Leave No One Behind
J. L. HIGGS
There’d been nothing salvageable in the rusting green dumpster. Emerging from the back alley, Wayne heard someone screaming. The sound ripped through his brain, causing images of exploding rounds to flash through his mind. He dashed to the nearest doorway and flattened his body within its shallow frame. His eyes swept upward. No tangos on the rooftops. He peered around the edge of the door frame. A hostile and a friendly, engaged in hand-to-hand a block away.
Heart racing, he darted from the doorway, the voice in his head saying, stay low. Running crouched, his worn-out combat boots clomped loudly on the street’s cobblestones. No possibility of surprise.
Nearing the combatants, Wayne’s toe clipped the upraised corner of a stone. He sprawled to the ground, the coarse stones scraping and slicing his palms. Suppressing the sudden pain, he hustled back to his feet. Only one combatant remained, lying on the ground in a fetal position.
His adrenaline rush fading, Wayne approached carefully.
“You OK?” he asked, his fingertips barely touching the person.
A startling scream jolted him into reality. Squeezing his eyes shut and covering his ears, he heard the voice in his head say, breathe. Just breathe.
Body shaking, Wayne opened his eyes. He leaned forward, took the person’s two small brown hands in his and pried them apart. It was a kid. Magnified by goggle-like eyeglasses, his chocolate colored eyes looked huge. Maintaining eye contact, Wayne straightened the young boy’s glasses on his face.
As the kid wiped tears and snot onto his jacket's sleeve, Wayne lifted him to a sitting position.
“What'd he get?”
The kid hesitated, his mouth hanging open.
“Mu paypuh monty,” he finally said.
Wayne shook his head and adjusted the wool caps covering his greasy, shoulder-length, graying blonde hair. Suddenly, he was hurtling backward. A sledgehammer-sized black fist slammed into his face. His nose and mouth exploded, gushing blood as he fell. He felt himself being dragged, stones pummeling his lower back. Another fist roared at him. He threw up a forearm, deflecting it. His attacker was a black man the size of an NFL lineman, eyes blazing with fury. The man cocked his arm to unleash another blow, then stopped as the kid’s screams pierced through his anger.
“What the hell is wrong with you,” yelled Wayne, spitting and spraying blood as he got to his feet.
“I thought...”
“Christ, I was trying to help the kid,” said Wayne, blood dripping from his scruffy chin. He yanked the torn shoulder of his jacket closed, covering a Semper Fi tattoo. “Some asshole mugged him.”
“Tuk mi monty.” croaked the young boy.
“Sorry,” said the mountain-sized man. “I saw Freddy... and you… and… well... You OK, Freddy?” He looked at the kid and placed a paw-like hand on his shoulder.
“See, we both work for the paper and…” Turning, the big man spotted Wayne halfway down the block. “Yo man,” he yelled. “You OK? I'm sorry.”
Without breaking stride, Wayne gestured go away.
Heart racing, he darted from the doorway, the voice in his head saying, stay low. Running crouched, his worn-out combat boots clomped loudly on the street’s cobblestones. No possibility of surprise.
Nearing the combatants, Wayne’s toe clipped the upraised corner of a stone. He sprawled to the ground, the coarse stones scraping and slicing his palms. Suppressing the sudden pain, he hustled back to his feet. Only one combatant remained, lying on the ground in a fetal position.
His adrenaline rush fading, Wayne approached carefully.
“You OK?” he asked, his fingertips barely touching the person.
A startling scream jolted him into reality. Squeezing his eyes shut and covering his ears, he heard the voice in his head say, breathe. Just breathe.
Body shaking, Wayne opened his eyes. He leaned forward, took the person’s two small brown hands in his and pried them apart. It was a kid. Magnified by goggle-like eyeglasses, his chocolate colored eyes looked huge. Maintaining eye contact, Wayne straightened the young boy’s glasses on his face.
As the kid wiped tears and snot onto his jacket's sleeve, Wayne lifted him to a sitting position.
“What'd he get?”
The kid hesitated, his mouth hanging open.
“Mu paypuh monty,” he finally said.
Wayne shook his head and adjusted the wool caps covering his greasy, shoulder-length, graying blonde hair. Suddenly, he was hurtling backward. A sledgehammer-sized black fist slammed into his face. His nose and mouth exploded, gushing blood as he fell. He felt himself being dragged, stones pummeling his lower back. Another fist roared at him. He threw up a forearm, deflecting it. His attacker was a black man the size of an NFL lineman, eyes blazing with fury. The man cocked his arm to unleash another blow, then stopped as the kid’s screams pierced through his anger.
