Capistrano

By Merlin T. Williams

This is a story for the Baby Boom generation and for their

progeny as well. This is a tale for anyone who has wistfully dreamed

of personal fulfillment.

For those who contemplate the shedding of the shackles of conformity,

of repetitive task completion, of living to satisfy the expectations of

others, Michael Campbell is a man well worth meeting.

Michael defi nes his own, Castle in Spain, his statement of individual

dream fulfillment and he works tirelessly to achieve it. Michaels

singular focus becomes a beacon to others. Some raft together with

him to his immense benefit while others become steadfast in their

attempts to sink him.

Capistrano, a club for gentlemen in the heart of Metro Manila, rises

to become the premier night spot in a city famous for its ability to

gratify the nocturnal, nefarious desires of those who enjoy the embrace

of business success.

And those, as well, in sequined splendor, whose agenda it is to

satisfy those needs, to achieve their own goals.

Capistrano is, in microcosm, South East Asia in the late 1980s. At

once a bastion of sensual overload, it houses the unholy alliance of

those with means and those who trade in their desires.

Capistrano will make you laugh out loud, it will make you cry,

and, in the process make you think about your own present and what

possibilities lie untapped within.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479729494

Merlin T. Williams

Merlin T. Williams is the author of Capistrano, a novel that examines ego, empire building, and the emptiness that all too frequently attends individual striving for greatness. Merlin is a Canadian by birth and, when not on international speaking tours, resides in that country.

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Copyright © 2012 by MERLIN T. WILLIAMS.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

DEDICATION

CHAPTER 1 Fasting Gastric NPO

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

DEDICATION

To my dear wife and supportive partner in life, Elita, whose penchant for story telling has been and will continue to be my real inspiration.

CHAPTER 1

Fasting Gastric

NPO

The white wooden sign, stenciled in black block letters was suspended unevenly from the cross bar at the foot of the bed by what had been, at one time, a wire coat hanger. NPO, Latin for nothing by mouth.

The iron frame of the single bed, although antiseptic white by design, was chipped over most of its surface exposing the dark, lead-colored metal primer underneath. To the left of the bed was a night table that supported a small lamp and below its single drawer there was a space where the bedpan was stored. A wood casement window was to the right.

This bed, table, and window configuration was repeated eight times on both sides of the ward, leaving a wide corridor down the center of the room. The entrance to this semi-isolation ward for juveniles was located at one end. A glass enclosed cubicle served as the nursing station. It was positioned immediately adjacent to the double entrance doors. The nurses, both regular staff and candy stripers, ensured that only authorized individuals entered or left the ward. A room housing the toilet facilities, composed of three partitioned stalls and a large bathtub, was located opposite the nursing station. The far end of the room provided access, through a large archway, to a solarium which, because of its southern exposure, was the only warm, bright place on the ward. This was the children’s play area.

The Royal Alexandria Hospital had been built to provide care for the casualties of World War I, the war to end all wars. And since it failed in its objective, the facility also housed a few of the survivors of World War II or what was left of them.

By the late fifties, this once-imposing statement of Georgian architecture, situated among century-old hardwood trees and expansive fields of hay, had fallen on hard times. Gone was the quiet countryside and in its place were the railroad marshaling yards for the eastern half of Canada.

Old soldiers, following the maxim of General MacArthur, seemed to fade away, or at least, the public concern about their welfare did. The funding for the Royal Alex had suffered numerous cutbacks, the result being that the structure, both inside and out, was in a state of chronic disrepair. The roof leaked anytime it rained heavily and almost daily during spring thaw. This always prompted feverish activity, among the nurses as well as the orderlies, to strategically place numerous bedpans throughout the ward to catch the dripping water.

The resulting cacophony was exciting at first. I imagined that the noise was really the aerial bombardment of the ward by an armada of angry, defecating birds. But over time, the sound of water hitting metal just became another muted element of hospital existence. One year and counting of incarceration had a tendency for a twelve-year-old, at least, to numb the senses.

The once-imposing reddish brown bricks of the exterior walls were now streaked and blackened having fallen victim to the coal and diesel burning switching engines of the yards.

