the phrase "i like arms" kept echoing in my head, as i
tried to think of a way to explain things to her.
that not all americans supported this war, about how
complicated the situation was, about the hard
decisions that adults have to make sometimes, the
greater good, nescessary evils, the fact that this was
the most ..surgical and precise combat in the history
of warfare - all of the things i tell myself when im
standing in the bathroom at a bar in the US taking a
piss reading the front of the newspaper conventiently
tacked at eye level so that i can survey the news
while i piss and i read that america blew off a kids
arms and a sidebar about how some idiot sent him a
sony playstation. theoretically, rhetorically,
academically i understood why we went to war, and i
wanted to explain what i had "learned" to her. that
the innocent always pay for the greater good. yes its
tragic and uh.. everything, but -BUT- difficult
decisions must be made. that progress is often built
on suffering, that fuck - eggs have to be cracked,
widowed, burned, killed, maimed, mutilated to make a
fucking omelet, and we are not afraid to do it, if it
becomes nescessary. i wanted to tell her about how
the world media had exploited this image to some
degree, about how the casualties were absolutely
minimal, about the vastly improved futures of the
iraqis, about my brother in law, about how what she
heard may not be exactly on point, that her government
and media and educators had an understandable bias
about the situation, that there was no way a ten year
old could use the word imperialism much less
understand the real meaning of the word unless some
party idealogue had coached-


"hello sir, how are you sir?"

i turned around. a boy stood waiting for my attention.
i don't think that i will ever forget his face.

a few minutes later, we stopped. as usual, it was at
a predetermined tourist stop in a small village
holding a contract with the bus company. small, cute
viet children jumped in.

"pineapple!! pineapple, mister, pineapple cheap 5000
dong you buy from me please mister please 5000 you buy
from me you buy from me first i talk to you first."

i resisted at first, but predictibly gave in, as
vietnamese pineapple is unbelievably good and 5000
dong is less that 30 cents. i began to talk with a
small girl with excellent english, no more than 10.

"thankyou. you want one more pineapple? coke? cold
coca cola? please? you?"
"no more, thanks"
"ok. ok -later. buy later. ok?"
"..."
"where you from mister?"
"im from America. are you from around here - uh.
.Dung?"
"nonono, Dung far away. i from Song."
"oh.. your english is amazing. wh-"
"i think america bad. i dont know why america, why
george bush want to go to war all of time,
imperialism, i think it very bad and very sad too,
also. also not nice."
"well, not every-
"i watch on TV and america is hurt children and i saw
the boy and he have no arms and and he have no arms!
i like arms!"

we moved along, my ass growing numb. the dry orange and yellow dust of the central vietnamese countryside rose around the mini bus as we passed hamlets and villages on our way from Nha Trang to Dalat. the most unfortunately named of all of these areas was the little town of "Dung". this was undoubtably a well worn route on the vietnamese tourist circuit - but the road seemed to still bear the scars of B-52 flyovers.
as i was imagining the sound of exploding heavy ordnance and terrified farm animals, i felt a burst of humid air on my face. outside air. i looked up to see the driver lighting up a cigarette with the window fully open. the AC was on! how could the he open the fucking window!?! its hot as balls in here and it cost alm-

i was suddenly distracted by the way the bus-driver was ashing his cigarette. it was amazing. he was using his two thumbs to flick the butt of the cigarette. this would have been only slightly noteworthy, had not both of the the two thumbs been on his left hand. he noticed me noticing him, and threw me a look. i had not seen his face before, which was strangely aligned, rough and pockmarked.

"god damn..agent orange.. defects.. i heard about, but.. " i muttered, blinking.