Nighttime
by Matt Kritzer
Nighttime.
Above San Francisco.
The world.
Plane banking and coming in low.
No doorgunner, no need.
Still...feeling for the rifle.
Runway, kiss the ground like you said you would.
Up to out-processing, with no mortar attack.
Out on the street in two hours.
Next...
Bus Downtown.
Screaming neon and people!
Oh my God, get me out of here!
These streets are not secured!
Masses rushing at me.
Feeling for the rifle...no rifle!
Saigon burning.
Street fighting, house to house.
Trucks overturned.
Automatic weapons fire from down the street.
Incoming rifle grenades exploding around me.
Get off the street, take cover!
"Welcome to McDonalds, may I take your order please?"
At the other end of the counter, two with guns.
Aching in the right palm, index finger twitching.
Out of control.
Feeling for the rifle.
Where's the Goddamn gun!
"May I take your order please?
They've got guns and they can kill me whenever they like.
One's moving toward the cigarette machine.
The other has his back to him, he's not covering him.
I know I can jump him, get the gun and kill them both.
"I'd like three cheeseburgers, two fries and a shake.
Make it strawberry."
"To go, Sir?"
"Yes."
Eat while you move.
Chow on the machinegun cover, single file, pointman ahead.
Through the jungle of Haight Ashbury.
Reach in your pocket, no ears, just an address.
How do I get to Michael's house with the street on fire?
Search and destroy, burning huts.
Feeling for the rifle, no rifle.
Right side of the street's on fire.
Grease painted faces, Cambodians near the bars.
"Look at the soldier boy!
Hey you mother fuckin' child moleskin' bastard!"
Trigger finger aching again, no gun.
Thoughts of body mutilation, shame of humanity.
Soiled, half-swallowed pride, spat on the sidewalk.
Spit near your feet.
Keep walking. Find Michael.
Right street, right house, three flights up.
Wrong face.