The pea green walls, the original color of choice for most of the wards and corridors in the hospital, now seemed to be aiding and abetting the conspiracy of deterioration which was claiming the vets, one by one, with a greater devastation than any battlefield had wrought.

The small castors that supported the collapsible three-sided privacy screens clacked and squeaked, like something in pain as they were pulled over the white tiled floor of the ward. The apocalypse would be ushered in, I was certain, on small metal castors.

Well, Michael, how are we today?

Nurse O’Connor was a large woman, in her late forties, who had long since given up on her waistline. With her perpetually flushed face granted to those who do not respond well to stress, she resembled, in her nursing whites, a vanilla ice cream soda with the traditional maraschino cherry on top.

Why she always insisted on asking after her own welfare when she greeted me was never clear. In retrospect, I believe that it was just another instance of her good intentions which, unfortunately, when verbalized, took decidedly different turns.

Nurse Lindsay, let me introduce Michael Campbell. Michael has been with us for some time now. He is an excellent patient, always helpful. Michael, this is Nurse Lindsay. She is in training to become a registered nurse, like me. So you’ll help her out, won’t you? Especially if she runs into trouble today with your procedure.

Satisfied with her introduction, Nurse O’Connor continued, Now, Nurse Lindsay, please explain to me the protocol of Michael’s gastric procedure. Nurse Lindsay was a walking wish fulfillment for any kid who had spent too much time fantasizing over the Saturday matinee heroines who appeared in the serial adventures of Rocketman and The Galaxy Rangers. Blonde, blue eyed, and big breasted, she had achieved instant love goddess status among the boys on the ward, whose total preoccupation was with the Greek god, Eros.

All I wanted to do was lift her up in my arms and protect her from the threat posed by the ice cream-soda woman from outer space.

In her uniform of white shoes, stockings, bibbed skirt and cap, she was, according to my friend Russell, a permanent resident of Ward Four North, the Florence Nightingale of the Alex. Every man to his own paragon of perfection I say. Even her pink striped blouse, proof of her student status with the Royal Victoria Hospital, and starched bib could not conceal the promise of nineteen years of female flowering.

I was in love. But why, I thought, must love always be paid for with pain.

Well, she started, shifting her smiling gaze away from me to speak directly to Nurse O’Connor, we will extract a sample of Michael’s gastric fluid and send it to the hospital laboratory for an evaluation of the bacterial flora.

We are all aware of why we are doing this procedure, Nurse Lindsay, so let’s concentrate on how we are to proceed, shall we? Nurse O’Connor was anxious to complete the specimen collection procedure, which no longer held any professional challenge for her, and return to the more hygienic aspects of her work that did not involve proximity to bodily fluids.

Yes, Nurse O’Connor, she said obediently. Nurse O’Connor’s evaluation of her performance was key to ensuring her graduation, or at least, her successful move to the next area of practical nursing education, which focused either on the OR. or the psychiatric ward. Either option was viewed by the nursing students with positive anticipation. Even the crazies were thought to be easier to work with than Nurse O’Connor.

Once I have put on the surgical gloves, using one end of this number five French nasogastric tube, I will measure the approximate distance from Michael’s duodenum to the nares opening, and I will mark the tube about five inches beyond that point with my scissors. Nurse Lindsay spoke confidently as she explained the procedure to the older woman. I hoped that for both of us, her words would be matched by her actions.

And why do we add five inches to the measured distance on the number five? asked Nurse O’Connor pointedly.

To accommodate the posterior position of the Eustachian tube and to ensure the proper GI tube positioning within the gastric cavity. Nurse Lindsay grew more self-confident with each exchange with the senior nurse.

Well, what are we waiting for? Michael, sit up straight, please, so that Nurse Lindsay can measure the tube. Come now, young man, you have been through this often enough. You know what you must do. Be a gentleman and help Nurse Lindsay as much as possible.

Nurse Lindsay had already donned the opaque beige surgical gloves and was busy applying the lubricant gel to the gastric tube.

