One summer night in South Los Angeles, Richard, Reid and I sat on the porch and listened to our friend, Clarence, talk about monkeys in the Vietnamese jungle. Clarence would often stop by in the early evening, asking for a dollar to buy a hamburger at the corner burger joint, or a cup of juice. He lived in nearby boarding house and came by when he was hungry or bored, which was quite often. He was a huge man with a large round head, thick hands, and a crooked nose—the result of his years as a boxer, he said. Clarence acted like a kid at times, widening his round eyes as he asked for a cookie. At other times, those eyes would well up with tears as he told us about some of the things that he’d done during his tours in Vietnam. “I don’t think God can forgive me,” he said. Even if I had a collar on, I don’t think he would have believed me when I told him that God could forgive even the worst things. He just cried and ate his burger. Then he would suddenly snap out of it and act like nothing had happened. We didn’t know if he’d experienced a brain injury as a result of boxing, or using drugs after his tours of duty in Vietnam.
On that summer night, Clarence was especially lucid as he sipped his plastic cup of juice. “Have you ever eaten a monkey?” he asked us. We exchanged glances then shook our heads. "Barbecued monkeys,” he continued, “That's some good eatin'." When he was in Vietnam, the members of his squad were often out in the bush for extended periods, growing tired of MREs and hungry for meat. When desire outweighed inconvenience, they hunted monkeys. with their M16s. "They’re hard to catch, too. The big ones are smart and they fight back, throw sticks , scream. But when you catch 'em and put 'em on a rotisserie stick. Mmmm."
Maybe it was the summer heat, but we pictured ourselves with Clarence, half a world away. We sat there for a moment of silence and imagined Clarence savoring his dinner the way that he put away a cheeseburger and fries.
