midnightpulp
07-14-2011, 02:17 PM
Mid-morning on the Vegas strip. Culburn and I were stuck in traffic, on our way to the Stratosphere for their daily breakfast special that promised a full continental platter for 2.99. Big spender, my husband.
As we inched along, I looked out the window. The sidewalks were jammed with tourists. There was a small crowd gathered around a street performer doing a juggling act with knives, entertaining kids and adults alike. The hotels looked much different at this hour. Less alive, skeletal, waiting to be brought to life in a neon blaze as soon as the sun sets.
Culburn turned on the radio and tuned it to sports talk. The issue being discussed was the Lakers’ new coach and how he’d fare in the upcoming season. Culburn clenched his teeth, not in favor of his beloved franchise’s most recent personnel decision.
“If this don’t beat it all,” he said. “Shoulda been Shaw. All this Brown fella gonna do is play grab ass with Bryant and cater to his every whim, tippin’ the tam, bowing at the waist and saying ‘yes sir’ with a smile. Mind you, I love Bryant and would never forsake him, especially after he rang sans Daddy and went one up on the tired ol’ shitbag, but the kid needs structure, discipline, a presence of authority that even Bryant’s ego can’t overpower. Jackson was that man. Stern and paternal, always a threat to spank yer ass into two Jap flags. Now sometimes Bryant would stray outside the confines of Jackson’s design, but Jackson always could reel him back in and make him abide.”
Culburn paused for a moment and caught his breath. He wiped a trail of sweat from his brow and continued.
“Shaw was being groomed just for that purpose. He’s played with Bryant since he was a kid and knows the ins-and-outs of what makes Bryant tick, that psychotic determination of his that, if correctly channeled, produces miracles, but it takes a fine touch, one that’s not learned overnight, and I suspect this Brown fella take a heavy-handed approach of the amateur and let Pandora out of the box, and what’s gonna happen is things are likely to end up topsy-turvy, Bryant topsy, us turvy.” Culburn sighed.
“Gee whiz, the shit’s been slidin’ off the shingle ever since Sasha center-cut those freethrows to deliver us 16.”
I tried to ignore Culburn’s words, but of course, I was forced to listen. How could I not? Culburn’s obsession with the Lakers is borderline clinical and completely fanatical, and when he talks about them, like now, his words become charged with an evangelical fury that a television preacher would envy.
“Goddamn it. This decision pisses me off more than when that gook did a number on my balloon knot with them bamboo shoots.”
In Vietnam, Culburn was a P.O.W. for a month and tortured by the Viet Cong. I can’t imagine what he had to go through, and it’s definitely one of the things, maybe the only thing, I respect about my husband, that he had the courage to face such frightening circumstances and never let his will to live weaken. But do I feel sorry for him? No. I have no sympathy for him, because along with enduring the horrors of war, Culburn also endured, while we were married (we eloped just before he deployed), his fair share of prostitutes, one of whom, he continued to write letters to well into his 30s.
Her name was Lien Linh. She was a 14-year-old Southern Vietnamese girl whose parents forced her into prostitution after they had their rice paddy field commandeered by the NVA. Culburn had many whores before her, but I guess there was something special about her, which I suspect was because of her inclination to shave her pubic area, unheard of in 1970, and a fetish Culburn has to this day. Every time he says, “Just like shaved pussy,” it stings a little, because I know his mind is back in Da Nang, thinking about Lien Linh.
One day, her letters stopped. It was suspected she accidentally crashed her bicycle into an un-detonated napalm canister. Culburn wept for a month.
Because Culburn had no shame about traveling outside the boundaries defined by our marriage, neither would I. Somewhere, a black man waited for me, beyond the boundary, in the forbidden zone, and I would find him.
Culburn continued his tirade. “If that gook and Kupchak were standing in front of me right now and I was holding a gun with one bullet in the chamber, I’d not think twice and put one right between Kupchak’s eyes.”
Thinking about Lien Linh and Culburn’s shameless honesty about her, about how when he got home from Vietnam, the first thing he said to me was not “I love you” or “I’m so glad to see you,” but “I have something to tell you,” about the hundreds of letters he exchanged with this girl over 15 years, about his preoccupation with hairless vaginas, I got an idea.
I turned to Culburn and said, “I changed my mind.”
Confused, he replied, “About what?”
“Koolaid Man. I think I’d like to meet him.”
Culburn’s face lit up with a big smile, ear to ear. “You got it, Katie-girl.”
If Koolaid Man was anything like Culburn says he is, athletic, wealthy, something of a lady-killer, I was in for a treat. Although Culburn has never met Koolaid Man face-to-face, I’m sure there is some truth to this man’s vaunted reputation.
