BITTER CIRCUMSTANCES by Bobby

Disclaimer: Tour of Duty and its characters are the property of Zev Braun Productions and New Line. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author.

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Myron considered a shower , but the bathroom was a mess, everything torn or smashed or thrown on the floor, even the shaving cream and toothpaste tube emptied out. He decided to get some cigarettes first.

The motel lobby was empty as usual. Myron was thinking of where he could buy some smokes. A nearby convenience store seemed his best bet. It was closer than the casino strip. As he passed the desk, he nodded to the clerk. To his surprise, he was greeted with a belligerent snarl.

"Hey 'War Hero'. I've got your bill ready. No checks. Cash or credit card. Checkout time is noon. But if you're still here, say, at 11? No, let's make that 10, then we add the damage to the room."

Myron bristled, but said nothing. That was a few hours away. There was little to pack. He was suddenly glad of the walk. The outside air was chilly and damp. He could smell the salt ocean in the air. He walked slowly, adrenaline rush now giving way to hangover headache. He turned his parka collar up against the wind and thrust his hands into his pockets. The warmth of the parka was a comfort. He would never have considered turning up the collar of an Army field jacket. Or putting his hands in its pockets without a second thought. Thank you L.L.Bean. It was two blocks to the convenience store. He paid for the cigarettes with a five and bought a cup of coffee. On impulse he asked the turbaned clerk for his change in coins.

Outside, Myron lit up and then just needed to walk. There were two choices, down to the beachfront ahead or back to the garish Casino Strip. He turned toward the beach. The street ended at the boardwalk, now deserted in winter. He considered his options.

He could pay the motel bill, sort of. If he wasn't over his credit card limit, that is. But then he'd be two months late on the child support even so. He thought he might call Ri An. He checked his watch. He might just catch her. He needed a pay phone. He dismissed the geometric glass towers behind him out of hand. Even at this time of day, he couldn't face that fraud and phoniness.

Then he laughed. He was the fraud and the phony. Officially.

He could see there were pay phones at intervals along the deserted boardwalk. Left or right? For no reason Myron turned left and started to walk toward the nearest. The cold wind was already biting through his slacks and lashing at his face. The smell was salt sea air, yes, but there was something old and rotten underneath it. Smells of dead fish, old fuel oil, wet seaweed washed up on beaches, maybe? The leaden sky looked down, gulls circled low and cried. The cold gray ocean thudded in. Myron reached the first pay phone. No dial tone. He began to walk to the next, a few hundred feet away. He was feeling the chill now, on his face, in his hands, and through his slacks.

At the second phone he got a dial tone. He dialed Ri An's new number from the paper in his wallet and inserted the coins. The phone rang four times before the woman's voice on the machine picked up:

"Hi! This is Ri An and Carey! We're sorry we can't come to the phone right now. I'm probably getting Zeke and little Lusandra ready for school and Carey's defending the country. Leave a message at.....oh you know!"

Myron considered leaving a message, decided not to, hung up. The phone did not return his change. Myron slammed it hard, once or twice, with his hand, stepped back to kick, then just gave up.

A few feet away there was a staircase down to the beach. A sign on the chain said "BEACH CLOSED, NO TRESPASSING". Myron slipped under the chain and walked down the stairs. He wasn't sure why. He just wanted to be alone and think about things. He walked out twenty feet onto the beach and sat down in the sand. The coffee was still too hot to drink. He set it down between his knees and wished he'd bought a six-pack instead. He lit a second cigarette and stared at the ocean.

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The knocking hadn't been loud, just persistent.

The girl nudged him. "Hey, you order room service, sport?"

"Huh?" Myron hoped that whoever it was would just go away. Yawning, he put on his boxers and got to his feet.

"Let me see what they want." Room Service, he thought, here?

He put the chain on and opened the door the full three inches.

"Yeah, what is it?"

An official badge and ID was shoved in his face.

"FBI! OPEN THIS DOOR! NOW!"

Myron fumbled clumsily with the chain and stepped back. Two men pushed past him, glancing sharply around the room.

"Are you Myron Goldman?"

"Huh? Yeah....." Myron stammered.

"Special Agent Desantis. Have a seat, Myron." It was not a request.

Myron eyes met his for a moment, before he sat down on a chair, ignoring the clothes thrown on it.

The second agent ignored Goldman completely and began checking the other rooms. There was a scream from the bedroom: "HEY, who the hell are YOU?"

"FBI ma'am!"

"What's this about?" said Myron, defiantly.

Closet doors opened and shut. He heard the scrape of dresser drawers being pulled out and landing on the floor.

"THIS Myron Goldman?" Desantis held up a Xeroxed page in front of Myron. It was a newspaper clipping.

"Yes."