“What the hell is wrong with you,” yelled Wayne, spitting and spraying blood as he got to his feet.
“I thought...”
“Christ, I was trying to help the kid,” said Wayne, blood dripping from his scruffy chin. He yanked the torn shoulder of his jacket closed, covering a Semper Fi tattoo. “Some asshole mugged him.”
“Tuk mi monty.” croaked the young boy.
“Sorry,” said the mountain-sized man. “I saw Freddy... and you… and… well... You OK, Freddy?” He looked at the kid and placed a paw-like hand on his shoulder.
“See, we both work for the paper and…” Turning, the big man spotted Wayne halfway down the block. “Yo man,” he yelled. “You OK? I'm sorry.”
Without breaking stride, Wayne gestured go away.
*
For weeks Freddy searched the city’s semi-deserted streets for his rescuer. Finally, one frosty morning, as he made his way to the newspaper’s distribution office, he saw Wayne. He was wrapped in a gray blanket, asleep in a department store doorway.
Partially awake, Wayne heard approaching footsteps. His body tensed. Idiot, the voice in his head said, you knew this bullet-riddled wall was shit cover. Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot. He was trapped. The steps were getting closer. His heart boomed. Its sound was sure to give him away. Wait… wait... the voice said. Then he sprung. Eyes wide with terror, he shouted a warning and lunged for his M4. Nothing but cobblestones, concrete, and soot-blackened snow. He had no weapon, not even a survival knife.
Staring into the face of the kid who’d been robbed, a shiver ran through Wayne’s body. “Go away,” he said. He laid back down, closed his eyes, and pulled the scratchy blanket up under his chin.
A few minutes passed, then he sighed and opened one eye. The kid was still there, squatting beside him, his arms wrapped around his knees.
“What?… WHAT!” he snapped, jolting upright. Christ, no good deed goes unpunished, he thought.
“Tank q,” said Freddy.
Wayne frowned and shook his head. “Where's your hat?”
“Don... lyk... chats.”
“Don't like hats,” muttered Wayne, rummaging beneath the blanket. “It's bloody freezing. Put this on.” He shoved a wool cap into Freddy's hands.
Freddy pulled it on knocking his glasses askew. He grinned at Wayne. Then his expression turned gravely serious. “U homleth?” he asked.
“Homeless?” said Wayne, straightening the kid’s glasses. “Nah. I just like sleeping outdoors. Even got my pick of spots.” He gestured toward the storefronts lining the street.
Freddy’s eyebrows pinched together as he pursed his lips. Then he broke into a grin. “U tething me,” he said laughing, the sound echoing off the close-set brick buildings.
“Why u homleth?”
“Long story,” said Wayne, picking at the scabs on his palms. “Where you headed so early?”
“Wurq,” said Freddy with a firm nod.
“Papers?”
Freddy’s head continued bobbing, his puppy-like eyes humongous behind his glasses.
“Well,” said Wayne, “Guess we both better get moving.”
Freddy stood up and paused, gaining his balance. “Byk,” he said, lurching away with an awkward step slide motion.
“Hey, kid,” called out Wayne. “What's your name?”
Freddy stopped and turned around. “Frecky.”
“Wayne!” Wayne pointed to himself, the loosened scabs falling to the ground.
Wayne watched Freddy struggle over the uneven cobblestones like a wire walker. The exacting effort required to maintain balance on a razor-thin edge was intimately familiar. A single misstep meant plunging into the abyss.
As Freddy turned the corner and disappeared from view, Wayne settled himself under his blanket. Then he laid his head on the store doorway's concrete step and closed his eyes.
Partially awake, Wayne heard approaching footsteps. His body tensed. Idiot, the voice in his head said, you knew this bullet-riddled wall was shit cover. Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot. He was trapped. The steps were getting closer. His heart boomed. Its sound was sure to give him away. Wait… wait... the voice said. Then he sprung. Eyes wide with terror, he shouted a warning and lunged for his M4. Nothing but cobblestones, concrete, and soot-blackened snow. He had no weapon, not even a survival knife.
Staring into the face of the kid who’d been robbed, a shiver ran through Wayne’s body. “Go away,” he said. He laid back down, closed his eyes, and pulled the scratchy blanket up under his chin.
A few minutes passed, then he sighed and opened one eye. The kid was still there, squatting beside him, his arms wrapped around his knees.
