Originally published on Pangyrus 12 September 2025
Not the elevator. I don’t like enclosed spaces. Instead, each morning, I climb the four flights of dark angular stairs, up and up the cinder block stairwell, until I emerge from semi-darkness into the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, my gray metal desk one of several at A.G. VARO Employment.
Immediately to the right sits Mitchell Reed, a large anxious man. Twenty years my senior, he shuns my service dog.
“Good morning, Mitch.”
He shrugs, attends to his paperwork.
Behind Reed sits fifty-year-old Hank Cole. He is slender, with dark expressive eyes. When not with an applicant he tends to fuss and complain. He rarely expresses good cheer. It is all part of an act. To rile us up. Gain our attention. Make Hank feel important. To worsen matters, he puns obsessively. Once baited, the only reprieve is to query the punch line. All are dreadful.
Yesterday, in our cramped ill-lit lunchroom, nervously flitting about, “Steven,” he said, “As a child, what was Jack Kerouac’s favorite bedtime story?”
I didn’t know or care, but what choice did I have? I leveled myself to accept the challenge, aware that any reply would be fatal.
Reluctantly, “I give up, Hank. What?”
Gleefully Cole’s stubby fingers rattled the Formica table top. On these occasions, until he completes his silly ambush, what can I do to defend myself? Nothing. Nothing but wait for the rapture.
“Beauty and the Beats!” he finally said. “Get it?” He paused, his eye brows slanted in mock amends. “Get it?”
My God. Worse than awful. Like some dark creature a gardener pulled from the earth. But isn’t that the point? The more pitiful his patter, the more I or my colleagues cringe, the more satisfaction he obtains. Poor Hank Cole. With his neatly trimmed beard, polyester suites and clip- on ties, his regrettable use of aftershave.
Footsteps. I turn to look.
“Morning, Tito.”
“Buenos dias, Steven. Que tal?”
“Same old shit, brother.”
Tito Ramirez. I have known him for quite some time.
Reed looks up from his paperwork. “Hey, watch your language. Applicants in five minutes.”
I toss Reed my best salute. With the voice of authority I once held, “Yes, sir,” I reply.
Tito covers his mouth to conceal his ugly smile. A sniper’s bullet had shattered his jaw.
From the hallway leading to the office I hear the soft whine of ascending cables as the elevator travels up, up its concrete shaft. The rumbling doors slide backward, pause too long, mechanically rumble shut.
Moments later, “Morning, Tim.”
“Greetings.”
Tim Harrison removes his black leather coat with his good arm; deftly, he hangs it on a hook. As he walks to his desk, which is parallel to mine, Reed turns his thick neck in sideward glance. Cole mutters inaudibly. Nine o’clock. The first applicants begin to arrive.
Three years ago a man traversed the lunar landscape and took photographs. Planted a flag in lunar soil. Collected moon dust. Boarded his silver spaceship, flew a quarter million miles back to Earth. Good job, NASA. Well done. But A.G. VARO Employment in Silverton, Ohio is old school. “Place your VARO card here,” reads the hand-printed sign above the wire basket on the wobbly wood table near Reed’s metal desk. In endless rotation, Tito or Tim or Cole or I will pluck a card, call a name, seat the applicant beside our desk, scan jobs on our microfiche machines.
New job seekers fill out a salmon-colored application. Name, address, recent work history. To identify his work skills—nearly all our applicants are men—we consult the Dictionary of Occupational Titles. The two-volume 1970 DOT contains 12,000 job definitions grouped into nine categories. Each job has a nine-digit code. The higher the first three digits, the lower the skill level, and likely, minimum pay. Most General Laborer / 922.687.058 applicants make $3.50 an hour. A Light Truck Driver about the same. Our work is tedious, tiresome. There are too few openings; too many unemployed men.
To begin a job search I place a freshly arrived three-inch blue celluloid square between two corresponding glass plates, then methodically push a lever to scan the magnified new listings, which are projected onto a white screen. The crude boxy equipment takes up half my desk. Often, after a frustrating twenty-minute search, “I’m sorry,” I say to a hopeful man. “Nothing. Try back next week.”
