Susan Birkeland: Lone Gunman Theory 	

Again, I dreamt I was on leave in Saigon, fresh from the jungle, 
prowling through streets lined with roving packs of hungry soldiers,
 stump limbed civilians, the usual jam up of rickshaws and bicycles, 
an assortment of hookers and junkies slouching around. The war 
was over and people had adapted to their limbless habits and 
conditions. This seemed a little bit odd since I was fresh out of a 
war zone. I'm telling myself to relax, that I have a long stretch of 
leave out in front of me. I can't remember when I'm expected back 
at the base, but since I don't know how long I have determined to 
enjoy myself. Then, like always, I come upon the Buddhist. His 
eyes arekind and certain. He's dressed in orange robes, but this 
time he has a purple tie around his waist and his hair is cut short 
with an open patch in the middle. I think, he's "a Benedictine 
Buddhist," and I feel relieved because Catholics believe suicide is 
a sin. But again he dowses himself in gasoline. I'm calling out ? 
"YOU CAN'T DO THAT!" but he doesn't answer. His eyes are 
smooth as brown agates. He bows, waiting for me to return 
his salutation. I know that's his signal to light the match, yet not to 
bow would be a terrible insult. Finally, I bow and he bursts into 
flames.

"Enough," I thought upon waking, "I'm going."

I flipped a coin - heads go east, tails go west. It was heads. I was 
out of the house an hour before sun up.