“What?… WHAT!” he snapped, jolting upright. Christ, no good deed goes unpunished, he thought.
“Tank q,” said Freddy.
Wayne frowned and shook his head. “Where's your hat?”
“Don... lyk... chats.”
“Don't like hats,” muttered Wayne, rummaging beneath the blanket. “It's bloody freezing. Put this on.” He shoved a wool cap into Freddy's hands.
Freddy pulled it on knocking his glasses askew. He grinned at Wayne. Then his expression turned gravely serious. “U homleth?” he asked.
“Homeless?” said Wayne, straightening the kid’s glasses. “Nah. I just like sleeping outdoors. Even got my pick of spots.” He gestured toward the storefronts lining the street.
Freddy’s eyebrows pinched together as he pursed his lips. Then he broke into a grin. “U tething me,” he said laughing, the sound echoing off the close-set brick buildings.
“Why u homleth?”
“Long story,” said Wayne, picking at the scabs on his palms. “Where you headed so early?”
“Wurq,” said Freddy with a firm nod.
“Papers?”
Freddy’s head continued bobbing, his puppy-like eyes humongous behind his glasses.
“Well,” said Wayne, “Guess we both better get moving.”
Freddy stood up and paused, gaining his balance. “Byk,” he said, lurching away with an awkward step slide motion.
“Hey, kid,” called out Wayne. “What's your name?”
Freddy stopped and turned around. “Frecky.”
“Wayne!” Wayne pointed to himself, the loosened scabs falling to the ground.
Wayne watched Freddy struggle over the uneven cobblestones like a wire walker. The exacting effort required to maintain balance on a razor-thin edge was intimately familiar. A single misstep meant plunging into the abyss.
As Freddy turned the corner and disappeared from view, Wayne settled himself under his blanket. Then he laid his head on the store doorway's concrete step and closed his eyes.
*
After the World Trade Center’s towers tumbled to the ground, Wayne had enlisted. When he told his girlfriend, Amber, what he’d done, she'd asked what that meant for their future. He’d had no answer.
Despite not having seen his parents in years, Wayne phoned them. With his mother on the kitchen’s landline and his father in the TV room, remote in one hand, extension in the other, he told them he’d signed up.
On his last day at work, the guys knocked off early to throw him a liquid lunch party. Sitting atop a rickety picnic table beneath a scarred old oak tree, Wayne accepted toasts and pats on the back. Pete and Richie interrupted chugging beers to say they wished they were going with him to kill some of those towel-headed bastards. Belching and wiping foam from his beard, Garrison recounted how his daddy had kicked some slant-eyed Jap ass during World War II to Walt and Little Louie for the millionth time. Hoppy, sloshed and laughing hysterically, mimicked machine-gunning the enemy. Only Keith, who had fought in Vietnam and was a veteran, refrained from joining the talk of war and imaginary feats of bravery.
As it turned dark, the guys peeled off to drag themselves home. When most everyone had left, Keith tried to relieve Hoppy of his car keys. But he jumped in his Malibu, threw it in reverse, and jammed the accelerator to the floor. Tires screaming and smoking, the car flew backward across the shop’s driveway and lawn. Jumping the curb, its body slammed in the main road. Then it roared away with Hoppy, his head out the window, yelling yahoo like a deranged cowboy.
“We should go after him,” said Wayne as he started up his motorcycle. “He doesn’t even have his headlights on.”
His lips tight, Keith shook his head. “You take care, kid,” he said, squeezing Wayne's shoulder before heading toward his car.
When Wayne returned from boot camp, things with Amber were frosty. He’d hoped to work things out with her before his first deployment, but his parents showed up unexpectedly. Almost immediately, Wayne and his father’s awkward relationship made every inch of the apartment claustrophobic. That’s what made it so surprising when they went out and returned with matching tattoos of the Marine Corps motto.
The morning of his departure, Wayne’s mother greeted him with tears as he packed his gear. Unable to speak, she clutched his uniform’s crisp shirt sleeves. His father looked him in the eyes as he gave him a strong, manly handshake and said, “Make us proud.” Amber, who had left early for nursing school, didn’t return or call to say goodbye. So Wayne wrote her a note that simply read, “see ya.”
In the years that followed, constant deployments bounced Wayne between overseas war zones and home. Moving back and forth between such different worlds was disorienting. When stateside with Amber, Wayne would wake her in the dead of night and whisper, “It's your turn to watch.”
