Diamond Lake

by Dave Mead

Joe Greene had been Joe Greene for so long he really thought he was Joe Greene. Most of the time anyway. He’d lain beside a buddy in a Nam rice paddy one night—made longer by sounds that weren’t made by his team or by the gut-shot water buffalo walking in circles somewhere off to their left. "There’s ain’t never gonna be another Joe Greene," his buddy said. "How come?" the one called "Padre" asked. "I’m the last of my family." "So go home and screw something." "I ain’t goin’ home; I’m dying." "How do you figger that?" "Goin’ numb. Can’t feel my feet anymore." Padre hadn’t told him that was because he didn’t have any feet—or legs either. "Padre, do me a favor?" "Name it." "Take my name, an live long enough to make a couple of kids for me," he quit talking long enough that Padre thought he was gone. Then he went on for a bit. "Name ‘em Joe Greene." "Both kids?" "Yeah. If you lose the ‘e’ on ‘Joe’ the name fits a split tail; a swinging dick, leave the ‘e’ on. "Okay," he said, because you say "okay" to a dyin’ buddy’s last request. Especially if you’re laying in a rice paddy and don’t want the bad omen of not agreeing. So Joe Greene lived on. Besides a name that wasn’t his was a motto that wasn’t his either. It was written on a faded card, encased in plastic, that he carried in his wallet. It said, "Life is a test,
Just a test.
If this were a real life,
You would have been instructed
On where to go and what to do."

278 pages, Paperback

First published October 1, 2002