirty days.”
“Oh, your whole unit is leaving soon?” questioned the stranger.
“Listen stranger,” Morgan told him “you can tell me tales all night long, if it pleases you, but don’t ask me any questions concerning my unit, that’s classified information and only given out on a need to know bases, and you don’t need to know.”
“I was just trying to make conversation, something to say, and nothing more…” said the stranger, in his late thirties, with a sport jacket on, and blue jeans and white shirt who spoke excellent German, and near excellent English.
“I don’t know you from Adam,” said Morgan, “matter-of-fact, why you are buying us so many rounds?”
“Cheers,” said the stranger, holding his glass of beer up high, and then stood up from the table, pushed his chair back, in back of him “perhaps another time,” he said, realizing Morgan was starting to ask too many questions, and he quickly found another table with GI’s and started to talk to them. Both I and the sergeant watched him closely.
“What do you make of that Corporal Evens?” commented Morgan, meaning to be a rhetorical question. Then the stranger bought a round for the four GI’s at the table. “If I told you of all the spies that came into this hotel, it would boggle you mind.”
No: 629 (6-19-2010)
Yellow Flash
(At the Gem Bar, 1982, Minneapolis, Minnesota)
As I started to walk out of the Gem bar to walk down the street to Gleak’s tavern (where I hung out some. in those far-off days writing poetry between 1st Avenue and Hennepin Avenue, and having it published in the small Minneapolis newspaper, called ‘Insight’), on 1st Avenue in the boiling hot July summer’s heat I felt serene, was cheerful and calm but felt a peculiarity—from my heel throughout my bones and to my throat, you know what I mean, something was up, bound to happen, and walking down the street alone, quickly all my euphoria melted.
I had figured as much, while drinking at the Gem bar, there might be trouble between two black fellows arguing, I was sitting at the bar, not all that far away from them.
“Come on, let’s go and get it,” the short thin Negro said to the other fellow, a taller and even thinner Negro. Any fool could see trouble was fermenting between them.
“No Fish, I’ll get it for you later,” said the taller one.
“Come on, let’s go and get it right now!” he said again.
“Nope!” He told Fish firmly, emphatically. And I put together, and I knew this was just another bad drug deal; I knew it even stronger when I seen the white ivory handle of a pistol sticking out of Fish’s side, tucked between his plaid cotton shirt, and his brown leather belt.
Fish took one big large gulp of his beer, swallowed it down and then he elbowed the tall thinner Negro in the ribs— jostled him good, that he spilled part of his drink—it looked to be whiskey and coke, or just plain coke. Fish looked around angrily, and just laughed.
“Well, let’s get going!” He pert near yelled. “Sorry I bumped you,” Fish remarked to his comrade.
The tall thinner Negro’s cloths were dirty and wrinkled, and worn. His eyes deep pitted, unshaven. Quite the opposite of Fish’s, whom was very short, his face char co darkened. The taller Negro had lighter skin. Fish had a leather jacket on, covering his white handle—I assume snub-nosed 38-revolver.
As I started to walk down the street I noticed the tall and thinner negro on the corner, across the street was Gleak’s, then Fish came running out from behind several surrounding cars in a parking lot, spotting his prey—then I heard the crack of a pistol, and saw a yellow flash, and Fish running down the street towards Hennepin Ave, and the tall Negro wobbled, and unable to hold onto anything he crashed like a falling timber onto the sidewalk, he had twelve-minutes to live, he’d die in the ambulance I’d find out tomorrow morning, in the newspaper.
No: 628/6-19-2010
Written at Starbucks Coffee shop, Lima, Peru (Surco)
The French Private
(WWI, 1918, somewhere in a trench in France)
Standing under a shelter of the trench, he was wet with sweat, hunger and very thirsty and simply empty inside, a flat look on his face. Fear brings on a dry mouth and thirst—just knowing an attack is eminent is enough, as it was for the French Private. And dying uselessly, especially when you know its over nothing, and you do not have proper support, because someone someplace, wants to impress some other person, so he can make rank, and is far-off in some safety zone, you have a right to be angry, as Tony was.
“Yo u sur e yo a re A-mer-ican…” said the French Private, a slight intoxicated, “you look more like da en e my tha n da e ne my…! He went on to say, in his babble.
“He’s an American-Russian,” said the American Sergeant to the French private.
“Whoopee do…” said the Private.
“He’s the cook in my platoon, what’s the problem here?”
“Where’s he from, sergeant?” asked the French soldier, trying to be and act more sober.
“Where you from, rummy?” asked the Sergeant.
“None of your business,” said the private, even more proudly.
“There are no enemies in my platoon,” commented the Sergeant.
“That’s a broad statement,” remarked the French soldier.
“We hate the Germans as much as you, but just remember it’s your war we’re fighting, not ours.”
“Man, you American’s are arrogant,” said the French private.
“Yaw, I suppose so, especially when we got to fight foreigners, on foreign lands, who are fighting other foreigners. What do you expect?”
The French soldier looked over to his drunken comrade, said “These Americans have odd ideas, to say the least.” And reached for a refill of his cup, from a wine jug his comrade was protecting along side of him.
The sergeant looked at the French private, he was unshaven, haggard looking, had been fighting this war going on three and a half years, whereas the American Sergeant, had been there only three and half months, it was 1918.
“Keep your head down,” said the sergeant to the French man, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. There were a lot of stray bullets wheezing over head. Then he started to turn around towards Tony, an American Private, frying an egg in a frying pan, and mumbled—not sure to whom, perhaps he, himself:
“I don’t mind the bullets; I just hate fighting all those foreigners when it isn’t an American crisis.
No: 631 (6-19-2010)
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