THE GIRL FROM OLONGAPO

Hospital man Second Class “Doc” Sagan sat in the Cherry Bar sipping his third San Magoo.  Three bar hogs tried jumping into his whites, and he chased them away.  He wanted to sit alone, smoke his cigarettes, drink his beer, and drift into dreams of another time, another place.  He could not afford dreams in Nam.  Dreams got you killed.  One moment of inattention and you died.  One moment thinking of Sally at the drive-in, and you checked out.  Here, in the Cherry Bar, in Olongapo, he could dream of home.  Here in the Cherry Bar he could think of his car, or of some girl he once knew, or of his last high school football game.

       “Another beer, sailor boy?”

       He lifted his Magoo, checked its weight, nodded his head.

       The girl smiled.  She took some of his pesos off the table.  She wore a short top over small breasts, a tight pair of white shorts.  She walked off with a pert twitch of her hips, accenting her small, tight ass.

       “Here’s looking at you, kid,” Doc whispered, lifting his nearly empty beer to his lips.

       His mind slipped onto thoughts of Nam without his willing it.  He saw Michael cut into three separate parts by a machine gun.  He closed his eyes.  “It never fucking ends,” he thought to himself

       She came back, set a fresh beer down in front of him.  “You want some company, sailor boy?”

       Doc shook his head, no.

       “You no like girls?”

       He shook his head, no, again.

       The girl tilted her head to one side, looking at him, saying nothing.  Doc drew a long breath, let it out slowly, then chain lit another cigarette.  He didn’t want to talk.  He didn’t want to go upstairs with some nameless woman.  He wanted to sit and drift in his dreams.  He wanted to get drunk and chase away the memories of men shredded by machine gun fire, or rifle grenades, or burned beyond hope as another river boat torched.  He lifted the fresh bottle to his lips.

       A pair of hands squeezed his shoulders, a pair of thumbs dug into the back of his neck.  His shoulders came together, his head came back, reacting to the small girl’s hands.

       “You sit.  You drink your beer.  I take good care of you, sailor boy.”

       Her hands started working on his shoulders, fingers pressing against muscles frozen from constant fear, knotted by months of tension.  Doc felt his shoulders fall downwards, his head forward.  Her hands were magic.  She took his head, moved it from side to side.  He heard snapping sounds in his neck, and felt a sudden sharp pain that gave way to a feeling of intense relief.  The girl was good, damn good.

       Her thumbs worked their way down his back, along his spine.

       “You’re hired.” He said.

       “You hire me?  You hire me for what?” she giggled behind him.

       “You’re just hired.”  Then a few moments later, “God, that feels good.”

       “Your back big mess.”

       “No shit.”

       “How come your back such big mess?”

       “Too long incountry.”

       “What does this mean, incountry?”  Her fingers found just exactly the right spot.  He felt another moment of sharp pain followed instantly by a feeling of release.

       “It means too long in Nam.”

       He found himself talking without intending to talk.  He told her about river boats.  He told her about his job, patching up men who were blown apart, who were burned, who were dying.  He told her about his friends, he told her about men who came on Monday and died on Tuesday, and no one even knew who the hell they were.  He told her about coming to Subic for training, and being put on leave because he had too much leave on the books.

       “How come you not in Manila if you on leave?”

       “Didn’t want the hassle of traveling to Manila.  All I want to do is find myself a place to sleep, a place to eat, and some place where it’s quiet.  Some place where nobody is shooting at my ass.”

       “Oh, you have a place in Olongapo to stay?”

       “Not yet.”

       She said nothing.  Her fingers worked on his back, along his spine, pressing, touching, easing the pain away.

       “You need to lie down if I fix your back.” She stopped and sat down in the booth beside him.  Doc took another look at her.  She was about twenty, maybe older.  With Asian women it was impossible to tell.  She might be twenty, she might be twenty five, hell, she might be sixteen.  That thought scared him for a second.  No, she had to be over eighteen to work in a bar.  The government was strict about that at least.