Amber graduated from nursing school during one of Wayne’s deployments. On that day, his unit was hunkered down and under an around-the-clock barrage of incoming mortar shells. Months of block by block, house by house combat then followed before they retook the target city.
Despite consistently being in life-threatening situations, Wayne survived. He fulfilled his commitment and returned with only minor visible wounds. Back home permanently, he sat staring at a blank TV screen with voices warring in his head, while Amber worked long shifts at the VA hospital.
Despite not having seen his parents in years, Wayne phoned them. With his mother on the kitchen’s landline and his father in the TV room, remote in one hand, extension in the other, he told them he’d signed up.
On his last day at work, the guys knocked off early to throw him a liquid lunch party. Sitting atop a rickety picnic table beneath a scarred old oak tree, Wayne accepted toasts and pats on the back. Pete and Richie interrupted chugging beers to say they wished they were going with him to kill some of those towel-headed bastards. Belching and wiping foam from his beard, Garrison recounted how his daddy had kicked some slant-eyed Jap ass during World War II to Walt and Little Louie for the millionth time. Hoppy, sloshed and laughing hysterically, mimicked machine-gunning the enemy. Only Keith, who had fought in Vietnam and was a veteran, refrained from joining the talk of war and imaginary feats of bravery.
As it turned dark, the guys peeled off to drag themselves home. When most everyone had left, Keith tried to relieve Hoppy of his car keys. But he jumped in his Malibu, threw it in reverse, and jammed the accelerator to the floor. Tires screaming and smoking, the car flew backward across the shop’s driveway and lawn. Jumping the curb, its body slammed in the main road. Then it roared away with Hoppy, his head out the window, yelling yahoo like a deranged cowboy.
“We should go after him,” said Wayne as he started up his motorcycle. “He doesn’t even have his headlights on.”
His lips tight, Keith shook his head. “You take care, kid,” he said, squeezing Wayne's shoulder before heading toward his car.
When Wayne returned from boot camp, things with Amber were frosty. He’d hoped to work things out with her before his first deployment, but his parents showed up unexpectedly. Almost immediately, Wayne and his father’s awkward relationship made every inch of the apartment claustrophobic. That’s what made it so surprising when they went out and returned with matching tattoos of the Marine Corps motto.
The morning of his departure, Wayne’s mother greeted him with tears as he packed his gear. Unable to speak, she clutched his uniform’s crisp shirt sleeves. His father looked him in the eyes as he gave him a strong, manly handshake and said, “Make us proud.” Amber, who had left early for nursing school, didn’t return or call to say goodbye. So Wayne wrote her a note that simply read, “see ya.”
In the years that followed, constant deployments bounced Wayne between overseas war zones and home. Moving back and forth between such different worlds was disorienting. When stateside with Amber, Wayne would wake her in the dead of night and whisper, “It's your turn to watch.”
Amber graduated from nursing school during one of Wayne’s deployments. On that day, his unit was hunkered down and under an around-the-clock barrage of incoming mortar shells. Months of block by block, house by house combat then followed before they retook the target city.
Despite consistently being in life-threatening situations, Wayne survived. He fulfilled his commitment and returned with only minor visible wounds. Back home permanently, he sat staring at a blank TV screen with voices warring in his head, while Amber worked long shifts at the VA hospital.
*
One afternoon, Wayne discovered a bottle of Xanax in the back of the bathroom’s medicine cabinet. He downed a couple tablets and chased them with a beer. Gradually, the voices ceased, slaughtered into silence. A daily routine of pills and a six-pack or more of beer then ensued. When Amber noticed the steadily growing pile of empty beer bottles, she confronted Wayne about his heavy drinking. He promised to cut down.
After working a double shift one weekend, Amber came home and found Wayne asleep in their bed. She undressed in the dark, slipped in beside him, and promptly fell asleep. When she awoke around 3 am, his side of the bed was empty and cold. After calling his name and getting no response, she got up and went into the living room. There, encountering a silhouetted image, she screamed and snapped on a table lamp. Wayne, eyes vacant, was clutching a butcher knife.
After working a double shift one weekend, Amber came home and found Wayne asleep in their bed. She undressed in the dark, slipped in beside him, and promptly fell asleep. When she awoke around 3 am, his side of the bed was empty and cold. After calling his name and getting no response, she got up and went into the living room. There, encountering a silhouetted image, she screamed and snapped on a table lamp. Wayne, eyes vacant, was clutching a butcher knife.