Now that the tube is marked and lubricated, I am ready to start, Nurse O’Connor. I will attempt the procedure using Michael’s left nostril.

Now don’t forget to swallow Michael. This will be easier for all of us if you do your part. Just keep swallowing until we get the tube into position.

Yes, Nurse O’Connor, I will do my best. Just once, I thought, I would love to reverse the tables on Nurse O’Connor and force a greased garden hose, that’s what a number five French GI tube looks like at close range, into one of her unwilling orifices.

Nurse Lindsay moved closer in preparation for the tube insertion. Anything, I thought, was worth the closeness of Nurse Lindsay. The skin of her face was flawless. It had the slight hint of some heavenly floral scent. This time I didn’t even mind the strong smell of latex from the surgical gloves because her fingers were inside. Please God, I thought, make the left nostril work!

I started the requisite swallowing reflex, imagining that I was drinking one of the large glasses of chocolate milk that the nurses served daily. This took some doing as I had to focus on the milk and chocolate and not the raw egg that was always included in the hospital cocktail. Downing a raw egg mixed in milk was, for me at least, just like swallowing phlegm.

Nurse Lindsay inserted the first inch or so of the tube in my nose. But it would go no further. She pushed a little harder, and I swallowed more quickly but to no avail. My eyes started to water, and I flinched backward, causing the tube to come out of my nostril.

What’s the matter, Nurse Lindsay? boomed Nurse O’Connor.

Remember, with any complication to an invasive procedure involving a conscious patient, concentrate on keeping the patient calm and relaxed. Michael, maybe we are not sitting up straight enough.

Following Nurse O’Connor’s command, I attempted to straighten my back and, at the same time, not wishing to appear to be crying, wiped the tears from my eyes that were caused by the failed nose probe.

Try Michael’s other nostril, Nurse Lindsay. Remember, God rewards those who cast their nets on the other side of the boat.

There were only three male personages in the life of Nurse O’Connor: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. All three, it seemed to me, conspired on occasion, to create in Nurse O’Connor a flippancy, which only she found amusing.

Nurse Lindsay, with a look of missionary zeal, approached me again. This time she leaned forward to better position herself for the tube insertion. This caused her bib to fold away from her blouse, exposing the conical shape of her brassiere. This caused me, imagining the pink softness which it contained, to develop an erection.

Please, God, I thought, not now, not in front of Nurse O’Connor. Two, four, six, eight, two, four, six, eight. The recitation of the multiplication tables seemed to help.

Nurse Lindsay was now expertly guiding the nasogastric tube up my right nostril and down my throat, and I was fulfilling my well-practiced role. Instead of the milk, it helped to pretend to be swallowing a quart of Dow ale nonstop, just the way Russell on Four North did.

Now that the tube is positioned in the gastric cavity, I will draw five cc of sterile water into the syringe, attach it to the tube, and inject it into the tube and Michael’s stomach.

This was done in the time it took Nurse Lindsay to explain the procedure to the Biblical student who specialized in net fishing technique.

"And the reason for the sterile H2O? queried Nurse O’Connor.

To ensure the integrity of the number five tube and to provide a neutral drawing medium for the gastric contents’ extraction.

Good, said Nurse O’Connor. Let’s continue with the procedure, shall we?

Nurse Lindsay held the barrel of the syringe in her left hand and, with her right thumb and forefinger, slowly started to pull back on the plunger. The barrel started to fill with a brownish frothy liquid which was all that was left of what I had eaten the previous day. It was funny, I thought, how similar the hospital food looked both before and after it was eaten.

When the barrel of the syringe was full, Nurse Lindsay pinched the end of the tube, disconnected the syringe from it, plunged the stomach sample into a Pyrex container, and sealed the top shut.

Well done, Nurse Lindsay. Now you finish up with Michael while I see to the laboratory pickup of the specimen. Michael is a real gentleman. You will find that he is very helpful. And with that, Nurse O’Connor, stomach sample in hand, held at a discrete distance away from her body, was off to the nursing station.

