Week End (1967)

Iris leans over the bar, stretching and twisting her arms seductively and pulling him forward with a beckoning finger. She bats her eyes at him and purrs: “Tell me a story about the war, Jerry.”

Jerry shakes his head, “No. No.”

“Howabout one about your first love.”

“No.”

Frank leans in: “Tell us how you got so fucked up.” Iris slaps Frank on the shoulder, but Jerry nods, looking very serious.

“Howabout I tell you a story about all three?: "In the blinking of the traffic lights and on-coming cars, I could make out Misty in her pink, spaghetti-strap dress, wobbling drunkenly through a dangerous Y-intersection in the downtown square. I run to her and take her arm and lead her across the street. She tries to fight me all the way, but, by reaching the other side, she mostly acquiesced. I guide her pathetic march home. She never calls. I am too young and pig-headed to seek her out. Instead, I get shipped to the front lines.

On one ill-fated, air-raid (The details too horrible to say), we are shot from the sky. I drop from the sky in the parachute all too quickly for my liking, (though very lucky to get out at all!) and land in a muddy field. The co-pilot lands nearby yelling: “Land-mines!”

We stand stock-still and survey the field: It is so torn up, mines could be anywhere. But, there are footprints, and logically, I think, it maybe safe to retrace the steps of another. Until they bring me to an exploded crater, anyway. A truck pulls up on the near-by road. It is one of our own minefields, and one of the culprits who created it can lead us out. Map in hand, he makes his way gingerly to the co-pilot, who is wounded and needs carried out. I’m OK, and can follow him back on my own.

Back at the truck, we are flagged my some stranded motorists and agree to give them a lift back into town. As the nomadic bunch sidles up (there were a lot of them roaming the countryside at the time, protesting the war), I realize that Misty, now in a white sundress, atypical of the tomboy she had morphed into in my mind, is among them. I scuffle to the back seat–achingly, I am somewhat worse for wear in this war. Misty scoots up next to me. She hugs me and I ask her why she never called, and she replies, “Because you thought you loved me.” She sighs and embraces me sadly as the truck bumps along the dirt road. I take her hand. She sighs: “Gerald, I miss you. But in these times, I can’t trust in love. I want you near. I can’t offer more.” “Yes. Just, keep an open mind for me. I will be here.” We embrace. And I do not want to let go. Despite her anxiety, she doesn’t seem to want to let go either.

Soon, I am back on the street and then back to the little off-base apartment I had. As I settle down, with a new drink, to see what the radio had to offer at this late hour, I sense someone at the door. I go to open it. Pulling it open, I find Misty, staring blankly, still in her white dress. As I smile, happy that she has sought me out, she begins to sway forward. I jump to grab her and support her head. But, something is wrong. We both crash to the floor: Her head rolls to my feet! Some fiend had cut it off and propped her up outside my door.

Tragic, I roam the city.

Rounding a corner for the nth time, I hasten my pace, as I spot a seedy group of noncoms for the nth time. But, passing an alley I am accosted by the group at grenade-point. I reach for my wallet with nothing to lose, and I am told it is not a matter of money, but one of territory. As I sigh, an MP rolls up and accosts the gang. But, more grenades appear, many thrown, and the cops drive off. Later, I awake in a hospital bed, but the persistent gang was in the hospital with me. When I escaped they were in my apartment. Then they were in the barracks. Behind me on the plane as I re-loaded the machine gun. They were everywhere. Always were. They are here now. I cannot escape them. You see what, I have become…” At this, Jerry starts weeping again. Frank scoffs bewildered, “I haven’t heard of a tale that disjointed since New Yorker Video put Godard’S Weekend (1967) on DVD in the Summer of aught-five.”

Iris pats Jerry on the back, “You take him back to your place, Frank. And don’t give him any of your shit. Just a beer and to bed.”