*
Following the nighttime incident, Amber told Wayne he needed help. As they argued, millions of competing voices filled his head, their words distorting and garbling together, trying to drown out one another. Their cacophony triggered an explosive surge of adrenaline within him. Wayne threw his hands over his ears, and with energy raging inside him like a wildfire, ran from the apartment building.
Sprinting past the tranquil homes of their neighborhood, the voices chased him. His heart pounded like it would burst from his chest. Wayne could barely breathe, the need to escape his only thought.
After running countless blocks, the energy began receding like a breaking fever. As its intensity diminished, Wayne slowed his pace until he was walking, his hands on his hips. With the demons pursuing him exorcised, he took in his surroundings. Nothing looked familiar. He walked on, certain he’d encounter something he’d recognize. Finally, just when he accepted he was lost, he saw a squat, box-shaped, almost windowless building. The sign in front of it read ‘VFW Hall’.
It took a few minutes for Wayne’s eyes to adjust to the dim light inside the building. Except for its softly backlit bar, the wood-paneled room was full of deep shadows occupied by solitary men and women. These silent protectors carried haunting images of death and destruction on behalf of an entire nation. In here, their sanctuary, words need not be spoken. A moment of eye contact, a nod, or the tip of a beer bottle toward a kindred soul sufficed.
Those who’d never served or known sacrifice but wrapped themselves in patriotic platitudes were not welcome inside these walls. In this hallowed place, no one reflexively uttered “Thank you for your service” with the sincerity of a “God bless you” following a sneeze.
Sprinting past the tranquil homes of their neighborhood, the voices chased him. His heart pounded like it would burst from his chest. Wayne could barely breathe, the need to escape his only thought.
After running countless blocks, the energy began receding like a breaking fever. As its intensity diminished, Wayne slowed his pace until he was walking, his hands on his hips. With the demons pursuing him exorcised, he took in his surroundings. Nothing looked familiar. He walked on, certain he’d encounter something he’d recognize. Finally, just when he accepted he was lost, he saw a squat, box-shaped, almost windowless building. The sign in front of it read ‘VFW Hall’.
It took a few minutes for Wayne’s eyes to adjust to the dim light inside the building. Except for its softly backlit bar, the wood-paneled room was full of deep shadows occupied by solitary men and women. These silent protectors carried haunting images of death and destruction on behalf of an entire nation. In here, their sanctuary, words need not be spoken. A moment of eye contact, a nod, or the tip of a beer bottle toward a kindred soul sufficed.
Those who’d never served or known sacrifice but wrapped themselves in patriotic platitudes were not welcome inside these walls. In this hallowed place, no one reflexively uttered “Thank you for your service” with the sincerity of a “God bless you” following a sneeze.
*
After discovering the VFW Hall, Wayne limited himself to two beers at home. He did the rest of his drinking at the hall. But the downward spiral of his relationship with Amber continued as did his covert drug use. Hoping to revive their relationship, he made a dinner reservation at her favorite restaurant for her birthday.
With time to kill before meeting Amber, Wayne stopped in at the VFW. Sitting at the bar, he took a couple pills from his shirt pocket and signaled the bartender for another refill. As he downed the pills with his drink, he noticed the time displayed on the bar’s neon-lit clock. He was going to be late. Leaping up, excuses rattling around in his brain, he started toward the exit. Amber was standing there.
Wayne followed her across the building’s parking lot, his apologies bouncing off the icy blank wall of her back. When she reached her car, she whirled around and faced him.
“Keys,” she said, holding out her hand.
“I'm fine. Come on, Amber,” he said, as she unlocked the car door and got inside. “Don't be like that. I'm sorry.”
Staring straight ahead, tears running down her face, she turned the ignition key and drove off.
Wayne jogged over to his motorcycle. He swung his leg over its chassis, started it up, and roared away in pursuit of her. As Amber’s car’s taillights disappeared around the corner, he gunned it, leaning on the throttle, streaking after her. At the corner, he braked hard to turn. The bike skidded in a patch of sand and careened sideways. Fighting for control, Wayne’s muscles clenched and the hairs on his arms stood up. But the bike, unable to gain traction, screamed, pitched, and crashed.
With time to kill before meeting Amber, Wayne stopped in at the VFW. Sitting at the bar, he took a couple pills from his shirt pocket and signaled the bartender for another refill. As he downed the pills with his drink, he noticed the time displayed on the bar’s neon-lit clock. He was going to be late. Leaping up, excuses rattling around in his brain, he started toward the exit. Amber was standing there.
Wayne followed her across the building’s parking lot, his apologies bouncing off the icy blank wall of her back. When she reached her car, she whirled around and faced him.