Sorry that I couldn’t get my left nostril to cooperate, Nurse Lindsay, I said, hoping that acceptance of responsibility would prompt her to stay and talk to me.

Gail, she said, please call me Gail. Magnanimous in victory, she continued, Let’s finish up what we started here, OK. You are a handsome guy, but this tube sticking out of your nose does not add anything to your looks.

Extracting the tube was every bit as uncomfortable as inserting it. The same rapid swallowing action was required and the result was invariably the same, more tears.

There, she said, all done, handing me a wash cloth as she neatly placed the syringe, GI tube, and container of lubricant in the metal kidney-shaped bowl.

You know, I have a brother who is about your age, but I doubt that he has the stamina that you have. You’re a tough little nut, aren’t you?

It comes with practice, nothing special. With the regained composure that came with a clean nose and dry eyes, I thought frantically of something else to say, anything, just to keep this gorgeous creature captive and focused on me. But that was not to be.

Yes, I would say that you and my brother have a lot in common. And as if to punctuate the statement, Gail grabbed what was left of my erection, still evident in a fold of my flannel pajama bottom, and squeezed it hard.

You make sure that you keep your ‘private’ in your pants, soldier, OK!

Before I could respond, Gail was up and, with the procedure apparatus in one hand, was walking briskly toward the nursing station. As she opened the office door, she turned toward me, winked, and disappeared inside.

God, I thought, how I adored direct women!

*     *     *

My mother was devastated when she received the news of my positive tuberculin skin test. Having chosen to remain a homemaker and not pursue a career in the business world, despite the fact that she possessed twice the intelligence of my father, the blow proved to be doubly destructive. Not only did she lose the physical presence of her only child for the better part of two years, but she chose to erroneously believe, as well, that she was forever damned, in the eyes of relatives and friends, as an inadequate mother who placed her son in harm’s way by maintaining an unclean house.

And for this crime, she received neither exoneration nor absolution. As if in penance, she spent the rest of her life doubly washing all eating utensils after each use, and she made a fetish of attending to the daily cleaning of the house. The product of three generations of rural Quebec stock, her favorite aphorisms related back to her formative years spent on her father’s small dairy farm.

I know that there is no sense in closing the gate after the horse has bolted but, once bitten, twice shy, she would say, as if repeating a church liturgy while she vacuumed the scatter rugs in the living room, usually twice daily.

The horse had indeed bolted, never, emotionally at least, to return. When I was first admitted, both my mother and my father would visit me in the isolation ward once a week for thirty minutes. This was the hospital protocol for patient visits.

My father, the youngest of eight children, was raised by an overly protective mother who tried to compensate for her alcoholic husband, who was indifferent to his offspring. A child of the Great Depression, he viewed life as a series of catastrophic events over which an individual had little or no control. Being a taciturn man by nature, I was always left with the sense that he hoped his silence, during periods of crisis, would be viewed by others as a demonstration of personal inner strength.

Our worlds diverged. They would talk to me, with great enthusiasm, of our new house purchased, I knew, to escape the stigma of my disease. The structure, that I had never seen, that was located in a suburban area of Montreal that I had never heard of held no interest for me. Our conversations became desultory. Their, How are you feeling now, dear, and Is there anything we can get for you, dear? were heartfelt but, over time, the emotional impact of their concern diminished prompting perfunctory response. In their world, I was their needy child, but in my universe, I was an independent being.

When winter set in and their visits became less frequent, bus and tramway service between the new house and the hospital being an arduous undertaking even in good weather, it was hardly noticed.

The isolation ward experience nurtured in me a dispassionate perception of people, regardless of their familial or friendship status. Permanently etched in my psyche was the certainty that all relationships were transient in nature and that all contained within them from the outset, like most diseases and their antidotes, the elements of their own destruction.

Nature, quoting my mother again, abhors a vacuum. The diminished parental influence I received was never viewed as a personal hardship. My personal freedom, which did not recognize the hours on the clock, and limited only by the external hospital walls, afforded me the opportunity to develop a surrogate family in the Royal Alex, replete with a new parent, Russell, on Four North.