Desantis tossed some papers with a blue cover sheet in Myron's lap.

"That's a Search Warrant from the Fifth Circuit Court. We need to ask you some questions, Myron."

Another shout from the bedroom: "HEY that's my purse! You can't.....!" There was a metallic clatter.

There were more noises, coming now from the bathroom. A tearing plastic shower curtain and a heavy ceramic crash. More things falling or thrown, maybe from the medicine cabinet.

"Nope!"

"Okay." said Desantis over his shoulder. Then turning to Myron he asked casually, "Who's your friend?"

"I.... Just.....a friend. A girl I met."

From the other room she was shouting: "HEY LOOK, FBI, I DON'T KNOW THIS GUY, OKAY? I don't know what he did. I'm just a working girl. I don't want no trouble with cops! I just want out of here!"

"Any objection Myron? To the lady's leaving, I mean?"

"No."

"Okay," said Desantis over his shoulder, "Let the lady dress in private and be on her way."

About ten seconds later the hooker emerged, her skin tight dress unzipped and clutching her shoes and handbag. Both agents politely handed her their cards.

"If you should happen to remember anything, Miss, please give us a call. You may be a valuable witness. Our voicemail and cell phone numbers are on our cards. Call us anytime."

She took both cards, looked at Myron warily and shook her head. "I don't want any trouble with cops." She paused. "Don't you want my name too?"

Agent Desantis smiled pleasantly: "That won't be necessary. We already know where to find you. Have a nice day."

The girl hastily departed.

Without changing his expression, Desantis casually dumped more clothes from another chair. He turned it around and sat down facing Myron, putting his arms on the backrest.

"Now, where were we? Oh yes." Desantis pointed to the clipping. "Recognize this, Myron?"

"Yes."

"Oh, let me introduce Special Agent Parrish. I'm not sure if he's read all of it. Why don't you read it to us aloud?"

"Let me get a cigarette," said Myron, starting to rise.

Parrish put a hand firmly on his shoulder and pushed him back down. Myron glared at Parrish, his muscles tensing. Desantis smiled smoothly. "We'll get them for you. Parrish?"

"In the other room, right?" said Parrish, turning back into the bedroom.

"Yeah. Hey what's this about?"

Parrish returned with a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. He dumped out two remaining cigarettes and then lit one experimentally. He puffed, then crushed it out. He carefully felt over the now empty pack.

"Bad habit, Myron." He smirked.

Myron reached for the remaining cigarette, but Parrish put it on a table out of reach.

"Now might be a good time to quit." Parrish took apart the Zippo and threw the pieces on the table.

Myron glared at Desantis. "Can I at least put some clothes on?"

"Later, Myron. You're fine right now. And, you were reading that article to us?"

“I need my glasses."

Parrish brought them.

Goldman looked at the paper glumly and began:

"CHARGES DROPPED AGAINST VIETNAM WAR HERO." he read flatly.

"Go on."

"Racine, Wisconsin. Myron Goldman, 47, was released today from Criminal Court. The owner of the bar he trashed agreed to drop charges against him. Prosecutor Jay Mallik protested Judge Franklin's decision. 'The defendant's past service to our country is not in question here,' said Mallik, 'but his recent actions are.' The Medal of Honor Goldman won in Vietnam was found in his wallet after his arrest. He had originally been charged with assault, disorderly conduct, property damage and threatening behavior. All these stemmed from a December 22 incident in which Goldman was refused service at the Alder Brauhaus because he was inebriated. He took a hockey stick from a display and did an estimated $3000 worth of damage to the establishment. He also threatened patrons and staff."

"Go on....."

"At his arraignment, Goldman claimed to be suffering from PTSD. Goldman, 47, is a retired Army veteran of both Vietnam and the Gulf War. He was awarded the Medal of Honor for saving the lives of soldiers and civilians during a 1968 terrorist attack in Saigon. Bar owner Richard Hansen would only comment that: "Whatever this man has gone through for our country, I won't make it worse."

"Parrish?" said Desantis theatrically.

Parrish produced Myron's wallet from a pair of slacks he had brought from the bedroom.

"Not here."

"Look, what's this about?"

"Ever hear of 18 US Code, Part 1, Section 704B, Myron?"

"Huh? No."

"That's the law that makes it a felony to wear the Medal of Honor if you haven't received it."

"I wasn't wearing it. It was just in my wallet."

"Like it says here?" Desantis passed Myron another Xerox.

Myron looked, said nothing.

"Read it before, I guess?" said Desantis.

"Berkeley Beacon, July 7. VIETNAM MASSACRE "HERO" ARRESTED." Myron paused, then took off his glasses and put aside the sheet.

"Oh, don't want to read it? Let me," said Parrish, taking it from him.