“Keys,” she said, holding out her hand.
“I'm fine. Come on, Amber,” he said, as she unlocked the car door and got inside. “Don't be like that. I'm sorry.”
Staring straight ahead, tears running down her face, she turned the ignition key and drove off.
Wayne jogged over to his motorcycle. He swung his leg over its chassis, started it up, and roared away in pursuit of her. As Amber’s car’s taillights disappeared around the corner, he gunned it, leaning on the throttle, streaking after her. At the corner, he braked hard to turn. The bike skidded in a patch of sand and careened sideways. Fighting for control, Wayne’s muscles clenched and the hairs on his arms stood up. But the bike, unable to gain traction, screamed, pitched, and crashed.
*
Awakening to an incessant beep and rhythmic hiss, Wayne opened his eyes. Amber’s face hovered above him.
“Don't move,” she said. “They had to immobilize your head and neck.”
“How bad?” he whispered, tubes up his nose, his throat and lips dry.
“Wayne, you need help.”
“How bad?”
“Wayne, did you hear me?”
Avoiding her eyes, he focused on a jagged ceiling crack to the left of her head.
“You'll live,” she said.
Still staring at the ceiling, Wayne heard the click of the hospital room door's latch. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. Slipping free, they trickled down his face until they came to rest on the pillow cradling his head.
After his release from the hospital, Wayne returned to an empty apartment. On the kitchen counter, he found a note from Amber. “I love you, but this isn’t living. It’s dying slowly.”
“Don't move,” she said. “They had to immobilize your head and neck.”
“How bad?” he whispered, tubes up his nose, his throat and lips dry.
“Wayne, you need help.”
“How bad?”
“Wayne, did you hear me?”
Avoiding her eyes, he focused on a jagged ceiling crack to the left of her head.
“You'll live,” she said.
Still staring at the ceiling, Wayne heard the click of the hospital room door's latch. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. Slipping free, they trickled down his face until they came to rest on the pillow cradling his head.
After his release from the hospital, Wayne returned to an empty apartment. On the kitchen counter, he found a note from Amber. “I love you, but this isn’t living. It’s dying slowly.”
*
Semi-incapacitated by his injuries, Wayne was unable to pay the rent while convalescing. Broke, he abandoned the apartment for the streets, full-body tremors and constant nausea his only companions. At times, sickness overwhelmed him, leaving him drenched in his own sweat. He often hoped he would die. But he lingered on, trapped in a nightmare, until his body relearned how to survive without the drugs and booze.
Over a stretch of months, Freddy learned most of Wayne's haunts. With his ready smile, kind nature, and optimistic disposition, he gradually wore down Wayne’s rough sharp edges. Before long, Freddy’s halting step slide shuffle gait only exemplified his determination not to let his disabilities limit him.
By spring, Wayne had begun shadowing Freddy as he sold his papers. From alley hideaways, he watched the well-coiffed business people as they checked emails, texted, or listened to music while hurrying to their towering glass and steel office buildings. None of them ever acknowledged the boy who took their money and handed them a paper saying “yank u.”
As he observed their behavior day after day, Wayne questioned why he’d been willing to sacrifice his life for them. If they looked at him or Freddy, it was with pity, disgust, or revulsion in their eyes. Often they acted like they were invisible. Wayne struggled to understand what they found so offensive and insulting about Freddy’s disability or his homelessness. Did they believe he and Freddy were receiving some justly deserved punishment? They did nothing to hurt or victimize these people.
Following the attacks on 9/11, there had been widespread unity. Everyone had felt a common sense of purpose. But now? These same people didn’t care about the flag-draped caskets that continued to arrive at Andrews Air Force base. Had years of malicious misdirection and outright lies taken such a toll on human decency? And what of civility? Why were prejudicial opinions lacking any basis in fact or reality being permitted to create a toxic environment in which basic common sense and objectively clear right and wrong were ignored or equivocated?
“Yo, Semper Fi! Yo! Yo, Semper Fi!”
Wayne wheeled in the direction of the sound of rapidly approaching jangling keys. It was the man who’d attacked him the day he’d tried to rescue Freddy.
“Sorry man,” said the big man, slowing to a walk as he drew alongside Wayne. “Couldn’t remember your name. Look, I’m sorry about what happened a while back. Can I buy you breakfast or something?”
“It’s past breakfast time,” replied Wayne, walking away.
“Then lunch,” said Big Mike, rushing after him. “Let me buy you lunch.”