Russell Powell, a World War I vet, boasted that he had enough metal in his body from shrapnel wounds to keep the Campbell Soup Company in cans for one year. The metal shreds, which had torn into his body so many decades earlier, held no promise of a future that was m-m-m, Good, however. Apart from diabetes and emphysema, the results of outliving the statistical norm, Russell suffered from skeletal muscle tremors and, notably, a loss of control of his lower lip. The result of this particular compromise to his body was that he drooled almost continuously, and to compensate, he stuck out his tongue, at regular intervals, to collect the saliva that ran down to his chin.

Russell had long ago been nicknamed the lizard by the nurses, in part, because of his regular tongue protrusions. I say in part because Russell possessed two other characteristics which endeared him to me but alienated him from most others.

First, he had what could only be described as an overactive libido. He would never tire of telling anyone who would listen, he was long past worrying about propriety, that his last wish would be to die sliding down a mountain of slippery cunts. And only student nurses, who were new to the wing, would venture close enough to his bed, unaccompanied by another staff member, to fall within range of his groping hands.

Almost everyone on the ward knew when Russell had scored a direct hit, as he called it. His gleeful laugh would be followed almost immediately by a coughing fit which would usually necessitate the oxygen mask followed by an injected sedative.

And second, he loved to recite poetry, specifically the work of Robert W. Service, and especially after he had downed one or two quarts of Dow ale.

Russell was off limits to me and the rest of the kids on the isolation ward, but with the help of Louis, the French Canadian orderly, anything was possible.

Louis, peux tu m’acheter deux Dow, s’il vous plaît? My French was not very good, but Louis was not exactly from the French Academy either.

Oui, Michael, Louis would always say, pronouncing my name, Michel, French for Michael. Donne moi deux pieces. Je peux les avoir demain.

Louis always liked to build a little profit into his transactions. Two bucks for two beers was not cheap, but I always seemed to have enough cash albeit designated by my parents for candy at the hospital canteen.

The best time to visit Russell was after nine o’clock at night. By then the nurses on the night shift were on duty. After two weeks on days and another two weeks on afternoons, the student nurses, the only ones to watch out for in the corridors, were ready for the relative tranquility of the death watch shift, as they called it. This was the time period when most of the vets, whose time was up, would decide to die on them. Cleaning up the corpse prior to it being sent to the morgue and completing the necessary paperwork were not tasks that any of the nurses, staff of students, were eager to do. The result was that most of the deceased were found in a fit of stool by the morning people during rounds. The night nurses focused only on the delivery of meds to the patients whose illnesses required medication every four hours: usually 8:00 p.m., midnight, and 4:00 a.m.

Getting to Russell’s room was never more complicated than creating a pillow patient in my bed, stuffing the two bottles of beer into my pajama bottoms, peering into the nurses’ station to make certain that whoever was there was engrossed in the latest issue of Liberty or Look magazine and scampering up the ramps to Four North.

Russell’s private room was small, and its size was diminished even further by the array of war memorabilia it contained. His medical condition did not merit a separate room, but it was felt that his behavior on the regular ward did. We had worked out a schedule such that every Tuesday and Saturday night he would conceal the tablet dispensed by the nurse to help him sleep better under his tongue until she had left the room. This was no mean feat for someone who had limited control of his saliva. Sometimes I would arrive to find him fast asleep, but mostly, we were able to stick to the twice weekly timetable.

Russell, are you awake? Once inside his room, I always asked the same question. If the nurse stayed with him longer than usual and the tablet dissolved while under his tongue, no amount of coaxing could bring him back to the land of the conscious. Also, his small table lamp, which was left on all night, exaggerated the bony contours of his face and, as he rested in anticipation of my arrival, he fulfilled my vision of what a dead man must look like.

Michael, come on in here, sonny boy. I have got some news for you. The old man was transformed into a study in animated anticipation. He turned to prop up his pillows and gestured to me to sit down.

Are the green soldiers ready for maneuvers? Russell’s memory, apart from the poetry, only maintained a window on the Great War, while his words, rich in military jargon, sustained, in his mind, the fields of mustard gas and howitzer explosions—the only chapter in his life when he felt truly alive.

