Warm Depths of Memory

Shit River ran beneath the bridge that connected the navy base in Subic Bay to the streets of Olongapo. Lord knows where the river's name came from, but I would guess that the sewage had something to do with it. Beneath the bridge in long, narrow boats stood women (girls, probably) dressed in the finery of princesses. Their aim was to entice the sailors to toss coins into either the boats or the water, and in the water itself were boys who would angle into the depths to chase the fishing-lure-like glitter of pesos. Pesos were worth so little, even to the most impovershed sailors, that flinging a few off the bridge was cheap entertainment. And those kids, they dove deep.

In Olongapo itself we would prowl the bars, spending too much time and too much money on women who confessed to loving us or agreed to love us for a short time if not forever. The beer was cheap; the local rock banks were loud and good; the afternoon rainstorms drew the heat from our skin while it excised humidity from the air around us. Once, alone where I should not have been, I wandered backstreets after sunset and wished I hadn't tried to walk back to the base from whatever bar I'd left. I finally flagged down a jeepney and paid my way back to the main gate, and both the driver and I were happy.

Jack, from Hoboken, New Jersey, caught the clap 5 times in Olongapo. Jack was a hoot: I once almost got dragged to the brig along with him after he'd smarted off to an insecure warrant officer as we walked through the main gate in Yokosuka, Japan. He also got kicked out of a hotel in Perth, Australia, for general misbehavior and casual drunkedness. I was in that same hotel, and we had couple of midnight vistors: police officers who woke us up to ask if we were the ones dropping beer bottles off the room's balconey. We weren't, and we said so. They didn't believe us but left anyway. My roomate and I weren't sure if that visit was better or worse than someone knocking at the door 6 hours later to ask if we wanted tea. And Jack had the best tattoo I've ever seen: a parrot smoking a cigar, right on his butt. Great tattoo. He was also aboard the ship during the Vietnam evacuation, and he told us stories of the ship full of refugees, of how perfectly good helicopters were pushed off the flight deck to make room for others. He said he would watch as the helicopters settled on the surface for a moment, then sank dutifully--worthless as pesos, maybe.

I have thought about these things because of Denis Johnson's book Tree of Smoke, which now has about 60 pages farther from the back cover than it did a few nights ago. In the book's second paragraph is this: "...Seaman Apprentice William Houston, Jr., began feeling sober again as he stalked the jungle of Grande Island carrying a borrowed .22-caliber rifle."

Me: I have been to Grande Island, which was a short boat ride from a dock at the navy base. I drank beer and snorkled there, and I remember how clear and warm and clean the water was as I enjoyed an afternoon respite from Olongapo's commotion. I didn't, of course, have a rifle.

A few pages later in Smoke: "Houston took a train from the naval base in Yokosuka, Japan, to the city of Yokohoma...".

Me: Those are other places I have been, and though Johnson's book doesn't stay long on Grande Island or in Yokosuka, I nevertheless enjoy this grounding in the story: You find something familiar in a story, you get hooked easily.