       “What is your name?” she asked.

       “Doc.  Doc Sagan.”  He held out his hand.

       She took it and smiled up at him.  “I am Donna.  Donna Romano.”

       

       Doc woke up in a strange room.  Sunlight streamed through a window.  He heard the sounds of a city, the cars, the chickens.

       “Chickens?” he mumbled to himself.

       He opened one eye.  It hurt to do that.  The room was small, but very neat, very clean.  He heard running water.  He closed his eye and felt his body.  His body hurt.  His head throbbed.  His right hand felt as though a block of concrete had fallen on it.  He heard someone moving in the room.  He opened an eye again.

       She walked from her bathroom to a dresser.  She wore nothing.  In the sunlight she seemed more beautiful than in the bar.  Her legs were long for her size.  Her tight ass was beautifully rounded.  Her breasts were small, uplifted, perfect.  Wet hair fell down her back.  The pain in his body prevented arousal.  He looked at her as he might look upon a painting by Gauguin.  Nothing more.  He hurt too much to feel passion.

       She looked over at him, smiled.  “Good morning, Doc.”

       “Uhhh,” he managed to mumble.

       She put on a pair of pants and a tee-shirt, then walked over to the bed.  She touched his temples with her fingers.

       “Oh, shit, I hurt.”

       “You very drunk last night.”

       “I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

       “Not truck, Marines.  Marines come in Cherry Bar.  Marines not suppose to come in Cherry Bar.  Cherry Bar sailor’s bar, not Marine bar.  Big fight.  I get you out before shore patrol come.”

       Doc closed his eyes.  Her magic fingers began to do some good on his temples, on his head.  He thought of his bag, with his extra uniforms, his wallet with his money.  He wondered if he still had either, or if someone stole them while he was drunk.  Donna seemed to read his thoughts.

       “I take you in ladies bathroom, and push you out the window.  Then I get your gab with your clothes.  You were one big mess when I got you home.”

       “Thanks, Donna, I owe you.”

       “No, you hire me, remember.  You say you hire me.”  Her fingers were beginning to have a very real effect on his head, his neck.

       “Smartest thing I ever did.”

       “Yes, you smart sailor boy, Doc.”

       She pulled down the sheet and began to work on his back, along his spine.  She took his hands and put them under his head, and straightened his legs.  Then she sat over him and pressed her tiny hands, her small fingers, into his flesh.  It hurt, and it didn’t hurt.  He felt his body begin to relax, began to soften.  Then she got up and walked away.  He lay there, wondering what she was doing.  She came back a few moments later with a bowl of hot water, a wash cloth, some soap.  She washed his back, his legs.

       “Turn over.”  She reached under him, and helped him roll over on the bed.  Then she rung out the wash cloth and started washing his face and chest.

       “You have no hair on chest.  You young sailor boy.”

       “Twenty five.”

       She didn’t answer, leaving him wondering again how old she was.

       She continued washing.  She washed further down his chest, and across his belly, then down to his loins.

       Arousal occurred.  He felt himself erecting to her touch.

       “You do like girls,” she said.

       Doc smiled.  Her hands were doing magic things to him.  Despite the pain in his body, he felt himself wanting her.  He started to reach up, to touch her breasts.  She caught his hand and pushed it back on the bed.  She continued washing his body, with his erection standing up, pulsing slightly.

       She finished.  She put the bowl down beside the bed.  Then she took off her shirt and pants.  Doc looked up at her through half opened eyes.  Her hands rested on his shoulders, her fingers pushing into still sore muscles, her hips moving softly, gently, her mound lightly touching his erection.

       Then she reached down and took his erection, and lifted his erection up slightly, and sat down on him.  Her passage was tight, incredibly tight, and soft and warm.  He slid into her easily.  He let out a small gasp of air.