When it rains, most applicants decline to walk the half mile to our office, located in a dying strip mall on the far side of town. Often, I use this time to read the DOTs more exotic professions. Submarine cargo inspector, 101.273.042. Wax museum sculptor, 099.483.882. Ventriloquist dummy assembler. Bowling alley pinsetter mechanic. For each title and its subdivisions, I’m fascinated by the wealth of knowledge required, the precise descriptions of technical expertise, the requisite interpersonal skills. Reading the aptitude for Clown, Circus or Carnival, I burst out laughing.
My first applicant today reminds me of Samuel Elrod. In Silverton, where jobs are scarce and muggers daily ply their trade, Samuel took the fast lane to full employment. Until he was captured and sentenced to eight years in federal prison, in one year Sam and his chrome-plated forty-five withdrew $300,000 from six local banks.
“Not bad for a few days’ work,” I said.
Samuel looked at me hard. In his husky Ohio voice, “That’s funny. But can you find me a fucking job?”
For eight years Samuel worked in penitentiary repair shops, learning MIG, TIG and spot welding. Handled-oxy-acetylene and propane torches. Learned to read schematics. Picked up carpentry and plumbing skills. After a time made trustee. Which meant that, as a perfect inmate, he worked outside the prison, though every night returned to his cell.
One day, he said, “I saw some bad shit, Mr. Lewis.”
By which he meant the Attica prison rebellion in ’71, where the inmates rioted against brutal living conditions. In the pandemonium scores were killed; ten cops by friendly fire.
“Police, prisoners, guards. Bodies everywhere.”
He helped with the wounded until he was shot.
Week after week, without realizing it, I began to care for this man, this reformed felon seeking a decent job in a moribund town. One day Samuel flourished three prison letters of commendation. I liked the man, but were they real?
“Impressive,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
It didn’t happen that first month. Or the second. Finally, on his tenth visit, as he sat before me, “Whoa. Will you look at that!”
“What is it, Mr. Lewis? You got something today?”
“I believe I do, Samuel. I believe I do.”
I filled out the paperwork and handed it to him. Watched as he leaned forward, his eyes brightening at the job description which he read aloud. The respectable pay. The steady hours.
I swallowed hard. “Give it your best.”
A week passed. Then a month. A letter arrived. He’d been hired as a building superintendent. Twelve dollars an hour, free apartment. “If you ever need me to fix something where you live, just call,” he wrote. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”
Not long afterward I did call Samuel. “I’ll be there tomorrow,” he said. Of course, he didn’t show up. Not that day. Not ever. I learned a valuable lesson: to forgive the sins of those I trust. Forgive them.
* * *
It must be the spring weather. I have worked extra hard these past two weeks. Stayed late. Leaned on bosses. Secretaries. HR. “Mr. Taylor, Steven Lewis here from VARO. I’ve got a man who drives tractor trailer. Yes, he’s got the CDL. 12 gears? No problem. Thank you, sir. He’s on his way.” “Mrs. Phelps, Steven Lewis from A.G. VARO. Calling about the handyman job. This fellow can paint, hang sheetrock, dry patch, lay tile, has his own tools. No, ma’am, he does not drink. Tomorrow, 3 o’clock? You got it.”
And so it went. Some hired. Some fired. Some disappeared. I have a good feeling about this month. I look forward to seeing what fruits my labor might bear. Every fourth Tuesday Reed reports the hires. Cole cannot wait to hear our results. It’s not the money, mind you. We work on commission and bonus. It’s how he gets respect.
“Tim…seven. Tito…five. Hank…a deliberate pause…nine.”
Elated, Cole holds his arms up and mimics the roar of a stadium crowd.
“I knew it! I knew it!” he shouts. Cowboy-like, thumbs shoved in high pockets, he struts about the white tile floor.
“T’aint nothing, boys. T’aint nothing at all.”
Expecting more good news, he winks at Reed, turns toward me.
“C’mon now, Steven, don’t spoil it. Chin up, buddy. Hey! Did you hear the one about the jockey and the race horse?”
All I want are my numbers. Nothing more. Nothing less. But who can resist a Hank Cole pun on a day like today?
“No, Hank. I haven’t heard it. Tell me. Please. I can’t wait.”
