Diamond Lake

Joe Greene had been Joe Greene for so long that he really thought that he was Joe Greene- - Most of the time anyway.

He’d lain beside a buddy in a Nam rice paddy one night, made long by the sounds that weren’t made by his team or by the gut-shot water buffalo walking in ever smaller circles somewhere off to his left.

“There ain’t never going to be another Joe Greene.” His buddy said.

“How come?” The one called Padre asked.

“I’m the last one of my family.”

“So go home and screw something.”

“I ain’t goin’ home; I’m dyin’. Goin’ numb. Can’t feel my feet any more.”

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 kids for me.” He’d quit talking long enough that Padre had thought that he was gone.

Then he went on a bit, “Name them both Joe Greene.”

“Both kids?”

“Yeah. If you lose the ‘e’ on Joe, the name fits a split tail; a swingin’ dick, leave the ‘e’ on.”

“Okay. He’d said, because you say ‘okay’ to a dyin’ buddies 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 motto that wasn’t his either. It was written on a faded card, encased in plastic, that he carried in his wallet.