a bicycle with a seat Reality is an Illusion
Take a short trip with me, if you will. Vietnam 1966, a beautiful tropical day, in
Saigon, "the pearl of the Orient." It's daytime and although the war
surrounds you, the city ostensibly belongs to us in daylight hours. Artillery
goes " kawoomph" at pretty regular intervals, but the streets are the pathways of
commerce and life goes on at a pretty normal pace, it seems routine. Women dressed in
"ao dais", a traditional flowing pant suit, old men pedalling pedicabs,
a bicycle with a seat
in the front for passengers, an old man carrying a bundle of cooking wood sticks,
looks impossibly heavy and he appears to be about 80 years old. If you see any
young men, they're in uniform. Another day in the big city. If you're 20 years old,
from the US and in the military because you're looking for adventure, this is heaven. The
women are beautiful and horny, the booze is cheap and plentiful, and as I said, steady
artillery in the background to remind you you're not dreaming. I'm approaching an ancient
woman holding an infant of perhaps 3-4 months of age. One black tooth rises from the
lower jaw to accent the withered and crazed brown face, the brown interrupted by a streak
of purple drool coming from near the tooth and worming its' way to her chin. The drool
caused by a cheap narcotic called betel nut. Numbs the lips, that's why the drool. The
pauper's drug. The infant begins crying like hell, and the old woman has a
hand out, 
begging in the universal manner. The scene is pathetic, I reach in my pocket, produce 500
piastres ($5U.S.), and I'm on my way feeling very proud, I'm a good guy. I've walked about
50 feet, and I turn and look back and to my absolute horror the old woman is digging
her fingernail into the buttock of the infant to get him/her to cry again. A Marine in full dress
uniform is approaching her and the baby blatts obligingly; the Marine hands her a bill.
This old bag-is worse than Hitler. This is unimaginably cruel. How the hell could she do that
to an innocent infant. Like I said, "I'm a good guy," so I proceeded to right the wrong.
I stopped the Marine told him what happened, we went together to the old woman, got
our money back and further, I ran her off. You know, " get the hell out of here, I don't
want to see you around here again." The words were accompanied by appropriate hand
gestures, because the old woman didn't speak English. She's gone, and I'm really a good
guy. I had a nice lobster dinner at a hotel, paid the $1 for the meal, and decided to
carouse the dens of iniquity in pursuit of feminine companionship. I have found a young
woman I like because she speaks good English, and we have in the past had very
interesting conversations. There are some reservations in my mind because in a previous
chat she had explained to me that Ho Chi Minh, the leader of our enemy, was
to Vietnam
what George Washington was to the U.S. Our discussions led to the events of the day
and I told her proudly about running off the beggar woman/child
abuser. She queried me
about this at some length to be absolutely certain she understood the
exact nature of the event, and then she was pissed. Really pissed. Half a million refugees
somewhere in the city. One army moves one way over your rice paddy, takes your food,
molests your women. Army number two marches them back across your rice paddy, takes
your food, molests your woman. Flee to the city. Starving refugees, lots of them. The old
woman rents a baby from a refugee, begs all day, gives all the money to the refugees for
food. A one woman social welfare organization, on a par with Mother Teresa. Am I a bad
guy? What happened to my reality? I can't fix what I have done. The lesson lives forever.