I was excited.
As we inched along, I looked out the window. The sidewalks were jammed with tourists. There was a small crowd gathered around a street performer doing a juggling act with knives, entertaining kids and adults alike. The hotels looked much different at this hour. Less alive, skeletal, waiting to be brought to life in a neon blaze as soon as the sun sets.
Culburn turned on the radio and tuned it to sports talk. The issue being discussed was the Lakers’ new coach and how he’d fare in the upcoming season. Culburn clenched his teeth, not in favor of his beloved franchise’s most recent personnel decision.
“If this don’t beat it all,” he said. “Shoulda been Shaw. All this Brown fella gonna do is play grab ass with Bryant and cater to his every whim, tippin’ the tam, bowing at the waist and saying ‘yes sir’ with a smile. Mind you, I love Bryant and would never forsake him, especially after he rang sans Daddy and went one up on the tired ol’ shitbag, but the kid needs structure, discipline, a presence of authority that even Bryant’s ego can’t overpower. Jackson was that man. Stern and paternal, always a threat to spank yer ass into two Jap flags. Now sometimes Bryant would stray outside the confines of Jackson’s design, but Jackson always could reel him back in and make him abide.”
Culburn paused for a moment and caught his breath. He wiped a trail of sweat from his brow and continued.
“Shaw was being groomed just for that purpose. He’s played with Bryant since he was a kid and knows the ins-and-outs of what makes Bryant tick, that psychotic determination of his that, if correctly channeled, produces miracles, but it takes a fine touch, one that’s not learned overnight, and I suspect this Brown fella take a heavy-handed approach of the amateur and let Pandora out of the box, and what’s gonna happen is things are likely to end up topsy-turvy, Bryant topsy, us turvy.” Culburn sighed.
“Gee whiz, the shit’s been slidin’ off the shingle ever since Sasha center-cut those freethrows to deliver us 16.”
I tried to ignore Culburn’s words, but of course, I was forced to listen. How could I not? Culburn’s obsession with the Lakers is borderline clinical and completely fanatical, and when he talks about them, like now, his words become charged with an evangelical fury that a television preacher would envy.
“Goddamn it. This decision pisses me off more than when that gook did a number on my balloon knot with them bamboo shoots.”
In Vietnam, Culburn was a P.O.W. for a month and tortured by the Viet Cong. I can’t imagine what he had to go through, and it’s definitely one of the things, maybe the only thing, I respect about my husband, that he had the courage to face such frightening circumstances and never let his will to live weaken. But do I feel sorry for him? No. I have no sympathy for him, because along with enduring the horrors of war, Culburn also endured, while we were married (we eloped just before he deployed), his fair share of prostitutes, one of whom, he continued to write letters to well into his 30s.
Her name was Lien Linh. She was a 14-year-old Southern Vietnamese girl whose parents forced her into prostitution after they had their rice paddy field commandeered by the NVA. Culburn had many whores before her, but I guess there was something special about her, which I suspect was because of her inclination to shave her pubic area, unheard of in 1970, and a fetish Culburn has to this day. Every time he says, “Just like shaved pussy,” it stings a little, because I know his mind is back in Da Nang, thinking about Lien Linh.
One day, her letters stopped. It was suspected she accidentally crashed her bicycle into an un-detonated napalm canister. Culburn wept for a month.
Because Culburn had no shame about traveling outside the boundaries defined by our marriage, neither would I. Somewhere, a black man waited for me, beyond the boundary, in the forbidden zone, and I would find him.
Culburn continued his tirade. “If that gook and Kupchak were standing in front of me right now and I was holding a gun with one bullet in the chamber, I’d not think twice and put one right between Kupchak’s eyes.”
Thinking about Lien Linh and Culburn’s shameless honesty about her, about how when he got home from Vietnam, the first thing he said to me was not “I love you” or “I’m so glad to see you,” but “I have something to tell you,” about the hundreds of letters he exchanged with this girl over 15 years, about his preoccupation with hairless vaginas, I got an idea.
I turned to Culburn and said, “I changed my mind.”
Confused, he replied, “About what?”
“Koolaid Man. I think I’d like to meet him.”
Culburn’s face lit up with a big smile, ear to ear. “You got it, Katie-girl.”
If Koolaid Man was anything like Culburn says he is, athletic, wealthy, something of a lady-killer, I was in for a treat. Although Culburn has never met Koolaid Man face-to-face, I’m sure there is some truth to this man’s vaunted reputation.
I was excited.