Compressionism: the Pittsburgh Stories: (Including the Novella:
In the Garden of Love)

By Guy Hogan

Against the backdrop of the Vietnam War, a local college bar scene and the neighborhoods of Pittsburgh uncoils the story of men and women struggling to find love in this postmodern, apocalyptic world we all live in.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 13, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595815449

Guy Hogan

Guy Hogan is a Vietnam War veteran. He graduated in 2006 with a MFA in fiction writing from the University of Pittsburgh. He is now retired and works for himself as the editor/publisher of an online magazine of culture for adults only. His magazine is the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette. It can be found at http://pittsburghflashfictiongazette.net

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Contents

GENESIS

THE WIND IN THE LEAVES OF THE TREES

JUST NORTH OF SAIGON

NINETEEN

THE EX-BOYFRIEND

BACK IN THE USA

OHIO

BEST FRIENDS

A CHURCH WEDDING

YOUNG LUST

SHACKING UP

PITTSBURGH (1983)

THE SANCTUARY

DIVORCE

A MAN HAS TO BE A MAN

THE BRIGHT SKY

PITTSBURGH CONFIDENTIAL

UNDERBELLY

ADULT EDUCATION

THE BIG 5-0

A BLAST FROM THE PAST

POSTMODERN LOVE

IN THE GARDEN OF LOVE

NUMBER ONE SON

THE REAL WORLD

THE GOOD NEWS

DENIAL

UPTOWN

THE BIRTHMARK

HILLS BEYOND THE BRIDGE

WATER

PHOTOS

POST SCRIPT

To Raymond Carver

Just talkin’ about my generation

—The Who

GENESIS

IT sounded like a fast ball pitched against the port hull of the big chopper. Scott Delaney felt his stomach flutter and the pulse beat faster in his throat. The door gunners were searching the jungle below. Viet Con were known to be in the area. Over the deafening sound of the twin rotary blades and the high pitched whine of the twin jet engines in the stern, the sharp impact came again.

Like Scott, many of the soldiers were teenagers, their sweaty faces gaunt with sunken eyes. The door gunners were in harnesses as they leaned far out, one to port and one to starboard, trying to see where the rounds were coming from. Scott held his toy-like rifle, the butt against the vibrating floor plates, up between his knees and waited. Over the deafening noise the sharp impact came again.

The new kid sitting directly across from Scott screamed and lurched forward and hit the deck. His rifle clattered and his helmet rolled away on the deck. Scott and others had been splattered with flesh and blood. Scott had never been splattered with flesh and blood before. The kid was crying, pleading for his mother. Sarge started wrapping the kid, but soon it didn’t matter. Scott had never seen anyone die before.

The door gunners were returning fire now. The spent shell casings spewed into space. The sharp impact came again. Scott sensed the big chopper losing altitude.

Burt Johnson tapped Scott on the shoulder and nodded at the porthole behind them. In the jungle below was a clearing, the unit landing zone. A four man ground crew waited. That’s when Scott smelled it.

Scott looked forward. The two pilots struggled to keep control. Scott looked aft. The crew chief was standing, and then he crouched down and dipped the first two fingers of the right hand into a liquid on the deck. He rubbed the liquid between the thumb and first two fingers. He smelled it. He tasted it. He stood up and started speaking rapidly into the mike of his head set to the pilots up front.

Scott looked out the porthole behind him. Now he could not see the landing zone. There were only trees everywhere. Suddenly they were in the trees. He was flung against the port hull. Everyone shouting. He was flung back against the starboard hull except now it was the deck. Others fell on top of him, everyone shouting.

There was a loud, guttural WHOOOOSH! Scott felt the great heat. The crew chief came running wildly from the stern, his uniform ablaze. He stumbled to his knees in flames. Scott struggled to get up. He grabbed someone’s leg. He was kicked and stomped until he let go. Everyone pushed and shoved while others stepped on him. He had lost his helmet and rifle. He couldn’t get up. The smoke choked him. Men were screaming. He knew he was going to die.

Burt Johnson got him under the arm pits and pulled him up. Other hands lifted him up. More hands pulled him out.

What was left of the crew chief was found in the smoldering wreckage.

THE WIND IN THE LEAVES OF THE TREES

THE young man moved into the downtown YMCA. The days and nights passed. He lounged about gathering strength from long walks beside the river, from the texture of old buildings and the pigeons in the square and from the wind in the leaves of the trees. At night there was the glow of the fires in the furnaces of the steel mills on the far shore of the river, and the lights of the city and the lights of the traffic on the bridges. There were the sweeping search lights of the tug boats pushing barges heaped with coal on the river. There were the well-dressed people coming from operas and ballets.

One day he did those things you do in the morning after you get up and he went outside and found it too chilly not to be wearing a light jacket, but that was okay; it was going to be a warm, sunny day. He looked up at the tall buildings and saw how sunlight glinted off the highest window panes. He watched the young women walk by. Some of their hemlines were mid-thigh. He bought a newspaper and went into a nice, quiet restaurant for breakfast.

