Colors of the Mountain Read Online Free Page A

dad came back from the Vietnam War.” He had the casual art of name-dropping down pat.
    “Your dad was in the war with the Americans?”
    “Sure, he has lots of medals and was at Ho Chi Minh City. White Americans. Okay, okay, okay.” He even spoke English.
    He studied the buckle carefully. A wall of classmates had gathered behind me, watching the exchange.
    “That belt has a little history to it,” he continued.
    “What history?”
    “My dad wore it in the war. It’s been hit a few times but it’s so strong and tough you can’t even see a dent. I’m talking the super-bullets from the American weapons.”
    I was sold on the spot. He became my best friend and we named him “Mr. Buckle.” He took the nickname in stride.
    I showed him around the seedy part of town, the bushy burial grounds where the ghosts roamed, named all the dogs he should watch out for, and warned him about the dangerous spots to avoid. I pointed out fruit trees that were safe to steal from and helped him with his homework as part of my duty as the class monitor. He, in turn, let meuse his buckle. Then he took to wearing his dad’s army uniform to our house in the morning, and we would exchange our clothes. I wore his green jacket with the neat cartridge pockets, his dad’s oversized boots, and a marvelous army hat. I tromped around the school like an idiot, feeling great. I imitated the nasal accent of a general and talked with my head high and hands resting on my belt. The afternoon stories in the orchard soon all had something to do with the Vietnam War. It was much easier to create a story wearing the right costume. I told the stories, spoke the lines, and acted at the same time. My friends, including Mr. Buckle, laughed, cried, and cheered until they peed their pants.
    But I still felt small twinges of jealousy. He was the only boy who dared cross that invisible line, and spoke openly to girls in class. They squirmed in his presence. They loved to be with him, but were shy, a sign of captivation. But as our friendship deepened, my admiration for him grew. I watched his moves closely. He looked moody in class, and had this way of focusing on your eyes when he talked to you. He walked tall, staring straight ahead. Confidence emanated from him. When he smiled, he didn’t open his mouth from ear to ear like an idiot, but tantalized you with a glimpse of white teeth. When you asked him a question, he knotted his brow into an intelligent frown. The guy wrote the book on proper body language.
    One day Mr. Buckle formally invited me to visit his home. I tagged along and found myself standing before the threshold of a grand town house near the hospital. His dad was a retired hero from the war and was now the party secretary of the hospital, enjoying a hero’s retirement at an early age. The door of the house opened suddenly, and there stood Mr. Buckle, senior. Tall and handsome, a man’s man. He had a big smile, large eyes, and thick eyebrows, a picture-perfect hero. It was obvious where the son had gotten his good looks.
    “Come on in, Da.” The father even knew my name.
    “Thank you.” I extended my right hand but he didn’t take it. Instead, he smiled and said, “Sorry, I got no hands left to shake yours. Hey, why don’t you shake my shoulder.” He leaned over, letting his two empty sleeves dangle, and waited for me to shake his broad shoulder.
    I was so shocked at his armlessness that I stood there unmoving.
    “That’s okay, Dad. I don’t think they practice shoulder-shaking in Yellow Stone.”
    “All right, then. Let’s cut the ceremony and have some cookies and candy.”
    “Dad, we’re not babies anymore. Let me show the guy around, okay? I think he has seen enough of you.”
    Father and son bantered back and forth like a couple of drinking buddies, while I stood by in deep shock. For Buddha’s sake, the perfect hero had no arms. My heart was saddened. Like a lost soul, I followed Buckle around the house and the hospital.