His shirt was torn, his jeans were dirty, his canvas running shoes had holes. An old avocado green sweater hung on his stooped shoulders. Gray bushy eyebrows concealed his eyes; when he took a drag on his unfiltered Camel I saw he had almost no teeth. Hunched over as if trying to make himself as small as possible, he still took up most of the bus seat across from me. I opened my book to create distance; he looked directly at me. Why are you reading that? Reflexively, I too looked at my book, The Best and the Brightest, and explained that I was reading it for a paper I was writing about the Vietnam War. A ghost crossed between us. His shoulders straightened. Oh yeah? he rasped. What have you learned about the War? Unsure how to answer, I began, He suddenly leaned forward, startling me so I slammed my book shut. Thats what they were fighting for, he hissed. I felt shocked, confused, even scared. I stared down at his filthy shoes, and saw...jungle boots, muddied by red dust, legs clad in olive drab fatigues, worn but clean, and looking up, an olive drab T-shirt covered by a flak jacket, web belt with various metal objects carefully distributed. Dog tags hung from a chain around his neck, covered with tape so they wouldn1t sound, and finally looking into his face, a young warrior with disheveled brown hair, mustache, bushy brown eyebrows, and eyes of clear brown, watching me intently, waiting for me to answer. Long moments later, locked in his gaze, I resorted to the truth. You were fighting for each other, I said slowly, He nodded, and the brown eyes again softened into fogginess, his shoulders shrank in, his bare feet showed through the tattered shoes, and the ghosts closed in around him. I opened my book and pretended to read, but instead of words, I saw graves. C. Roberts 4/11/99 |
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