“Well,” he said, jauntily, “what did the race horse jockey shout after his favorite thoroughbred trampled to death and swallowed the racetrack veterinarian?”
Tim rolled his eyes. Tito shook his head.
As if I were baffled, my voice ardent, pleading, “I give up, Hank. What? What did he say?”
Reed snapped his fingers impatiently.
“He said…he said, ‘Is there a doctor in the horse?’ ”
Just why do we laugh at jokes? What hidden laws guide us to chuckle at the quixotic? To find the macabre comical? What silly magic tricks us to belly laugh? Oh, for Christ’s sake, who cares! All good jokes are clever, playful, fun to behold. They lighten our sorrows. Uplift our hearts. I myself prefer comedy that pokes fun at pain. Humor most foul. And today, at A.G. VARO Employment Service, purveyors of fine menial work, our own Hank Cole, a man of far too many words, has finally managed to make me laugh. Tim and Tito as well. Catching my breath, “Hank, that was wonderful. Really. Did you make it up?” Before he can answer,
Reed announces my numbers.
“Steven…fourteen.”
Cole is stunned. Nearly grief stricken. His eyes bulge from his head. “What’s that you say, Mitchell? Are your sure that’s right?” Now it’s my turn to rejoice. I begin to jog in place. To shadow box. My swift shadow punches nearly clip Reed’s jaw. With vigor I pantomime running up, up, up those steep Philly steps, twice circle the beloved statue, its gloved fists raised in triumph. I wink at Tim. At Tito. They take the hint, in tandem cheer the hero’s name. But where is she?
In frantic puzzlement I shout, “Adrian! Adrian!”
Tim steps forward, crazily waves his one good arm. “Rocky!” he shouts.
We rush to each other in a passionate three-arm embrace. “That’s enough!” shouts Reed. “Knock it off. Let’s go, now. You heard me. Back to work.”
With the bonus money I decided to rent a cabin in the mountains near Diamond Lake. For three days—just me and the dog—I’d walk the trails, fly fish for trout, cook hearty campfire meals. Far from Silverton’s clamor, I’d sleep well at night. No dreams where I’m surrounded by Viet Cong, and my rifle jams and I wake up screaming. The nights I do blow them away—mind you, it’s never women.
Before leaving the office, I cornered Reed. My voice was not pleasant. “Tito and Cole are out sick. It’s just Tim,” I said. “All right. All right. I’ll have the main branch send Mills. Happy now?” In my calmest voice, “Thanks, Mitch.” How could he know what this meant to me? With the dog at my side, I offered my hand but he would not take it.
* * *
There is an abiding self-possession about Tim. Sometimes the pills for phantom pain work; other times, Tim must bull through what his brain and spinal cord signal to emptiness. His torments are invisible. It was such a natural thing, how it happened, and Tim has no recollection except in a cloudy way.
He, Tito, and I crouched against each other inside the narrow APC, the rear hatch our one escape. “Tracks” we called the six-wheeled, diesel-powered aluminum crates armed with a fifty-cal, clanking noisily through jungle. That night forty Viet Cong, armed with rockets and RPGs, exploded two tracks, killing the crews inside. The survivors panicked.
I loved my men, and punished them with love, ordering the wounded to mount the remaining vehicles, form them up lengthwise. On my signal we sped forward, engines roaring, machine guns blasting all in our path. Afterward, Tim and Tito and I recovered from our wounds in the same hospital ward. Ever since, we have been inseparable.
Sometimes I want to shout to my brothers, wake up! Why don’t we just leave this rotten town. Leave VARO. The hell with rent and bills and 9 to 5. Why don’t we shove the whole fucking mess down a fucking cliff? Why don’t we do that, brothers? But will they listen to me? What I want from them is simple enough. Brothers, I am shouting, why don’t we gear up and go back? You heard me. Go back and kick ass, take names later! Wouldn’t that be great? Speak up!
