Frank Vespe

The Man Who Murdered Mork

 

 

Somewhere in an ankle deep, murky algae infested rice paddy bathed in tall thin finger grass seven clicks east of Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, under a steamy hot orange and white Creamsicle colored April sun, as humid and sticky as a New York City August day, four foot seven inch fifty-nine year-old Le Van Dung, a battle worn former reluctant Viet Cong soldier wears an oversized Chinese bamboo Coolie hat, khaki colored linen clam digger-type pants wrapped tight around his waist with a hemp belt, drenched of sweat in a light yellow 50/50  cotton/polyester blend buttoned shirt open to his navel, wobbles in knee deep silt as he balances on his shoulders behind his head a stickball bat abandoned by US soldiers two five gallon white plastic buckets labeled Del Monte Kosher Dill Pickles hanging by baker’s string filled with milky water from near-by Saigon River he prays is free of dysentery  for his four children and eight grandchildren.  His wife, Dung reminds everyone, “Melted by those American fire-bombs,” but he holds no grudge, thanks to his prominent physician father’s Roman Catholic faith, a father he never saw again after being sent up north a week after Liberation Day for re-education, and still, he holds no grudge. Today is Sunday, his only day free of fifteen-hour shifts in a leather sweat shop factory on the north side of Ho-Chi Minh City where he began his factory career a handful of days after the Americans ran away in ’75, a day he recalls as “A day without thunder.”

Monday through Saturday, Dung awakes at 4AM to cook a mixture of boiled brown rice, goat’s milk and week-old hard Parisian bread in a US Army issued cast iron pressure cooker he salvaged after his unit overran a Marine outpost in the Mekong Delta during the Tet Offensive, but unlike his fellow VC, Dung was more intent on pilfering the GI barracks for Hershey bars and M&M’s for his infant children.

 

Dung’s bicycle ride through the streets of downtown Ho Chi Minh City is treacherous, especially now with all the mesmerized tourists coming to discover its beautiful charm, but he knows the back roads, so he usually arrives at the Nguyen Van Be leather factory well before his shift begins at 5AM, enough time to enjoy a cup of green tea with floating lemon rind and chat with his former Viet Cong comrades, many reluctant warriors as he, on local football (soccer) and brag about his favorite team, the San Francisco Giants. The Giants, he confesses, have been his pride and joy ever since he found a pristine SF baseball cap while scavenging through a bunker of nine or ten or eleven mutilated American GIs ripped apart in a million oozing bright red and green camo cloth pieces, images he’ll never forget, courtesy of Chinese made Type-56 assault rifles, automatic weapons similar to the Soviet AK-47s.

 

For forty years, Dung sits in the same peeling brown lopsided wicker chair, fumbles the same antiquated rusty tools under the same flickering 25W incandescent light in front of the same soiled pine work bench punching holes and connecting pewter-colored cheap metal buckles with flower and bird designs to Indian cow leather belts and accessories he could never afford on his monthly stipend alongside a hundred and forty-three like-minded workers all resigned to never receive a pat-on-the-back or “Great job” from any of their bosses; but still, he strives to be the most efficient factory worker he can be for the rest of his life, even though he’ll receive no pension, no Fidelity.com, no Obamacare and no SSI benefits to care for him when he’s unable to continue his duties, a sad reminder his allegiance may have been with the wrong side. Somewhat of a dinosaur, Dung realizes most of his young co-workers never make it to his fifty-nine years, as despair and depression usually force them to cannonball off the Thu Thiem Bridge or Windsor knot a lengthy banana rope around their necks and hang themselves from a rafter in Army Stadium, occurrences absent when the Americans were present.

 

Nguyen Quang Binh, General Manager for the Nguyen Van Be leather factory, was a Commander for the Viet Cong responsible to recruit VC, a position his tough-as-nails demeanor easily handled.  Sometimes his methods to recruit strayed from the conventional to the ugly; that’s how he came across nineteen year-old Dung, a new father intent on following in his father’s physician footsteps.  Commander Binh was perhaps the first to utter “Make him an offer he can’t refuse” when he suggested to Dung to join the fight against the Americans.  Dung’s stutter proved fatal; Binh blew out his youngest sister’s brains all over the family’s tiny dinner table.