I popped a cap on one of the beer bottles and handed it to Russell, who downed half of its contents in one long swig.

Ah, now that’s better, son, he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. The room, which normally smelled of rubbing alcohol, now took on the pungent odor of fermented hops.

Now, the only thing missing is a Sweet Caporal. You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you? he teased, his tongue sweeping across his lower lip to catch the escaping saliva.

No, and anyway, your lungs couldn’t handle one, even if I did have some on me, I said, half chastising him for his bravado.

Neither could yours, Private, was the automatic retort. Ah, Michael, my boy, don’t listen to this crazy old soldier running off at the mouth. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be cruel.

I know, don’t worry about it. Who cares, anyway? I had long since developed an immunity to the sting of Russell’s unintended barbs.

No, Michael, don’t say that. I care. What I really meant to say, goddamn it, was the opposite of what came out. Old age is a terrible thing. You lose control of everything, even your own thoughts and words. It is fucking disgusting. What I meant to say was, I think it’s a real shame that a young buck like you has to be in a place like this. Yes, a goddamned shame. And with that, staring off at the wall, Russell downed what remained of the first bottle.

Another dead soldier, he said as he passed it to me, licking again at his chin. I opened the second bottle and placed it on the table. I noticed that he was still eyeing me, attempting to discern any negative reaction to his words. He went on.

Yes, a fucking crime is what it is. You know, when you’re older and you make certain decisions and you do certain things, you must expect to pay the consequences. Take me, for example. I joined the army.

Again, the tongue came out.

When you enlist, the result is you lose your individuality. That’s the price you pay. You become a part of a platoon, a unit. Your mind and body become the property of your CO. You do what you are ordered to do, and you pay the price for that too. Look at me, full of shrapnel and worth shit to the world. Here I am, stuck in this hospital until the day I die. And this is worse than the army. The army takes away what is uniquely you, but this place takes away your dignity. In here I’m nothing more than a curiosity for the residents and interns and, for the staff doctors, a piece of meat to use experimental drugs on. Don’t worry, I know what those assholes are doing to me.

Russell’s tongue protruded from his lips again.

But that’s not the point of what I am trying to say to you. The point is I am here and in this condition because I made certain decisions in my life. I am responsible for all of this. But you, you are just a kid, you are innocent, and you didn’t have a chance . . .

They said that I might be out of here in a couple of months if I continue to improve, I said, hoping that the news would help to mollify Russell, whose voice was getting loud enough to be heard by the nurses.

Yes, but the damage is already done.

Seeing that he was getting even more agitated and not understanding what he meant about damage, I attempted to change the subject again.

So what’s the big news you told me you had, Russell?

Russell’s demeanor changed immediately. He grinned and then guzzled down some of the second beer.

Michael, he said, his tongue rolling out for the saliva, I just received news today from some lawyer in Montreal that I have become a rich man. He looked down at the bedsheets in front of him and, shaking his head slowly, he chuckled to himself.

Sort of like the gold prospectors in the Klondike, I said, attempting to jump-start him into his one remaining passion.

Still staring at the sheets in front of him, he said, Aren’t you a smart little bugger? And, like Charlton Heston, the actor who became the voice of God, for me at least, on the Ed Sullivan show, when he read from the Old Testament, Russell’s baritone voice transported us to the frozen Canadian North of half a century earlier.

With eyes staring off again beyond the far wall of the room and with the remaining active beer cradled in his lap, he began, The Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert W. Service. Russell always started his recitations from their beginning and, somewhat ahead of his time, always acknowledged the intellectual property rights of the author by mentioning his name.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

Russell’s protruding tongue punctuated the end of the first verse. He stretched out his arms, with the beer bottle in one hand, to provide the imaginary audience in the wall with added dramatic effect. Russell rose, always, to the occasion.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,

where the cotton blooms and blows.

Russell’s creative buttons had been pushed, and he continued to recite the entire poem. Russell was very much like a tape recorder in that regard. He operated, however, only in the forward and stop positions.