"Myron Goldman, 48 was arraigned today in local court. He was arrested Tuesday on charges of Resisting Arrest and Assault on a Police Officer. In exchange for dropping charges, he plead guilty to being Drunk in Public and Disorderly Conduct. Goldman alleged officers poured beer on him while he was handcuffed and in custody."

"Go to the part about the 'bloodstained piece of jewelry'," said Desantis, "that's the best part."

Parrish continued: 'Your bloodstained piece of jewelry doesn't impress us in THIS community, Mr. Goldman.' said Judge Andrea Kellerman, 'nor does it give you the right to treat our citizens as you did the innocent people of Phu An.' Goldman admitted having taken part in the infamous Phu An Massacre in 1968. He later testified against other soldiers. He was given the Medal of Honor, which was found on him at the time of his arrest."

Myron said nothing.

“Were you at Phu An?” challenged Desantis.

“Later on, I was. The Judge got it all mixed up, or maybe the paper did. She was yelling a lot. I just agreed with her mostly.”

"It says they gave you 50 hours Community Service," said Parrish.

"You're reading it," said Myron indifferently.

"What did they have you do for your Community Service?"

"They had me go around and talk to high school kids."

"About....?" prompted Desantis.

"I forget. Anyway I wasn't wearing the Medal. I just had it. I said what they wanted to hear."

Desantis handed him another Xerox. "LOCAL TEENS LEARN A LESSON IN CITIZENSHIP.” There was a photo of Myron with a group of teenagers. He was wearing the Medal around his neck.

"The Alameda County Citizen. Who would have read that, eh Myron? Not the FBI, surely." said Parrish sarcastically." Says here you earned it on a secret mission to rescue US POWs in Vietnam."

"The Judge ordered me to wear it. ‘Your dead albatross’ or something, she called it."

"Where's the Medal, Myron?" asked Desantis.

"Air conditioner. Inside. With my cash. The girl you know?"

Parrish returned with the Medal and ribbon.

"This is a pretty good fake, Myron? Where did you get it?"

"It's not a fake. It's real. It was my father's."

Desantis looked at him for a moment. "You're a lousy human being, Myron, do you know that?"

"And a terrible doctor, yes I know."

"What? What about doctors?"

"I meant MASH, the TV show, you know?"

"No. Tell me."

"Hawkeye is always saying that to the lifer doctor, you know? 'You're a lousy doctor and a rotten human being?' It's like a joke."

"You think a year in a Federal Penitentiary is a joke?" said Desantis.

"No, I just....."

"You know who is in a Federal Penitentiary, Goldman?" demanded Parrish. "Think they are all bankers and accountants? Guess again. Mafia hit men, biker gang leaders, Colombian drug dealers, DEA cop killers, and assorted psychos. Know what they have in common, Myron? They're all for real. And you're a friggin' ass phony."

Myron said nothing.

"Know what makes me sad about this Myron? You actually WERE in Vietnam."

"The Gulf too."

"Yeah?" smirked Parrish, "The Gulf? So was I. Who were you with again?"

"CENTCOM."

"What did you do for them?"

"Courier. Casualty Notification Officer. Casualty Escort."

"So, temporary duty? A few days? A week?"

"More or less."

"I was in the Second Armored Cav. Tank gunner. Seventy-Three Easting."

"Must have been rough. Can I have the cigarette now?" asked Myron.

"No," said Parrish. "Let's see. I think we have your DD 214 here."

Myron waited glumly.

"Got out as a Major I see. Didn't even give you Light Colonel. How long were you in for?"

"You're reading it."

"Twenty years. Little break in service I see. Two Article 15's. DUI. I was a Sergeant, they'd have thrown me out with one."

"Those were awhile back."

"You are lucky they let you stay for your twenty." Parrish handed to folder back to Desantis.

“It wasn’t easy. The Army remembered Phu An too.” recalled Myron, a strange look on his face.

Parrish looked at Desantis, but the older agent shook his head slightly and looked at the folder. "I see you have a son. Think he'd be proud of you?"

"Screw you!" said Myron, starting to get up.

"Sir down, Myron," said Parrish, pushing him back into his chair.

"Two marriages. One kid. What was the problem?"

"What's that got to do with this?"

Desantis closed the folder.

"Just this, Myron. If you are convicted, you stand to lose your Military Pension. You also face a $100,000 fine. Might be hard to make those child support payments."

Myron said nothing

"What did your father do to get this Medal?" asked Desantis.

"Took some town? Defended some town? Luxembourg, Belgium? I forget."

"You 'forget'?" Desantis produced another sheet of paper.

"I think the Germans really wanted it."

Suddenly Myron sat back in the chair, gripping both arms, and glared at Desantis.

"Look, Agent De-whatever-your-name is, that's about enough! Are you going to arrest me? Then read me my rights! Otherwise, SCREW YOU!

