The world whizzes by the helicopter. The lines of hanging vines and rising trees blur until the jungle is perpendicular to itself. Distorted in the depths of the river below swims another Huey UH-1D/H, belly-up. What's that helicopter doing in the river? Looks like the backstroke, says the waiter.

Out of the open side, into the wind heavy with moisture, Rommel looks down at himself. He looks up at himself. He looks sad to himself. This once, and only once, he is sad.

The river reflects back memory, like the light of the sun, 8 minutes old. Memory, again like the sun, a ball of fire sinking in the distance. No faces, just fire. The faces are from longer ago. Finally unique, it falls into dense jungle. Only then does it become memory, alive and real until that last moment.

The little Laotian rests his head against the bare metal of the cabin wall, numb to the fierce vibrations, some sleazy sex motel bed's arthritic magic fingers trying to poke their way into his brain. His eyes are closed, and they move back and forth quickly behind the lids, like he's watching ping pong.

There's no reason for the memory. Everything that should be remembered shouldn't even have happened, to the point that all existence is the compilation of tragedy. Rommel recalls a smile. A smirk, really. Lopsided amusement at some minor tragedy or another.

He smashes his elbow through an instrument panel, and watches as the little fragments get sucked out by the wind, baptizing the river in a scattered line behind the fleeing Huey.

The pilot spins around, frightened, “What the hell was that?”

“Something glass,” answers the little Laotian.

Rommel recalls a story. “A group of anthropologists took a native of the jungle out into the open plains. As their Jeep approached a herd of antelope, the jungle native became terrified because he thought the animals were growing. He'd never been anywhere with open spaces, where perspective from more than a few feet away mattered.”

The copilot, dressed in a toga for purposes of the mission (which remains classified) says, “Like Plato and the cave.”

Rommel nods. “Things are awful far away, and they're only getting scarier as we get closer.”

“Like your car breaking down, then having your brokedown car get stolen,” says the little Laotian as he gestures to the rusted out shell of a 1986 Toyota Supra poking out of the tree line. The keys are on another continent, shiny like new.

The pilot tunes the radio to the oldies station, hoping for something distant and unapproachable. Simon and Garfunkel, The Sound of Silence. They pass by power lines, and the signal fades. The singers call out from deep in the static, “…to the neon gods they made….” At some midpoint between two radio towers, the music gives way to a Christian radio drama.

“Turn that shit off,” says one of them. It's not an appropriate time for the affirmation of life.

The helicopter peels up and away from the river, towards the city. Rommel's reflection waves goodbye. It's a friendly sort of reflection, not necessarily an accurate representation of its creator, but good natured enough that nobody cares.

They would set down at the airfield east of the city. Half of them, at least. Two thirds, taking into account the parts acquired from being on the recollecting end of a tragedy.

Every beer becomes two, every clink an unspoken toast to the jungle.

Every clink, something glass.

-----

Next: L's & 7's