It felt strange reading about the war. He didn’t know how much longer it would go on but he didn’t have to go to it anymore. The artillery rounds of the support batteries exploding up ahead. The harsh sound of dozens of rotary blades beating the air. The trees sweeping past a few feet below. You forcing yourself to get out and stand in the wind on the skids. The explosions of the artillery shells up ahead suddenly stopping. The entire squad now standing on the skids. The helmets, fatigues, boots, packs, rifles, grenades, pistols, ammo, bayonets, canteens, sweat, body stench, weariness and the fear. Always the fear.

Sir, would you like anything else? Sir?

I’m sorry. Just the check, please.

He looked down at the deep carpeting. He looked at the wood paneling. He watched the well-dressed man and woman being shown to a table.

He walked to the downtown park. He sat on a wooden bench and looked at the high tower of water in the huge fountain. People waded in the fountain and some sunbathed on the fountain’s wide rim. A few people stood looking out at the two converging rivers. He looked at the river he faced. The sunlight glinted off the dark, rippling water. A boat with four young people came slowly up the river. The two females were laying on their stomachs on blankets on the bow with the tops of their two piece swim suits undone. On the far bank an engine slowly pulled a long line of railroad cars. No end in sight. A small, yellow plane on floats taxied on the river. It flew under one bridge then up over the next one. A young couple strolled past. They were holding hands. Her long hair blew in the wind. She looked up into the face of her companion and then laughed at something he said to her. Sitting on the wooden bench, the young man took a deep breath and closed his eyes against the sun. The sun was warm on his face and a breeze blew gentle on his arms.

Have you made any plans? his father had asked him.

No, sir.

You’re welcome to come down and work in the garage with me. It’s either you or someone else.

Thanks, Dad.

Or you could go to college now and get paid for it.

I’ve been thinking about that, too.

To tell you the truth, son, your mother and I are a little concerned about you sleeping all day, and then staying up all night listening to the stereo. We hardly ever see you.

I play it as low as I can.

No, no. We never hear it. It’s just that we’re not use to seeing you so inactive.

All right you two up there. Supper’s on the table.

The young man walked back to the Y.

On the ground at the entrance to the Y, he found a silver dollar.

JUST NORTH OF SAIGON

SPECIALIST Fourth Class Scott Delaney held his open mess kit in his left hand as he stood sweating in the chow line, his M-16 rifle slung from his right shoulder. Six 105mm howitzers painted a dull green squatted in the shimmer of the heat and the glare of the sun, their barrels pointing in high trajectories toward the cloudless sky. There were no trees in the battery area. The grass was trampled flat. A knee deep stream formed part of the perimeter. Infantry was dug in along this side of the stream.

On the other side of the stream, under the cooling leaves of many trees, stood a thatch roofed hut in the tall green grass. The grass swayed gently in the breeze.

An old man in a shallow upside down funnel shaped hat came walking back from his fields. Long stringy white hairs grew from his chin. His clothes seemed to be black pajamas. He walked barefoot; his face and hands burnt dark brown by the sun. He carried primitive tools on his right shoulder as he had done every day the battery had been in this secured area.

On this day one of the grunts along the stream shot at the old man. There were other scattered, lazy shots. Then light automatic weapons fire. M-79 and 50 caliber heavy machine gun fire. Finally, most of the grunts along the stream were firing at the old man. None of the officers or NCOs said anything. A few of the grunts were laughing. The old man was torn to pieces. Scott got his hot food and left the chow line.

Sitting on the rim of his upside down helmet in what little shade he could find, Scott Delaney did not begin to eat until his food was cold.

NINETEEN

I NEVER saw him again. It was the Summer of Love. I knocked on the door and a voice said to come in. When he saw me he got up from behind his desk and came around and shook hands. His office looked like any other office except for the kinds of books on the shelves and the Christ on the cross on the wall. His desk was polished and the papers stacked neat and he wore an ordinary suit.

Sit down, son, sit down, he said. It’s good to have you with us.

Thank you, sir.

He sat behind the desk. You look well.

I’ve put on weight.

Being back home will do that to you. He smiled.

I nodded.

So, how is everything going? he asked.

All right.

No problems? he asked.

No problems.

Everything fitting back into place?

More or less.

No after effects?

I wake up at night not knowing where I’m at, but outside of that nothing.

Good. Very good. So when can we expect you back?

I moved uneasily in my seat.

You do want to come back, he said. Don’t you?

I want to come back.

Then come back.

I don’t know. I don’t know if I can come back.

Once when mom was very sick and I was still a little boy, he came to our home with a basket of fruit and prayed on his knees in his new suit as she lay weak and pale on the bed. At home now on top of the old television/hi-fi in the living room is the picture of my mother and father, both very young in their wedding clothes holding the large Bible he gave