Desantis paused. Their eyes met, neither backing down. Parrish straightened. Myron did not take his eyes off Desantis. "I've been interrogated by REAL professionals and I don't need this CRAP this time of the morning! Now read me my rights or get the hell out of my room!" He sat back defiantly in his chair and glared at each of them in turn.

Finally Desantis casually looked down at the folder and took out a sheaf of other Xerox's. Newspaper clippings, handwritten IOU's, correspondence. He fanned through them for a moment and tossed them in Myron's lap.

"If it was up to me, you'd go to jail. You still can and I hope you do. But you still have friends in places. I mean your FATHER still has friends. Like the West Point Alumnae Association and the Medal of Honor Society?"

Myron bristled.

Desantis gestured to the Xeroxed sheets.

"There's enough there to convict you, make an example. You have two choices. You can either, right now, donate your father's Medal to the Medal of Honor Society Museum and we'll give you a receipt. Or, yeah, we'll read you your rights and then it's up to a judge. Decide right now. It's your choice. Maybe your last choice for a long while." Then he sat back.

It was no choice, really.

Parrish handed Myron a black Federal-issue ball point pen, and some motel stationary. Desantis dictated the wording. Myron wrote. Desantis gave him a receipt in exchange. Parrish then put the note and the Medal in an envelope.

"We'll see it gets delivered. It's been lying in the gutter long enough." Parish paused, then asked quietly: "Myron, you had real medals, why did you do it?"

Myron didn't look at him. "Nobody cares about those. Civilians only know about one medal. I just told them what they wanted to hear."

Parrish nodded, almost sympathetically, then put the envelope away in his pocket.

"Have a nice day, Mr. Goldman," said Desantis as they left. "Oh yes, we know about all those unpaid bills across the country too. None of our business, but I wouldn't do that any more if I were you. Certain people know about this now. It won't work. If you have any questions or complaints, you can bring them to either our Regional Office or the Bureau in Washington. The numbers are in the phone book. Have a nice day."

Both agents placed their cards on a table and left.

Once the door was closed, Myron put his head in his hands. Then he just sat and looked at the wall for awhile. In a way he felt relieved, being rid of the thing and all it stood for his whole life. So many things he had lived with and tried to live up to, other people's expectations of him. In a way that was the last of it. He stood up.

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"Hey there. Kind of a chilly day for the beach, huh?"

Myron nodded his head slightly, to show that he heard, rather than cared who had spoken.

"Definitely not a good day for a swim." A young police officer was standing behind him. His voice was friendly and casual.

"I wasn't planning on going in." said Myron. He carefully put the cigarette butts in the empty paper cup.

"It's pretty nice in summer, actually. But we close the beach in October and let all the lifeguards go. I guess you didn't see the sign?"

"I just wanted to think about some things, that's all." Myron stood and brushed himself off.

"Sure. A little bad luck at the tables, huh?"

Myron took one last look at the ocean and turned back toward the boardwalk.

"I don't believe in luck. Let's just say some old stuff just caught up with me. Bad karma, call it."

"One-Thirteen-Niner." said the officer into his shoulder microphone as they climbed the stairs. He climbed over the chain first and let Myron join him. Myron was still holding the paper cup. He looked around; there were no trash cans in sight.

"I've got a trash bag in my car." said the officer.

"Okay."

"Are you staying in town? I'll give you a lift back?'

Myron nodded and gave him the address. The police car was warm inside and he rubbed his hands together as they started off for the short drive down the boardwalk.

"First time here?" asked the officer casually.

"Maybe when I was real little, I don't remember."

"Where are you from?"

"Queens, New York."

"The City, huh? Must have been awhile back, before they built the casinos?"

"I don't really remember. It wasn't this cold though."

"Oh, this is nothing. I spent two years at Hatteras in the Coast Guard, '88 and '89. Now THAT was cold! Ever been in the service?"

Myron tensed. "No."

"No offense meant, just the way you picked up the cigarette butts. The lifers used to do that. The old guys."

They turned off the Boardwalk and up the motel street.

"I guess I am just neat. I was 4-F."

"Oh, back in the Draft you mean? Yeah, my father was too, I guess. Anyway, he didn't go. Vietnam I mean. A lot of his friends did. Messed 'em up bad. He always said he wasn't sorry he missed out."

"Same here." said Myron.

The police car pulled up in front of the motel. "Hey, no more walks on the beach today, huh?"

"No, I have to pack anyway." said Myron, getting out of the car.

"Okay, have a good trip then. Come back and see us again sometime, okay?" The officer smiled. "Maybe your luck will be better then!"

Myron smiled.

"Maybe it's gotten better already."

Then he turned and walked into the motel.