Barracks Cafeteria

thistles
thorny weeds
three-leveled building

She went back inside. I held my hand out to Henderson, who gave it a brief shake. His grip was firm and confident. He never took his eyes off white airmen sitting at the booth in the rear of the cafeteria.

He said, "If they found you so objectionable, then why did they invite you? Or was it that things had suddenly changed?"

I was concentrating on my jump shot when I heard someone behind me say, "You're doing it all wrong, kid."

If you placed the palm of your hand on the curved glass of the jukebox, you could feel the beat of the bass vibrate against your skin.

Flies buzzed between screen and glass, sometimes disappearing in the dusty folds of the curtains.

He peered at you over the top of his tortoise-shell glasses. His white paper hat always dripped with grease. He was, though, always jolly.

I liked the way Henderson walked: propelling himself forward with one short, straight-legged stride, then dragging his left boot behind him. His shoulders, already steeply-sloped, slung forward, sinking a second before squaring again.

Once, while I was shooting hoops, Henderson came out of the cafeteria sipping coffee from a paper cup. He stood at center court and watched me for a few minutes.

"Kid," he said. "Kid, you gotta square your shoulders before letting the ball loose. That way you'll have more control of the shot."

I did what Henderson said and, sure enough, the ball whooshed through the rim. When I turned to thank him, Henderson was gone.

That night in the Nipa hut while Terri unknotted her halter top, I asked her if she remembered the black airman, Henderson, from the barracks.

"The coon?" she said, bundling her halter top into a ball and stuffing it into the corner of the Nipa Hut.

We laid down next to each other, her breasts against my chest. I kissed her, lightly, and then asked her why she called Henderson a Coon. She seemed annoyed, seemed agitated. "Maybe I should go," she said.

"No. Don't," I replied."

It wasn't like that. Not at all. It wasn't that I didn't care, it was more a feeling of wanting to know. Needing to know.

Henderson had a gap-toothed smile. The name patch above the left shirt pocket of his green fatigues said 'Henderson'. He had bulging eyes as if an unseen hand permanently gripped his throat. He was light skinned with freckles marching across his face from one plump cheek to the other.

Behind Billy's house, past the Nipa Hut where we smoked cigarettes and discovered, through Terri, the beautiful softness of a girl's body, across the dry field where stickers caught rides on your wool socks, then hopping over a concrete storm ditch, you came to the enlisted men's barracks.

The building itself was gray, three stories, small railed balconies outside sliding glass doors. There were two asphalt basketball courts with real nets that whooshed when the ball dropped in without hitting the rim.

Just past the laundry room, there was a small cafeteria, manned by a single Filipino Fry cook named Fernando. A jukebox against the back wall. If our batteries were good, we could set our cassette player near the speakers and make a scratchy recording of the latest American hit song.

An airman often came in while we were there. Still in heavy boots and thick green fatigues, the airman ordered grilled cheese sandwiches, or cheeseburgers. And while the grill sizzled, the smell of frying meat filled the air.

Billy, he sometimes dug bent cigarettes out of the ashtrays. Later in the Nipa Hut behind his house, while Terri let us cup her breasts, we'd light the cigarettes and blow the smoke out like we were adults.

"What does a Coon know, anyway," Billy said.