***Tu Do Street, USA

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

Tu Do Street (nicknamed by some American G.I., probably some down South black soldier or some kindred brother, black or white, familiar with Chi Town’s Chess Records, familiar with Howlin’ Wolf or just familiar with the blues idiom, in the 1960s as Do The Do Street. And if it was the Wolf that drew his inspiration you knew, knew damn well, what that do the do was about even if you never saw Tu Do Street) , Saigon (now known as Ho Chi Minh City for those who have not been paying attention since about 1975) was the street of dreams, feckless, reckless G.I. dreams.

The street of cheap- jack merchandise, unbelievably cheap- jack merchandise (watches that wilted in the humid night, cameras that jammed in the fetid air, gee-gaws of all descriptions that had no known use, no known soldier use except they were not rifles, bullets or that kind of stuff although you could buy all you wanted of that stuff there as well), of expensive drinks (watered-down scotches, whiskeys and gins, ditto the beer unbelievable as that sounds) in some soldier trap gin mill,   and plentiful whores, oops, prostitutes, you know, sex workers sometimes cheaper than the booze they peddled. Some girls, young,  straight from the hungry desolate peasant countryside, an extra mouth to feed with not enough food to go around, easily used up and abandoned (abandoned with American babies, black and white,  by the ton) sent there by their kin, some just plain camp- followers, camp- followers from every port of call, Russians, Japanese, Americans , all over, who have followed in the  train of war since Adams and Eve’s time, maybe before, and some “official” hostesses working the American Red Cross, USO, or other NGO racket before finding out there was much more kale to be made by taking your clothes off for an hour (really a half hour who was kidding who) and giving a hungry and not fussy guy just off the line what he wanted even if you weren’t the beautiful girl of his dreams.

That girl of his dreams, maybe not so beautiful either, was back home somewhere in the real world waiting for his return (although maybe not faithfully by the number of Dear John letters that arrived weekly) keeping herself ready for that return  and their little white picket fence house that she had already picked out and furnished in her mind. But he had his needs right then, right there. And so he, Bob Baxter, Bob from Mansfield, Ohio had, being stationed at a base just outside of Saigon, before his tour of duty was up had tasted all three Tu Do Street assortments, tasted them many times, and had had a lingering taste for them (although as far as he knew he did not leave any little ones behind, at least none that anybody claimed were his).

 But those day, those twenty years before days of his youth had long passed. Since then, after he got back to the “real world,” made a few minor, and a couple of major ( a small drug and drinking habit twelve-stepped away), adjustments he settled down, married his high school sweetheart (both Mansfield South High Class of 1967), got a decent job selling insurance for a major company, got that white picket fence house, complete with three kids and a dog, and a couple of years ago a divorce when things went south in that “last forever” marriage. It wasn’t anybody’s fault or maybe it was both their faults for having stayed together too long when it was pretty clear early on that whatever high school dreams they had shared had been lost in the rice paddies of Vietnam, or maybe, better, Tu Do Street and the dreams. Bob, although toward the end of the marriage had refused to continue to argue about it, was unhappy in sex, unhappy that Beth, his high school sweetheart, had gotten “religion” about sex and only wanted to do the missionary position when they did it, which as such things inevitably go, was less and less frequently as soon as they decided that three kids were enough. Not an unusual story, almost commonplace in late 20^th century, early 21^st century America (and elsewhere too but let’s stick with America).                

Shortly after the divorce was finalized, maybe a couple of months later, Bob was send by his company to an international insurance conference in San Francisco and there he began to get an old time urge, an urge he had not felt since Tu Do Street days to check out the prostitutes, uh, sex workers, and see if they were as inventive in America as they were back then in Saigon. Sure, like a million guys, and keep this under your hat because it might affect the divorce settlement terms, Jesus, he had a couple of very short affairs while he was married (one, a short fling with one of Beth’s friends who knew the Kama Sutra and it love positions backwards and forward and was not afraid to tease him with that fact. And to teach him a few things like those by-gone, long-gone Saigon girls). Who would have thought that about a cloistered Mansfield, Ohio woman, married too.). But that was behind the bushes stuff after a night of hard drinking and soft-core exploration, maybe an off- center motel fifty miles from town stuff with some bar met woman, freebie stuff in any case.

What he wanted, what he was craving was to be with a paid woman. Of course it was easy on Tu Do Street all you had to do was look in some window or across some street see what you liked and made your short, or long, arrangements. And once you were “connected” into the “life” you could specialize, depending on your whim. It was all there for American soldiers with scrip, the real coin of the realm (that connection stuff was real too because that was how he hooked into the white girls, and an occasional black girl too, the ex-USO “hostesses.” Some of them, maybe because they were far from home, or wanted to make a ton of money were ready to do anything, anything on a stray G.I.’s mind. One woman who “entertained” him, and who shall remain nameless, later used her money to start her own company when she got back home and was now well thought of in the CEO world.).

But here in America, even in Barbary Coast history Frisco town, it wasn’t like a man, at least a man who had a certain position to protect (and that damn alimony to pay); it wasn’t like you could go onto Bay Street or Mission maybe and snap your fingers like in old Saigon, not if you weren’t connected.  So he checked out a newspaper, what they called in the old 1960s days an alternative newspaper, The San Francisco Bay Other, which had long since turned into a front for sex ads, for “personals.” You know, “sexy busty teenager seeks, desperately seeks, a momentary sugar daddy for a mature relationship beneficial to both parties.” Stuff like that, usually “trade puffing” since what you got may, or may not be, sexy, busty, or a teenager. So he searched, called a couple of numbers, and finally reached a valid working number with a woman’s voice behind it. Her ad had been straight forward enough as such things go and so he made arrangements for a meet at her “place” (he wasn’t taking chances on having her come to the hotel not with many, too many, known associates around), a place on Geary over by the beach, by the old Sutro Baths. The instructions were to call that number again when he got to Geary and she would give him further directions. He did so, called, and went as directed to an older Spanish adobe dwelling (plentiful in Frisco town, some old some young, depending on which earthquake they did, or didn’t, survive).

An oriental girl, Chinese, although Frisco is filled to the brim with every Asian nationality, petite, young, and kind of shy answered the door for Doug (the name Bob gave over the phone) and he thought for just a minute that he was back on Tu Do Street except the money was dollars, the place was fifty times cleaner than any place he had flopped in Saigon, and she was less, far less experienced that those Tu Do Street girls. Even the fresh dew country peasant girls once they had a taste of the city, and of the life. Still she knew enough, enough to do what he asked, nothing kinky but also nothing his ex-wife would have done to make him a little happy by doingmade by doing, did it well, if not expertly and smiled as he left. As he walked down the street to his car, and back to his hotel he thought, he might give her another call tomorrow if he had time. He thought too maybe he would score some dope, some grass or coke, if he could make that “connection” and maybe she could bring back some Tu Do Street dreams …