e
V.
A. promised.
Papers
stack, lost, found, scatter…
Over
the years, trips to the library…
Libraries
no longer hold book shelves.
He has no access to internet.
He lives by mountains
that touch Riverside
(there is no river; but that's another story.)
Documents due.
“Three
hundred eleven pages, count them twice,” Dan asks the boy at Kinko’s.
Pay
for copies (machine at the public library is broken.)
Boy says, “It’s cheaper to mail U S Post than Fed Ex.”
“No
car,” he shakes his head.
Dan
doesn’t explain license was lost driving his wife
to the doctor with
expired tags in an off road car.
Duplicates
mailed.
It takes three bus transfers and five miles walking on a swollen knee.
His
ear rings with cicadas. Spinning to locate the buzz; there are no bugs, flies sit on hamburger wrappers. A Carl’s Jr ad logan reads: " Support Veterans. " The space on each side of the letters
aches his bad teeth, as when biting into the paper wrapper. Greasy paper lacks the meat of burger.
Decembers counted.
At
the office in Long Beach in the spring, he inquires about the package. Interview set in
three months. A Veteran’s Affairs intern decides his life.
Deliriums repeated.
That day, he’s up at 3:00 AM to ride the bus again. A familiar track keeps ghosts from muttering about Vietnam. These thoughts he sunk in a muddy puddle of his mind.
Three chairs are filled in the lobby of the V A office. Twenty
one men wait in line.
In
the interview room at a wooden table, a young woman looks over her computer.
“Have
a seat. Please get out two forms of I.D.”
He
shuffles for his California ID as she types.
“There
are one hundred questions. Answer promptly to get the interview closed
on time.”
He
nods. She asks questions about years of service, employment and familial status.
“What
is the one incident you recall as being traumatic?”
He
thinks of hundreds jumbled together. He cannot pull one into a brief story.
“There
are so many.”
“One
please.” She says not looking at him.
He
summarizes Chu Lai. Operation Starlight sounds cheerful in battle
history but being shot, pulling a buddy, finding him missing legs
doesn’t make him smile towards the end of the tale.
“Why
did you not file before?”
“Shame,”
his answer is one word.
After
forty minutes she announces, “Thank you, that is all.”
Dismissals granted.
As he closes the door behind, he wonders about the men lined
up in the lobby. Useless almond trees become firewood. The image uproots his
emotions. Now outside, a hot rush of tears waters his cheeks.
“Should
have let her see…” He clears his face with his sleeve.
On
the walk home there is a mirror balloon, now missing the helium, caught near
the bus stop. He examines it hoping for a sign. A birthday wish sent to heaven, now fallen in his way. Objects foretell events, this is a good omen. Perhaps he passed the test.
Tree roots photograph and poetry copyright Caroline Gerardo June 20, 2016
I've been thinking about Lt Col Ben Pollard. This story is not about him. I wore his Vietnam MIA silver bracelet in my High School years. After years of captivity and torture he did come home. He now lives in California. I often keep him in my prayers. To all those who serve for our freedom, thank you. Did you wear one of those? I lost mine long ago, but not the memory