What’s that you say? Where? What about the ville where Captain Groves stepped on a mine and lost both legs? What about the well-used trail where a sniper gave Tito his first Purple Heart? Or the hundred leech-filled rivers we crossed and re-crossed a thousand times. Or the red dirt hills and valleys we climbed and trudged day after day and night. We were hunters, brothers. Hunted by human beings. You remember that, don’t you? That fear. That dread. That super excitement each time it happened: we walk into them. They walk into us. Rockets and mortars and sapper attacks. Medic! and screams and orders to advance…and you did that. You, my wonderful men, did that.
Remember what? Defend freedom? Oh, bullshit. Who cared about right and wrong? Who cared how much we wrecked that country? Tore it apart. Fled like jackals. Why don’t we do it, brothers? Gear up! Go back! Make things right! But then I look at them. Look in the mirror. Three broken down vets, old before our time. Was it worth it, lieutenant? The whole goddamn war. Was it worth it? Who am I kidding?
* * *
Reed may be a prick but I trust him. When Tim said Mills from the main office never showed up, that he saw twenty-two men a day, in that moment, beneath the dome of my armored skull something went wild. Forgetting my dog, which sat obedient unless commanded, I cornered Reed, shouted loud angry words, waited for his reply. The large man stood up from his desk, his eyes narrowed, his mouth widened to a sneer.
“You think you’re hot shit, don’t you Lewis? You and your Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts. You think you know how to run an outfit, don’t you? Look at me. I don’t care who you are, what you’ve got or how you got it. This is not Vietnam, soldier boy, and you are not in charge. I am. Have I made myself clear? One arm. One leg. I could care less. A.G. VARO finds men jobs. That’s our bread and butter. Now, you and the other two cripples—get back to work.”
To crush Reed’s throat with my clawed fingers, or gouge his eyes with my rigid thumbs, or drop him cold with an upper cut, would have been too easy. Too lenient. I recall grabbing Reed by his shoulders. Thrusting him hard against a wall. Slapping his ruddy face once, twice, three times. I remember a familiar voice shouting, “Take that back! That’s an order! Take it back!” I recall my obedient heart pounding inside my livid skull. That voice. That command voice shouting, “Take that back!”
Hands upon me. Pulling me away. Tito insisting, “It’s over, lieutenant. Let him go.” My own hands easing up, I watched Reed slide down, down that godforsaken wall, slump at last to a half-sitting, half-fetal position, only to prop himself up sideways, sprawled, placid it seemed, like the great Reclining Buddha at Wat Pho. But he began to sob and gasp, to weep and bawl, keening like a beaten child. Poor little Reed. I could not contain myself. Even Tim was stunned by how long and loud I laughed. Mind you, I could not stop laughing. Why is that?
As if in a dream, the dog at my side, I remember walking away, not looking back, hoping, knowing that Tito and Tim were right behind me.
________________
top photo: 3rd squad, 3rd platoon, Delta 1/7 Cav digs a bunker on LZ Compton. Left to right front row: Shake’N Bake Larry Johnson (WIA Cambodia), Ernie Novak, Mark S. Back row: Jim Lamb, Tom Cleland, Bill Williams (KIA). An Loc 1969. Photo / collection of Ernie Novak.
Men at Work
Originally published on Pangyrus 12 September 2025
Immediately to the right sits Mitchell Reed, a large anxious man. Twenty years my senior, he shuns my service dog.
“Good morning, Mitch.”
He shrugs, attends to his paperwork.
Behind Reed sits fifty-year-old Hank Cole. He is slender, with dark expressive eyes. When not with an applicant he tends to fuss and complain. He rarely expresses good cheer. It is all part of an act. To rile us up. Gain our attention. Make Hank feel important. To worsen matters, he puns obsessively. Once baited, the only reprieve is to query the punch line. All are dreadful.
Yesterday, in our cramped ill-lit lunchroom, nervously flitting about, “Steven,” he said, “As a child, what was Jack Kerouac’s favorite bedtime story?”
I didn’t know or care, but what choice did I have? I leveled myself to accept the challenge, aware that any reply would be fatal.
Reluctantly, “I give up, Hank. What?”
Gleefully Cole’s stubby fingers rattled the Formica table top. On these occasions, until he completes his silly ambush, what can I do to defend myself? Nothing. Nothing but wait for the rapture.
“Beauty and the Beats!” he finally said. “Get it?” He paused, his eye brows slanted in mock amends. “Get it?”