“Yeah. All right,” said Wayne.
Over a stretch of months, Freddy learned most of Wayne's haunts. With his ready smile, kind nature, and optimistic disposition, he gradually wore down Wayne’s rough sharp edges. Before long, Freddy’s halting step slide shuffle gait only exemplified his determination not to let his disabilities limit him.
By spring, Wayne had begun shadowing Freddy as he sold his papers. From alley hideaways, he watched the well-coiffed business people as they checked emails, texted, or listened to music while hurrying to their towering glass and steel office buildings. None of them ever acknowledged the boy who took their money and handed them a paper saying “yank u.”
As he observed their behavior day after day, Wayne questioned why he’d been willing to sacrifice his life for them. If they looked at him or Freddy, it was with pity, disgust, or revulsion in their eyes. Often they acted like they were invisible. Wayne struggled to understand what they found so offensive and insulting about Freddy’s disability or his homelessness. Did they believe he and Freddy were receiving some justly deserved punishment? They did nothing to hurt or victimize these people.
Following the attacks on 9/11, there had been widespread unity. Everyone had felt a common sense of purpose. But now? These same people didn’t care about the flag-draped caskets that continued to arrive at Andrews Air Force base. Had years of malicious misdirection and outright lies taken such a toll on human decency? And what of civility? Why were prejudicial opinions lacking any basis in fact or reality being permitted to create a toxic environment in which basic common sense and objectively clear right and wrong were ignored or equivocated?
“Yo, Semper Fi! Yo! Yo, Semper Fi!”
Wayne wheeled in the direction of the sound of rapidly approaching jangling keys. It was the man who’d attacked him the day he’d tried to rescue Freddy.
“Sorry man,” said the big man, slowing to a walk as he drew alongside Wayne. “Couldn’t remember your name. Look, I’m sorry about what happened a while back. Can I buy you breakfast or something?”
“It’s past breakfast time,” replied Wayne, walking away.
“Then lunch,” said Big Mike, rushing after him. “Let me buy you lunch.”
“Yeah. All right,” said Wayne.
*
Over lunch, Wayne learned that Freddy was actually twenty years old, but his palsy had stunted his growth, leaving him looking like a child. Big Mike also told Wayne that he’d grown up an army brat. He talked about the constant moves, always being the new kid in school, and never feeling you fit in. Sitting with his back protected by a solid wall, Wayne nodded periodically, his eyes tracking the movements of each person entering and exiting the sandwich shop.
Then, Big Mike mentioned his son was considering joining the armed services after he graduated high school and Wayne practically shouted no.
As Big Mike stared at him, Wayne spread his fingers on the tabletop.
“I enlisted right after 9/11 and spent plenty of time in hot zones,” he said. “There’s no strategy, no plan, nothing.”
“But...”
“I had a job, a girl, a life. All gone.”
“You probably just need a break. I could talk to the people at the paper. And I’m sure the VA...”
“With all the administrative bullshit going on at the VA, the staff there are helpless. They put me on a waiting list. Lots of good that does, especially when you’ve got no address or phone.”
“Damn.” Big Mike shook his head. “I don’t know what to say. Is there anything I can do?”
“Yeah, convince your son not to sign up. Don’t let him risk coming back in a body bag or maimed for life. Like always, the actual fighting and dying is being done by a small subset of Americans, most of them poor. Those fucking rich bastards in D.C. don’t give two shits about any of us or our country. They never have skin in any of this. Not their sons’ or daughters’. Their patriotism doesn’t extend beyond their own self-interests and wallets. To them, this is all a game. For the rest of us, it’s our lives.” Wayne rubbed the spot on his shoulder that bore the Marine tattoo.
Then, Big Mike mentioned his son was considering joining the armed services after he graduated high school and Wayne practically shouted no.
As Big Mike stared at him, Wayne spread his fingers on the tabletop.
“I enlisted right after 9/11 and spent plenty of time in hot zones,” he said. “There’s no strategy, no plan, nothing.”
“But...”
“I had a job, a girl, a life. All gone.”
“You probably just need a break. I could talk to the people at the paper. And I’m sure the VA...”
“With all the administrative bullshit going on at the VA, the staff there are helpless. They put me on a waiting list. Lots of good that does, especially when you’ve got no address or phone.”
“Damn.” Big Mike shook his head. “I don’t know what to say. Is there anything I can do?”
