Unfortunate Son

The Vietnam War was over, at least for Marine William Jensen. Ambushed near Khe Sahn while clearing out a dank, dark, Cong-dug burrow, the 20-year old tunnel rat was shot in the leg, air-vacced back to the base, transported to  Ramstein Air Base in Germany, flown to Camp Pendleton in California, put on public transport, and sent back to his hometown in the great Northwest.

When the bus stopped in Salt Lake City to gas up,  he popped into a nearby pawn shop on the town’s main drag  to buy an engagement ring for his girlfriend; if she accepted his proposal for marriage, he’d buy her a real diamond, but this cheapie would work for now, he hoped.  Besides, he just spent the last two years as a human goddamn mole doin’ underground search and destroy missions on people the government determined was an “enemy”, and he didn't have any money socked away right now, anyway.  When he went back to work painting houses for Mr. Morrison, he’d buy her a real chunk of ice, he promised himself on the long bus ride back home to  Buffalo Falls, Montana.

He grew almost as twitchy as he did in the tunnels, as the Greyhound seemed to be poking along like a limping dog.  Traffic on winding, two-laned Highway 87 was under the speed limit as the locals in the pick-up trucks ahead seemed to be in a less hurry to see their girlfriends as he was.   Drafted and sent to Nam just out of high school, he thought this final part of the journey was the hardest of all – mile, by slow crawling mile, Pam’s lovin’ was getting closer. Just not close or quick enough.

He leaned back against the headrest and thought about his family–Dad, a hired ranch hand who birthed kids almost as often as he birthed cows–seven in all: 4 boys, all younger, and thank God, too young to be used as Viet Cong target practice; three girls.  Mom was a wrangler, too–not of livestock, but of the rambunctious Jensen herd.  They would get their lovin’ too…after Pam.  Oh boy, will they be surprised to see me! He thought, eyes closed, dreaming, smiling. 

Finally, the Greyhound rumbled down Buffalo Falls’ main drag, stopping in front of Dinky’s Cafe to drop off the weary, excited, relieved, homesick, lovesick vet.  What a damn long ride, he thought, stretching his bones, looking for a car headed east to hitch to his girlfriend’s place.  

Civilian Willie Jensen snagged his duffel bag and a ride that dropped him off at Pam’s apartment in a private house on the edge of town.  He checked to make sure the ring was in his jacket pocket–six times–took a deep breath to make sure this was reality; really happening, and paused to rehearse how his surprise arrival–his surprise proposal–was gonna go.

Now the moment he had been dreaming of for 763 days was here–and Pam was home, judging from the orange Beetle she drove since high school that was parked in the graveled lot.  And she had the radio on, blasting Creedence Clearwater Revival on her stereo–an appropriate “welcome home'' tune for a war that so divided the country. 

Hell, ya!!  Previous war survivors got heroes' welcomes with parades and patriotism, while us coming back from Nam gets spit in the face and catcalls.  The lyrics John Fogerty’s singin’ sure ain’t Kate Smith belting out “God Bless America”:

“Some folks are born made to wave the flag,

They're red, white and blue.

And when the band plays "Hail to the Chief"

They point the cannon at you, Lord.

It ain't me, it ain't me,

I ain't no senator's son, son.

It ain't me, it ain't me,

I ain't no fortunate one.”

He started to her apartment building thinking more of the song than his proposal.  That’s a for sure.  Far as I read, Senator Al Gore Sr. is the only senator’s son in active duty in Vietnam. Draft all them son-a-bitchin’  in DC.  At least offer up their boys’ blood as grease for the military-industrial complex money machine, like they do us poor ones. 

“Some folks are born silver spoon in hand,

Lord, don't they help themselves, yeah.

But when the taxman comes to the door,

The house look a like a rummage sale.

It ain't me, it ain't me,

I ain't no millionaire's son, no, no.

It ain't me, it ain't me,

I ain't no fortunate one.”

 Send the rich kids, too. The fortunate ones with the means to fake injuries to go 4F or go off to college, while we poor saps and suckers without money and nothing to gain, provide more-than-adequate-cannon splatter.

“Yeah, some folks inherit star-spangled eyes,

They send you down to war.

And when you ask 'em, ‘How much should we give?’

They only answer, "More, more, more."

 It ain't me, it ain't me,

I ain't no military son, son.

It ain't me, it ain't me,

I ain't no fortunate one, one.” 

 He was now at her screen door, and he checked the ring pocket again just to make sure, drew deep breath, and knocked, just as the song was fading out :

“I ain't no military son, son.

It ain't me, it ain't me,

I ain't no fortunate one, one…”

When Pam breezed to the door, she stopped cold at the sight of him. On the flip side, his girlfriend since eighth-grade looked smokin’ hot in her skimpy top and the bell-bottoms that hugged her body like he was aching to do. 

“Hey Baby!  Was released from the hospital a day early.  Wanted to surprise ya!”

Pam was still too speechless to react; he was still too spellbound, so they let Dylan set the mood, as the song coming next was the one that made them lose their cherries the night before he left for boot camp:

“Lay, lady, lay,

Lay across my big brass bed.

Lay, lady, lay,

Lay across my big brass bed.

Whatever colors you have in your mind,

I show them to you and you see them shine.”

The screen door creaked open.

“Lay, lady, lay.

Lay across my big brass bed.

Stay, lady, stay,

Stay with your man a while.

Until the break of day,

Let me see you make him smile.

His clothes are dirty but his yards are clean,

And you are the best thing that he's ever seen

Stay, lady, stay,

Stay with your man a while.”

The two hugged. Kissed. Embraced. Cried. 

“Why wait any longer for the world to begin,

You can have your cake and eat it too.

Why wait any longer for the one you love,

When he's standing in front of you.”

He got down on one knee.

“Lay, lady, lay,

Lay across my big brass bed.

Stay, lady, stay

Stay while the night is still ahead.

I long to see you in the morning light,

I long to reach for you in the night.

Stay, lady, stay,

Stay while the night is still ahead.”

There was silence.

Marine William Jensen lay alone in a dark, dank, Cong-dug burrow near Khe Sanh, shot in the leg, his femoral artery gushing rhythmically like a bloody Old Faithful. Dying a slow death, he bled out with a smile on his face. His baby back in Buffalo Falls accepted his proposal.

Songwriters: John Cameron Fogerty Fortunate Son lyrics ? Jondora Music

Songwriters: Bob Dylan Lay Lady Lay lyrics ? Universal Tunes