Chapters (37)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Dedication
- The Truth of Thom Jones
- Selected Stories
- The Pugilist at Rest
- The Black Lights
- I Want to Live!
- Silhouettes
- Mosquitoes
- A White Horse
- Cold Snap
- Superman, My Son
- Way Down Deep in the Jungle
- Pickpocket
- Pot Shack
- I Need a Man to Love Me
- Sonny Liston Wasa Friend of Mine
- The Roadrunner
- A Run Through the Jungle
- 40, Still at Home
- Tarantula
- Mouses
- Daddy’s Girl
- New Stories
- Night Train
- Volcanoes from Hell
- A Merry Little Christmas
- All Along the Watchtower
- Diary of My Health
- The Junkman of Chengdu
- Bomb Shelter Noel
- Acknowledgments
- Credits
- About the Author
- Also by Thom Jones
- Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.
Gerber sidled right up to the bar and said, “She’s got a snatch on her like Bert Parks’s toupee.”
Sergeant Ondine said, “Either the bitch likes it or that sailor boy has got massive salivary glands.”
L.D. Pfieffer, our machine-gunner, said, “Man, I’d like to stick my whole head up her pussy.”
Felix Toliver, a radioman from Connecticut, eyeballed Pfieffer and said, “With a pinhead like yours it would fit like a glove.” Toliver was 6′5″ tall and accordingly thought of himself as a badass, and well before the fun started these two marines locked eyeballs. Sergeant Ondine stepped in and told them to knock it off, but Toliver had this nasal Connecticut accent and said, “Stay out of this, Clarence.”
There were two things you didn’t do in First Recon—you didn’t get on the wrong side of L.D. and you didn’t call Ondine “Clarence.” I figured Toliver must have a death wish, but just then a big whore came along, took L.D. by the hand, and turned him around. Pretty soon she’s running her fingers up and down his thigh, squeezing his meat. Gerber handed me a beer and guided me to the back of the club where some of the classier whores sat. He was saying, “I’m in love, Hollywood. You should see this babe.” But when we got to the back, Gerber’s prostitute was nowhere to be seen. I suddenly found the love of my own life, negotiated a price, and went upstairs. A half hour later I was back. The stage show was over and it was all jukebox. The Mar-Kees were cranking out “Last Night.”
Ondine and Pfieffer were at the bar slamming down overpriced shots of tequila. Sergeant Ondine was a lifer. The Marine Corps was his career, but he was an all-right guy. With Vietnam on his mind, he was deep into his rap where the essential secret to being a good soldier was first of all to concede your own death. “If you do that, you can do anything. No one can outsoldier you. No one can take a run at you and live to tell about it. No one can take you out. You can do seven-mile forced marches in full field gear with a poncho over your head and call yourself a tough guy, but if you aren’t ready to give it up, you’re nothing.”