“Yeah, convince your son not to sign up. Don’t let him risk coming back in a body bag or maimed for life. Like always, the actual fighting and dying is being done by a small subset of Americans, most of them poor. Those fucking rich bastards in D.C. don’t give two shits about any of us or our country. They never have skin in any of this. Not their sons’ or daughters’. Their patriotism doesn’t extend beyond their own self-interests and wallets. To them, this is all a game. For the rest of us, it’s our lives.” Wayne rubbed the spot on his shoulder that bore the Marine tattoo.
*
On the days leading up to the fourth of July, the skies were clear. The forecast for the holiday was perfect and the stars and stripes would proudly fly in recognition of the nation’s birth. There’d be parades, concerts, carnivals, and backyard cookouts with the daylong celebration culminating in spectacular fireworks displays.
Despite the favorable forecast, Wayne hoped for rain. Not a flash shower, but a deluge of water. Enough to thread its way through every nook and cranny of the city and produce a rampaging flood in the streets that swept away all that was dirty and ugly.
Morning dawned on the fourth without a cloud in sight. Since it was a national holiday, Freddy and Big Mike had a shortened workday. Mike’s son had opted to celebrate with friends, so Freddy and Big Mike agreed to watch the parade and fireworks together. When the parade ended, they decided to find Wayne and invite him to watch the fireworks with them.
Freddy and Big Mike searched all the usual places as it grew dark, but failed to catch a single glimpse of Wayne. Finally, as the time for the start of the fireworks drew near, they gave up. As they walked past an alleyway, Big Mike grabbed Freddy’s arm and pointed toward a rusty green dumpster. A barely visible pair of worn-out combat boots peeked out from its far side.
The alleyway was overflowing with discarded refuse and smelled vile. Freddy and Big Mike entered it and found Wayne beside the dumpster. Head down, he was sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth. Big Mike started to speak, but the kaboom from an exploding firework drowned out his voice. Its shock wave shook the buildings and the ground. Trembling, Wayne covered his ears with his hands and shut his eyes. As the next group of pyrotechnic rockets hurtled into the blackness above, high-pitched shrieks accompanied their ascent. Tears rained down Wayne’s face and he shook uncontrollably. Freddy and Big Mike got down alongside him and wrapped their arms around him as the concussive blasts exploded in rapid succession. Shattering the night sky like thunder and lightning, they flooded it with colorful bursts of light before fading into tracer-like trails. On the ground below, three of the ignored and forgotten clung to each other, as intermittent flashes lit their faces and a tattoo with the words Semper Fi.
Despite the favorable forecast, Wayne hoped for rain. Not a flash shower, but a deluge of water. Enough to thread its way through every nook and cranny of the city and produce a rampaging flood in the streets that swept away all that was dirty and ugly.
Morning dawned on the fourth without a cloud in sight. Since it was a national holiday, Freddy and Big Mike had a shortened workday. Mike’s son had opted to celebrate with friends, so Freddy and Big Mike agreed to watch the parade and fireworks together. When the parade ended, they decided to find Wayne and invite him to watch the fireworks with them.
Freddy and Big Mike searched all the usual places as it grew dark, but failed to catch a single glimpse of Wayne. Finally, as the time for the start of the fireworks drew near, they gave up. As they walked past an alleyway, Big Mike grabbed Freddy’s arm and pointed toward a rusty green dumpster. A barely visible pair of worn-out combat boots peeked out from its far side.
The alleyway was overflowing with discarded refuse and smelled vile. Freddy and Big Mike entered it and found Wayne beside the dumpster. Head down, he was sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth. Big Mike started to speak, but the kaboom from an exploding firework drowned out his voice. Its shock wave shook the buildings and the ground. Trembling, Wayne covered his ears with his hands and shut his eyes. As the next group of pyrotechnic rockets hurtled into the blackness above, high-pitched shrieks accompanied their ascent. Tears rained down Wayne’s face and he shook uncontrollably. Freddy and Big Mike got down alongside him and wrapped their arms around him as the concussive blasts exploded in rapid succession. Shattering the night sky like thunder and lightning, they flooded it with colorful bursts of light before fading into tracer-like trails. On the ground below, three of the ignored and forgotten clung to each other, as intermittent flashes lit their faces and a tattoo with the words Semper Fi.
J. L. Higgs' short stories typically focus on life from the perspective of a black American. He has been published in over 30 magazines, including Indiana Voice Journal, Black Elephant, The Writing Disorder, Contrary Magazine, Rigorous, Literally Stories, The Remembered Arts Journal and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He resides outside of Boston.