When you start something, Michael, my boy, see it through to the end. Don’t do anything half assed. A complete ass is better than half an ass. His own witticisms would always prompt a belly laugh and, when available, a self-congratulatory pull on a beer bottle.

Russell’s voice was now booming out his favorite part of the ballad.

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,

and the trail has its own stern code . . .

As he licked at his lower lip, I looked at the brown and faded photograph of Russell that was on the night table. Standing at mock attention in a military parade dress uniform, was a large and fit young man. The expression on his face was all swagger and bravado. The man reciting the poetry to me bore no physical resemblance to this person. All that remained, housed in the battered and spent body, was the same fire in the eyes.

Russell brought the ballad to a close in a whisper.

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

There, he said contentedly, as he handed me the now-empty Dow bottle, it’s time, my boy, for this old soldier to get a little shut-eye. Come back when you can. Russell’s good news had faded from his mind as the reverie of the Northern Lights over Lac Lebarge transported him into a contented slumber.

Sleep tight, I said, and don’t let the bedbugs bite. He grunted softly as I covered his hospital-gowned shoulders with the blanket. With the empty bottles and caps in hand, I slipped back down to the isolation ward to join my pillow patient.

CHAPTER 2

Nights in Manila were always hot and muggy. The rancid smells from the gutter of sun-baked and rotting garbage, mixed with the pungent odor of the spices and well-used cooking oil of the street vendors, propelled the patrons through the front doors into a cool, clove-scented relief inside.

By ten o’clock, the night people had begun to arrive, and Capistrano throbbed to the rock-and-roll beat that was pumped out of the speakers in the main room. The air was already blue with tobacco smoke. It was caught, as it drifted upward, by the spotlights, which bathed the stage.

Viven was nearing the end of her first routine of the night, and all conversation among the men seated at the bar had stopped. She had developed a certain notoriety, in some circles in the city, for her creative approach to her craft.

Lighting a Marlboro as I entered the darkened room, the flame from the lighter that was cupped in my hands momentarily illuminated my face. Viven glanced up, recognized me immediately, and winked, without missing a beat. She was clad only in a green-sequined G-string and stiletto-heeled pumps. Her hips and pelvis were gyrating in perfect unison with the music, and she was massaging her breasts with body oil, pinching, to the beat, her erect nipples. Arching her back against a bar stool that had been placed on stage, she threw her head back and started to convulse, rhythmically to the dying notes of the John Mellencamp song. The stage went dark to the hoots and applause of the audience.

Before the din had subsided, the lights went back up again. The bar stool had been removed and in its place was an open-backed spindle chair. Viven was standing behind it. Her elbows rested on its back support, and her legs were spread. She started gyrating immediately to the rhythm of the new song. Remaining in that position, with only the lower half of her body in motion, she extended her right arm and caressed her upper torso with her fingers. Deftly, her hand slipped downward, and she undid the hooks of the G-string. First, one side and then, the other. She held the limp piece of glitter in front of her pubic patch, strode around to the front of the chair, and slowly sat down.

The men in the front row, many of whom were regulars, were hooting and laughing and clapping in unison in anticipation of the grand finale. And Viven never let them down.

Leaning back on the chair, she raised one leg, with toes pointed like a ballerina, and then the other in what can only be described as female preparation for copulation in the missionary position. With both legs raised above the level of her head, she began to slowly and deliberately massage her entire pubic area with the G-string, running it up and down to the beat of the music. With only a few bars left in the song, she slowly got up from the chair and, with exaggerated pelvic undulations, walked around the circular stage, eyeing the men in the front row.

Before the targeted gentleman, who was usually bald, knew what was happening, she stepped from the stage onto the bar, stood over him, turned around, and squatted on his forehead. She then slid her labial lips, which were wet from her masturbatory antics, down his forehead and continued the full length of his nose. Nimbly, she then returned to the stage, G-string in hand, to the accompaniment of the final notes of the song. Down went the house lights again, and Viven was off the stage and into the dressing room.

The patrons loved it, in part because she was so adept at fulfilling