My God. Worse than awful. Like some dark creature a gardener pulled from the earth. But isn’t that the point? The more pitiful his patter, the more I or my colleagues cringe, the more satisfaction he obtains. Poor Hank Cole. With his neatly trimmed beard, polyester suites and clip- on ties, his regrettable use of aftershave.
Footsteps. I turn to look.
“Morning, Tito.”
“Buenos dias, Steven. Que tal?”
“Same old shit, brother.”
Tito Ramirez. I have known him for quite some time.
Reed looks up from his paperwork. “Hey, watch your language. Applicants in five minutes.”
I toss Reed my best salute. With the voice of authority I once held, “Yes, sir,” I reply.
Tito covers his mouth to conceal his ugly smile. A sniper’s bullet had shattered his jaw.
From the hallway leading to the office I hear the soft whine of ascending cables as the elevator travels up, up its concrete shaft. The rumbling doors slide backward, pause too long, mechanically rumble shut.
Moments later, “Morning, Tim.”
“Greetings.”
Tim Harrison removes his black leather coat with his good arm; deftly, he hangs it on a hook. As he walks to his desk, which is parallel to mine, Reed turns his thick neck in sideward glance. Cole mutters inaudibly. Nine o’clock. The first applicants begin to arrive.
New job seekers fill out a salmon-colored application. Name, address, recent work history. To identify his work skills—nearly all our applicants are men—we consult the Dictionary of Occupational Titles. The two-volume 1970 DOT contains 12,000 job definitions grouped into nine categories. Each job has a nine-digit code. The higher the first three digits, the lower the skill level, and likely, minimum pay. Most General Laborer / 922.687.058 applicants make $3.50 an hour. A Light Truck Driver about the same. Our work is tedious, tiresome. There are too few openings; too many unemployed men.
To begin a job search I place a freshly arrived three-inch blue celluloid square between two corresponding glass plates, then methodically push a lever to scan the magnified new listings, which are projected onto a white screen. The crude boxy equipment takes up half my desk. Often, after a frustrating twenty-minute search, “I’m sorry,” I say to a hopeful man. “Nothing. Try back next week.”
My first applicant today reminds me of Samuel Elrod. In Silverton, where jobs are scarce and muggers daily ply their trade, Samuel took the fast lane to full employment. Until he was captured and sentenced to eight years in federal prison, in one year Sam and his chrome-plated forty-five withdrew $300,000 from six local banks.
“Not bad for a few days’ work,” I said.
Samuel looked at me hard. In his husky Ohio voice, “That’s funny. But can you find me a fucking job?”
For eight years Samuel worked in penitentiary repair shops, learning MIG, TIG and spot welding. Handled-oxy-acetylene and propane torches. Learned to read schematics. Picked up carpentry and plumbing skills. After a time made trustee. Which meant that, as a perfect inmate, he worked outside the prison, though every night returned to his cell.
One day, he said, “I saw some bad shit, Mr. Lewis.”
By which he meant the Attica prison rebellion in ’71, where the inmates rioted against brutal living conditions. In the pandemonium scores were killed; ten cops by friendly fire.
“Police, prisoners, guards. Bodies everywhere.”
Week after week, without realizing it, I began to care for this man, this reformed felon seeking a decent job in a moribund town. One day Samuel flourished three prison letters of commendation. I liked the man, but were they real?
“Impressive,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
It didn’t happen that first month. Or the second. Finally, on his tenth visit, as he sat before me, “Whoa. Will you look at that!”
“What is it, Mr. Lewis? You got something today?”
“I believe I do, Samuel. I believe I do.”
I filled out the paperwork and handed it to him. Watched as he leaned forward, his eyes brightening at the job description which he read aloud. The respectable pay. The steady hours.
I swallowed hard. “Give it your best.”
A week passed. Then a month. A letter arrived. He’d been hired as a building superintendent. Twelve dollars an hour, free apartment. “If you ever need me to fix something where you live, just call,” he wrote. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”
Not long afterward I did call Samuel. “I’ll be there tomorrow,” he said. Of course, he didn’t show up. Not that day. Not ever. I learned a valuable lesson: to forgive the sins of those I trust. Forgive them.
