Phil

Dear Cheryl,

 

Our troop carrier breaks down so me and Gunther
thumb a ride on a rag-top tanker with a zippered
back window. FTA painted on the guy’s helmet,
Fuck The Army. We figure he’s hauling water
to some remote outpost.

 

Man, his rig’s tuff. An M-16 hangs on a windshield
“T” handle, muzzle down. The metal plate on the dash—
advisories on how to maintain your vehicle,
in case the driver forgot—holds grenades:
6 frags, 2 smoke, 2 white phosphorus.

 

A radio is the headrest behind his seat,
tuned to the armed forces network.
A 3-gallon jug of Kool-Aid with cup inside,
a cooler on the floor, full of Pabst.

 

You can tell this guy knows the road—
can tell he’d spot a new divot from
exploding devices.

 

I ask about the hole in his door. “Lucky bullet,” he
says, caressing the wheel. “This truck’ll never let me
down. It’s true love, man.”

 

“What’re you haulin’?” Gunther asks,
dipping Kool-Aid.

 

“Fuel.”

 

Gunther just about shits his pants.
“This here’s a fuckin’ 5,000-gallon
Molotov Cocktail. Pull over, dude,
we’d rather walk.”

 

Love ya, Phil

 

P.S. Spent my 20th birthday in a bar listening to
“I Got You Babe” with a Vietnamese accent.