       He reached up and touched her, felt the smoothness of her flesh.  He could not remember any woman feeling so smooth, so soft.  He lay upon the bed with his eyes closed as he touched her, and felt her body rise and fall over his body.  Slowly she built him up.  She seemed to sense his need, and she knew how to control his need so that each time he felt himself demanding her, she would slow down, prolonging his pleasure, until finally she sensed the time for him had come.  Doc came.  He came in a powerful orgasm deep inside her body.  She collapsed on top of him, and he wrapped his strong arms around her tiny body and held her against his chest.

       They stayed like that, upon her bed, for a long moment, neither speaking, neither moving, just feeling the flesh of each other, the warmth, the pleasure.

       

       They surfaced for lunch.  They went to Papa Gayo’s.  After lunch they went back to her small room.

       “What time do you have to go to work, Donna?”

       “I no go to work today.  I stay with you.”

       “Can you do that?”

       “Sure.”

       Doc sat in a chair and looked at her.  Impossibly, she looked even more beautiful than in the morning.  She had a grace about her movements. She had a smile that seemed to brighten up everything around her.  She smiled at him, as he sat there, and he felt her smile all the way through his body, down to his soul.

       He held out his hands to her, and she took them.

       “Donna, you are beautiful.”  Her smile brightened further.  “So very beautiful.  If you were mine, I’d keep you naked forever so I could just look at you whenever I wanted.”

       “You want only look?”

       Doc laughed, and then stood up and pulled her against him in a warm embrace.

        After a moment he stepped back slightly, and then led her to her bed.  He sat down and reached up and unbuttoned her blouse.  She stood still while he undressed her, and stood beside the bed while he looked at her perfect body.  Finally he took her hands and pulled her onto the bed, and put her down beside him.

       The he made love to her.  She would try to touch him, arouse him, and he would not let her.  He took her small hands in his, and held them above her head as he kissed her, and sucked her breasts and nipples.  Her body began to react, and she tried breaking free of his grip, only he would not let her.  His kisses moved down her chest, down her belly, to her soft black curls.

       “No, no, please Doc.” She said.  This she could not afford, these feelings he created within her.  He was only a sailor boy who would walk away in two weeks leaving her with nothing.

       He stopped, looked down at her, his hand between her legs, his finger touching her wetness, playing with the folds between her legs.

       “Do you really want me to stop?” he asked

She looked at him.  Her expression was part passion, part fear.  He did not know if she were afraid he might stop, or afraid he might not.  There was something in her expression he did not understand, he did not really want to understand.

       He kissed her, between her legs, his tongue sliding up, licking, playing.

       Her body seemed to rise off the bed.  Her hips reached up, pressing herself against him.

       “No, no, on no.  Please.”  She could not afford the feelings other women enjoyed.  Those feelings suggested far more that relieved need, satisfied passion.  They suggested connection, and she could not afford emotional connection.

       Her body danced, her legs tightened around him without her willing it, without her wanting it.

       He pushed his finger into her, and moved it in time with his tongue.

       Then she imploded.

       Her body arched up and shook, and she let out a scream.  Her hands reached down and her fingers knotted his hair, pushing his head down hard against her.  She imploded, and exploded and screamed again, and again.  Then she pulled his head up, away from her mound.  Doc looked into her eyes, and saw an expression of panic, of desperate need.  He slid into her in one easy stroke.  He could feel her body clenching in repeated orgasms.

       They lay together.  Her tiny body lay on its side against him.  He looked at her, and saw that she was crying.

       “Donna?  Are you all right?”

       She did not answer.  She reached up and put a finger against his lips.  He would not have understood her law of survival.  She must not care, she could not care.  She must give pleasure to men, but never receive pleasure, for receiving, responding, touched her soul.  She could not survive with her soul in his embrace.

       Doc held her, firmly, softly, and watched as slow tears fell from the corner of her eyes, down her face onto his chest.

       He listened to the sounds of Olongapo outside the window of her room.