* * *
It must be the spring weather. I have worked extra hard these past two weeks. Stayed late. Leaned on bosses. Secretaries. HR. “Mr. Taylor, Steven Lewis here from VARO. I’ve got a man who drives tractor trailer. Yes, he’s got the CDL. 12 gears? No problem. Thank you, sir. He’s on his way.” “Mrs. Phelps, Steven Lewis from A.G. VARO. Calling about the handyman job. This fellow can paint, hang sheetrock, dry patch, lay tile, has his own tools. No, ma’am, he does not drink. Tomorrow, 3 o’clock? You got it.”
And so it went. Some hired. Some fired. Some disappeared. I have a good feeling about this month. I look forward to seeing what fruits my labor might bear. Every fourth Tuesday Reed reports the hires. Cole cannot wait to hear our results. It’s not the money, mind you. We work on commission and bonus. It’s how he gets respect.
“Tim…seven. Tito…five. Hank…a deliberate pause…nine.”
Elated, Cole holds his arms up and mimics the roar of a stadium crowd.
“I knew it! I knew it!” he shouts. Cowboy-like, thumbs shoved in high pockets, he struts about the white tile floor.
“T’aint nothing, boys. T’aint nothing at all.”
Expecting more good news, he winks at Reed, turns toward me.
“C’mon now, Steven, don’t spoil it. Chin up, buddy. Hey! Did you hear the one about the jockey and the race horse?”
All I want are my numbers. Nothing more. Nothing less. But who can resist a Hank Cole pun on a day like today?
“No, Hank. I haven’t heard it. Tell me. Please. I can’t wait.”
“Well,” he said, jauntily, “what did the race horse jockey shout after his favorite thoroughbred trampled to death and swallowed the racetrack veterinarian?”
Tim rolled his eyes. Tito shook his head.
As if I were baffled, my voice ardent, pleading, “I give up, Hank. What? What did he say?”
Reed snapped his fingers impatiently.
“He said…he said, ‘Is there a doctor in the horse?’ ”
Just why do we laugh at jokes? What hidden laws guide us to chuckle at the quixotic? To find the macabre comical? What silly magic tricks us to belly laugh? Oh, for Christ’s sake, who cares! All good jokes are clever, playful, fun to behold. They lighten our sorrows. Uplift our hearts. I myself prefer comedy that pokes fun at pain. Humor most foul. And today, at A.G. VARO Employment Service, purveyors of fine menial work, our own Hank Cole, a man of far too many words, has finally managed to make me laugh. Tim and Tito as well. Catching my breath, “Hank, that was wonderful. Really. Did you make it up?” Before he can answer,
Reed announces my numbers.
“Steven…fourteen.”
Cole is stunned. Nearly grief stricken. His eyes bulge from his head. “What’s that you say, Mitchell? Are your sure that’s right?” Now it’s my turn to rejoice. I begin to jog in place. To shadow box. My swift shadow punches nearly clip Reed’s jaw. With vigor I pantomime running up, up, up those steep Philly steps, twice circle the beloved statue, its gloved fists raised in triumph. I wink at Tim. At Tito. They take the hint, in tandem cheer the hero’s name. But where is she?
In frantic puzzlement I shout, “Adrian! Adrian!”
Tim steps forward, crazily waves his one good arm. “Rocky!” he shouts.
We rush to each other in a passionate three-arm embrace. “That’s enough!” shouts Reed. “Knock it off. Let’s go, now. You heard me. Back to work.”
Before leaving the office, I cornered Reed. My voice was not pleasant. “Tito and Cole are out sick. It’s just Tim,” I said. “All right. All right. I’ll have the main branch send Mills. Happy now?” In my calmest voice, “Thanks, Mitch.” How could he know what this meant to me? With the dog at my side, I offered my hand but he would not take it.
* * *
There is an abiding self-possession about Tim. Sometimes the pills for phantom pain work; other times, Tim must bull through what his brain and spinal cord signal to emptiness. His torments are invisible. It was such a natural thing, how it happened, and Tim has no recollection except in a cloudy way.
