an Francisco Airport, Summer 1967 By Milan Kovacovic (in tribute to the film Platoon, a civilian sequel) “ Motherfucker! If I had my M-16, I’d blow that motherfuckin’ faggot away like a motherfuckin’ gook!” Livid with rage, the soldier with the yellow and black AIR CAV patch on his sleeve unleashes an imaginary burst of gunfire at the Kon-Tiki Bar, then heads out toward the departure gates with his buddy, whose uniform also bears the proud horse head insignia. Just back from Vietnam, the two had looked forward to commemorating their separation at San Francisco Airport over a beer. But they have been turned away from the bar for being underage. At the entrance to the concourse, they stop to exchange an emotional farewell, clutching arms and tapping hands in the elaborate ritual learned from the soul brothers in ’Nam. As he singes his partner’s cigarette with a huge flame, sooty from the mixture of kerosene and helicopter fuel in his Zippo lighter, the enraged one glares back one last time toward the bamboo entrance of the bar: “Man, we shoudda torched that joint like a motherfuckin’ hooch.” I know their anger is directed at my friend Reilly, the bartender. I can picture the scene, having witnessed it many times: Every night after work, the TWA swing shift crew settles in until closing time at the Kon-Tiki, where Reilly subsidizes much of our drinking, courtesy his employer, Interstate Hosts. Rumor has it that he’s in trouble for his generosity, which also extends to soldiers, particularly if they have blue eyes. 26 Clinton St. Quarterly—Summer, 1988
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