The Fantasy Years

“HI HUONG,” DENNIS SAID. “HOW ARE YOU?” He sat at his lone desk, open to the office. He pretended to place an order of office supplies but got stuck somewhere between entering the item numbers and waiting breathlessly for her reply.

“Good,” then she nodded brightly keeping her eyes on him the whole time. Later, they’d both be working when the office quieted down. She’d come by his desk to ask for help finding some type of binder or clip. He’d find it for her.

“Working late, aren’t you?” he’d ask.

“I always am. Hey, what are you doing here so late?”
“Oh, I just have some things to take care of.”
“I have to get out of here soon. I’m starving.”
“So am I,” he’d say. “And I’m thirsty too.”

Then she’ll say, “Do you want to get something to eat after work?”
“That sounds like a great idea,” he’ll say.

So then they go to a nice restaurant. Nicer than Perkins, anyway. She’ll be wearing that black shirt with taut, little breast pockets, each buttoned tightly over her bosom. They’ll go to that Vietnamese restaurant on Euclid Avenue. She’ll be handy at ordering from the menu. In fact, she’ll turn to the waiter and tell him in Vietnamese everything they want to eat.

“Do you want some spring rolls?” she’ll ask Dennis.

“Spring rolls? Sure.”

Then she’ll say something more in Vietnamese. She’ll be even prettier as those foreign sounds come so effortlessly from that intelligent mouth, those full lips, that jaw set so delicately.

The restaurant will be dark. Its darkness will shroud the mysteries she and her culture have to hide. A single light will hang over the table and a single candle will burn between them. The light will cast a glow on her sensual face. Just Huong and him, having dinner after work.

“So you grew up speaking Vietnamese?”
“At home, yeah.”
“Wow. And how old were you when you first came to the US?”
“Five.”
“And if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you now?”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
“So you were born in…So you must have gotten out just when the South fell.”
“I don’t remember much of it. I just remember being on a plane. Then being on a ship for a long time.”
“That must have been pretty traumatic.” A wave of sympathy rose up inside Dennis. He was always most sympathetic to the pretty girls.
“I don’t remember much.”
“I remember watching it on TV,” Dennis will say. “As a child. I remember seeing the people lining up to get on the helicopters. It just blows me away to see the footage of all the effort we put into Vietnam. Then lost.”

“It’s a shame the US didn’t win.”
“We would have won if the liberal media didn’t declare war on our troops.”

“And if the VC agreed to fight a conventional war,” she’ll add. She’ll be brassy and well-informed.

“Do you know the Siege of Khe Sahn was an effort to deplete the US forces of ammo and supplies before the Tet Offensive?” Dennis would ask.

“The US was thankful for the chance to prove its firepower.”
“How did the US need a test of firepower?” Dennis will ask. “There was no contest.”

“Hold on just a second.” She’ll raise a hand. “It wasn’t all superior. The Chinese manufactured Type 56 was just as good as the M-16.”
What a woman, Dennis will be thinking by now.

A pause will fall over them. Dennis will say, “So much effort in the end.”

“So much.”

So what if she really didn’t know that much about military history? Or that Dennis had no idea of what to talk about with a female like Huong? It was the tone of their conversation he was imagining. Its warmth. Then he’d say to Huong: “But there’s a silver lining to every cloud.”

“What would the silver lining to the Vietnam War be?” she asked.
“Well, if it never happened you would have never ended up here, Huong.”

“Oh.”

“If America could do the Vietnam War over again, the exact same way with all the same mistakes, if it meant you came here and we got to meet, it would be worth it.”

Then she melts. Those dark eyes flutter and almost tear up.

“Dennis, that’s the most romantic thing she’s ever heard.”
After all Dennis was America. North Dakota was the only land he knew. He was only American. And being American counted for something. Something that would count to Huong, too. Or should count at least. Dennis was America. It meant something. It meant something big even if he was just the guy who fixed jammed copiers and ordered office supplies for a living while Huong, not even born in this fucking country, finished college and got taken out to eat by their shameless boss, Tim, every once in a while.
Even if she drove a new Honda while Dennis drove a fucking Ford F150 with a lurching clutch.

Dennis didn’t hold this against her. He adored her.

Mike sneezed. He rubbed his watery eyes and glanced out on the overpasses in front of him. He’d long ago decided switching delivery jobs was a mistake. But the more he thought of it, every time he changed jobs it was a mistake. Starting with when he left trucking. Maybe Kath was right. Maybe he could go back to school. Get out of delivery driving all together.

But going into the office every day sounded like torture. Those people who worked in there weren’t like him, that was for damn sure. It didn’t seem like the work of a man, getting dressed up every day to go act polite to a bunch of people you couldn’t respect. And be careful to be PC enough not offend the women. No, that wasn’t for him. Unless, of course, you were making the kind of money they made. That was the part Mike always forgot. The money. He just didn’t think enough about the money, he supposed. That was his real shortcoming.

Those yuppies made good money sitting behind those desks, in air conditioning, being PC about the world. As much as Mike disliked his job, at least he was outside, moving around as a man should. He wasn’t chained to a desk at least.

Still, by the time Mike got to the end of his route some days he had to stop himself from turning onto the entrance ramp and driving full speed away from Little Rock.

The America he’d known when he was a trucker still tugged at him. Out there, it wasn’t just parking lots and loading docks. It was land that unfolded in three hundred and sixty ways in three hundred and sixty directions.

Forests and hills, mountains and deserts, coastal plains and semi-tropical beach fronts.

Out there, where people did things with their hands. Out there where you could still see farmers working their tractors over the land.

Crop dusters buzzing low over their fields. Out there where fires raged in the mountains and men labored to fight them. Out there where lumberjacks worked. Out there where people were alive.

They were connected to the world around them.

Not like this, being boxed in by tight parking lots and impatient looks from effeminate prep cooks. Not like this where he was alone, alone, alone.

No one told him life would be this way. Mike was friendly. He liked people. Yet somehow he found himself working in utter isolation. He spent all day alone and when he got home at the end of the day, the loneliness sort of followed him.

Across the empty landscape Mike drove and the voices on the radio chattered on:

“Liberals! Who the hell are these people, anyway?” a voice asked.
“They’re from Hollywood.”
“They’re Barbara Streisand.”
“And Warren Beatty.”
“And Ed Asner.”
“And Michael Moore.”
“Who’s that?”
“The guy who made “Roger and Me”
“Oh, that movie was petty funny.”
“It had its parts but he’s a Hollywood liberal now. Like Hanoi Jane.”
“Like Mike Farrell.”
“Like Dan Rather.”
“Like Peter Jennings.”
“Like Tom Brokaw.”
“Like Rob Reiner.”
“Meathead?”
“Yeah, Meathead. He’s a liberal in real life too.”
“No way.”
“All the Hollywood Big-Shots are liberals.”
“Not people like us.”
“No, not people like us who work for a living.”
“Who work for a paycheck.”
“Who live in normal neighborhoods.”
“Who hate their jobs.”
“Who drive cars they can fix with their own hands.”
“Who’s idea of happiness is caring for their family.”
“Who understand there are some things a man does better than a woman.”
“People like us.”