He, Tito, and I crouched against each other inside the narrow APC, the rear hatch our one escape. “Tracks” we called the six-wheeled, diesel-powered aluminum crates armed with a fifty-cal, clanking noisily through jungle. That night forty Viet Cong, armed with rockets and RPGs, exploded two tracks, killing the crews inside. The survivors panicked.
I loved my men, and punished them with love, ordering the wounded to mount the remaining vehicles, form them up lengthwise. On my signal we sped forward, engines roaring, machine guns blasting all in our path. Afterward, Tim and Tito and I recovered from our wounds in the same hospital ward. Ever since, we have been inseparable.
Sometimes I want to shout to my brothers, wake up! Why don’t we just leave this rotten town. Leave VARO. The hell with rent and bills and 9 to 5. Why don’t we shove the whole fucking mess down a fucking cliff? Why don’t we do that, brothers? But will they listen to me? What I want from them is simple enough. Brothers, I am shouting, why don’t we gear up and go back? You heard me. Go back and kick ass, take names later! Wouldn’t that be great? Speak up!
What’s that you say? Where? What about the ville where Captain Groves stepped on a mine and lost both legs? What about the well-used trail where a sniper gave Tito his first Purple Heart? Or the hundred leech-filled rivers we crossed and re-crossed a thousand times. Or the red dirt hills and valleys we climbed and trudged day after day and night. We were hunters, brothers. Hunted by human beings. You remember that, don’t you? That fear. That dread. That super excitement each time it happened: we walk into them. They walk into us. Rockets and mortars and sapper attacks. Medic! and screams and orders to advance…and you did that. You, my wonderful men, did that.
Remember what? Defend freedom? Oh, bullshit. Who cared about right and wrong? Who cared how much we wrecked that country? Tore it apart. Fled like jackals. Why don’t we do it, brothers? Gear up! Go back! Make things right! But then I look at them. Look in the mirror. Three broken down vets, old before our time. Was it worth it, lieutenant? The whole goddamn war. Was it worth it? Who am I kidding?
* * *
Reed may be a prick but I trust him. When Tim said Mills from the main office never showed up, that he saw twenty-two men a day, in that moment, beneath the dome of my armored skull something went wild. Forgetting my dog, which sat obedient unless commanded, I cornered Reed, shouted loud angry words, waited for his reply. The large man stood up from his desk, his eyes narrowed, his mouth widened to a sneer.
“You think you’re hot shit, don’t you Lewis? You and your Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts. You think you know how to run an outfit, don’t you? Look at me. I don’t care who you are, what you’ve got or how you got it. This is not Vietnam, soldier boy, and you are not in charge. I am. Have I made myself clear? One arm. One leg. I could care less. A.G. VARO finds men jobs. That’s our bread and butter. Now, you and the other two cripples—get back to work.”
To crush Reed’s throat with my clawed fingers, or gouge his eyes with my rigid thumbs, or drop him cold with an upper cut, would have been too easy. Too lenient. I recall grabbing Reed by his shoulders. Thrusting him hard against a wall. Slapping his ruddy face once, twice, three times. I remember a familiar voice shouting, “Take that back! That’s an order! Take it back!” I recall my obedient heart pounding inside my livid skull. That voice. That command voice shouting, “Take that back!”
Hands upon me. Pulling me away. Tito insisting, “It’s over, lieutenant. Let him
go.” My own hands easing up, I watched Reed slide down, down that godforsaken wall, slump at last to a half-sitting, half-fetal position, only to prop himself up sideways, sprawled, placid it seemed, like the great Reclining Buddha at Wat Pho. But he began to sob and gasp, to weep and bawl, keening like a beaten child. Poor little Reed. I could not contain myself. Even Tim was stunned by how long and loud I laughed. Mind you, I could not stop laughing. Why is that?
As if in a dream, the dog at my side, I remember walking away, not looking back, hoping, knowing that Tito and Tim were right behind me.
________________
top photo: 3rd squad, 3rd platoon, Delta 1/7 Cav digs a bunker on LZ Compton. Left to right front row: Shake’N Bake Larry Johnson (WIA Cambodia), Ernie Novak, Mark S. Back row: Jim Lamb, Tom Cleland, Bill Williams (KIA). An Loc 1969. Photo / collection of Ernie Novak.