 

Because of his bold efforts on the battle field, Nguyen Quang Binh was granted quasi ownership of the Nguyen Van Be leather factory, once co-owned by French and American companies, long ago history. Today, his interest lies in how many US dollars he captures rather than US soldiers, and with the same staunch vengeance as if in the jungles of the south.  Even at age sixty-nine, Li looks as fit and rugged as when he humped through thick brush in pursuit of the enemy.

 

Lately though, returns of imperfect and shoddy leather goods to the factory, as well as complaints that faulty belt buckles separated from their leather ends caught the attention of the Minister of Finance.  Heavy fines and penalties await the Council of Ministers’ approval, an approval certain to lessen general manager Binh’s unprecedented power. Unable to accept a demotion, Binh summoned his management team together for a pep talk offering fateful consequences; “Make better products or face re-education far up in the northeast province,” a remote and unforgiving environment near the China border.

 

Dung received word of his general manager’s dictum early one morning before work while holding court in front of his comrades pretending to swing away with a 3 and 2 count an imaginary bat against an imaginary ball sending it sailing into an imaginary San Francisco Bay. He promised himself and those around him to never let another defective belt buckle leave the factory, “never to fail again,” he swore raising his imaginary Louisville Slugger in his right hand.

 

It was June 5th or 6th and halfway around the globe three kids texted each other concerned about their father’s well-being.

 

“He doesn’t look too good,” texted the pretty one.

 

“I agree,” wrote back the handsome one.

 

“Anyone got any ideas?” penned the cute one.

 

And for the next four minutes, three siblings reached deep within each other to help a loving father, a loving human being overcome a not-so-loving state of mind.

 

“FATHER’S DAY!” blasted the pretty one. “It’s next week!”

 

“Disneyland?” wrote the handsome one.

 

“How ‘bout a Giants’ game?” texted the cute one.

 

“I got it…Clothes.” the pretty one responded.

 

“Makes perfect sense, especially after his weight loss,” the handsome one concurred.

 

“Ever since he wore those stupid colorful suspenders, dad always loved clothes,” the cute one agreed.

 

And the following Saturday, or maybe it was the following Sunday, the cute one, or perhaps the handsome one, or just maybe the pretty one, strolled into the men’s clothing store known to be one of their dad’s favorites down the block from his house and purchased a bunch of cool clothes and accessories for Father’s Day, including a hip-looking black Indian cow leather 36” belt engraved with a bird design made in Vietnam.

 

Two months pass since that Father’s Day when three wonderful children presented a collection of from-the-heart gifts to a wonderful father who gave so many wonderful moments to a not always wonderful world, but on this late Sunday evening in August, this out-of-this-world genius feels like an alien out of place and longs for a trip back to another dimension, another time, another planet and so he contemplates the quickest route; he opens the top desk drawer where so many clever anecdotes were written and pulls out the pocket knife used exclusively for opening thousands of fan mail envelopes flooded with praise and love and attempts to navigate through seven layers of dermis, intent on puncturing those blue veins known as Cephalic and Basilic, but a dull blade reaches only the sixth layer, leaving non-fatal scratches, nothing worthy of a trip to another place, forcing him to find another ticket to paradise.

 

His quick mind recalls the Indian cow leather 36” belt he wears to keep his baggy pants from slipping off, and so he slides out the belt through its loops and throws the buckle between the highest point of the closet door and frame, closes the door tight, pulling down twice for its secureness.  Fearful his wife might be disturbed in the adjoining room, he acts as fast as his routine; he nudges over a small step stool, wraps the other end of the belt in a Windsor knot tightly around his neck and with a reluctant smile from ear to ear, he knows the pain will soon end. Kicking out the step stool from beneath him, his five foot seven inch stature keeps his barefoot toes from touching the floor, dangling a few inches from the warm Karastan carpet below, until the last breath of this comedic genius inhale no more

And as Dung begins another fifteen hour shift punching holes and attaching pewter-colored cheap metal buckles into Indian cow leather belts, he sips another cup of green tea with floating lemon rind, brags about his San Francisco Giants and boasts his belt buckles will never fail…never.