       

       They went to the Naval Hospital on base, mostly for Doc to get some more money.  They swam on the beach, had lunch at the Enlisted Men’s Club.  They left the base and fought their way over the bridge between the base and Olongapo City.  They fought their way through the money changers, the pitch men, the vendors selling “monkey on a stick.”  Doc did not toss a peso to the children diving for coins in “shit river.”  They walked down the main street to its end.  They turned right, and walked two blocks to the Cherry Bar.  They sat together in a booth, having a drink, watching a group of sailors stand a young recruit up on a table.

       “He a cherry boy” one of the sailors announced.

       The bar girls looked at the young drunk sailor, barely able to stand, atop the round barroom table.

       “He no cherry boy,” one of the girls said, teasing laughter in her voice.

       “Like hell he isn’t,” some other sailor said, and he reached up and unbuckled the kid’s white uniform pants and pulled them down.  “Look, that’s cherry.”

       All the bar girls laughed.  A few walked over and looked at the boy.  “He cherry, OK.”

       “So how much?”

       “I take him for five pesos.”

       That caused a scream from the sailors at the table.  Five pesos was an insult.

       Doc watched with disinterested eyes.  With luck the sailors would be able to auction off the recruit for enough to keep them drinking the rest of the night.  He was a good looking kid.  The boy might go for as high as eighty pesos, perhaps even a hundred.

       Donna looked at the boy standing on the table, being held steady by a few of the other sailors.

       “I don’t like cherry boys.”

       Doc lifted one eyebrow.

       “Cherry boys no good.”

       “Oh,” he said.

       She reached over the table and took his hand.  “Come on, let’s go.”

       Doc nodded, finished his beer and stood.  Already the bidding for the boy had risen to fifty pesos.

       They wandered the streets of Olongapo, arm around waist, until they went home again and made love.

       Again Donna cried, softly, onto his chest.  She snuggled her naked body tightly against his while they slept that night.  She walked about her tiny room naked in the morning, allowing Doc to admire her body, and then when he had admired her enough, she climbed on him and happily brought him off.

       Doc lay beside her that night, his hand on her back.  She slept, and as she slept he saw within her a soft beauty, a perfect beauty.  He felt something, looking at her in the moonlight.  He felt protective, because she was so small, so delicate.  He felt completely safe beside her, a feeling he had not enjoyed in too long.  He felt a softness come to his soul he never knew could come to his soul.

       He rolled over, reached for and found a cigarette, lit it, and put an arm under his head.  He lay there beside her, thinking.  He did not want the thoughts, nor could he ignore the thoughts.  He told himself again, she was nothing more that a bar girl earning her living.  He tried convincing himself of it, and could not convince himself.  His soul only laughed at the thought.

       The first week went that way, so too most of the second.  The closer they came to the end of his leave, the more frantic became their love making, the more they fought to fill their time with themselves, with excitement, with closeness.

       Until Saturday came and Doc repacked his bag.

       Donna helped him, kissed him, hugged him tightly, and led him out the door to a jeepney.  She stood at the door of her building and waved to him as the jeepney drove away.

       

       

       “’bout the dumbest thing you ever did, Doc.”

       Doc looked over at Jim, standing beside his fifty mike mike.

       “What’s that?”

       “Leaving man.  Leaving.”

       Doc pulled a pack of cigarettes from under his body armor.  “It wasn’t because I wanted to, man.  Believe me, it was the hardest thing I ever did in my life.”

       “And the dumbest.”

       “What the hell else could I have done?”

       “Send her state side.  Buy her a ticket and send her home to mother.”

       Doc lit his cigarette, looked over the stern at the other six boats trailing behind.

       He dreamed.  He dreamed of her.  His mind slid into thoughts of her naked body standing beside his bed, her fingers pulling the soreness out of his muscles, her tears when she cried after having her own orgasm.  He saw her face, clearly saw her face, and her small tight breasts, her perfect bottom.

       “Incoming!”

       Something slammed into his body armor, knocking him down onto the deck.  Someone yelled “Corpsman!” at the top of his lungs.

       “Damn!” he thought, “it never fucking ends.”