I knew it was coming before I got there. I’m a sucker for this stuff. These folks are drawn to me. Maybe I’m drawn to them. Either way, they find me more often than fire ants when I wear flip-flops. No matter how I find myself in these situations, I have always believed that it was not by accident.
All I wanted was to go in and purchase things for a Veterans Day cookout at our house. I would be grilling enough hamburgers and hotdogs to feed the Atlanta Braves. Chips were on the menu. Baked beans were sure to be a hit. I would have drinks in every flavor from fruit punch to P.B.R.
But there he was. His hat said VIETNAM. His shirt came from a yard sale discount rack. His face was scruffy. His eyes were embarrassed. And I was already reaching into my pocket. I know what comes next in these situations. I’m a sucker for these things. I hold a master’s degree as a handoutologist.
And then I did what I do best. Something handed down to me through generations of shade tree mechanics and paycheck bootleggers. I start talking. Conversation took root. And from there, he was just another guy who needed a little companionship.
The old man tells me he can’t catch a break. He can’t find work because he doesn’t have an address. He can’t get an address because he doesn’t work. It’s a cycle that never ends.
“It’s a messed up system,” he tells me.
“I agree,” I reply. “More messed up than a Rubik’s Cube in a pre-K class.”
“I get a small check from the V.A. each month that I have to go pick up,” he continued. “And I’m on a waiting list for more ‘help’,” he says using finger quotations to express his belief in said “help.” “They say one day I’ll have a room to stay in. They’sa been saying that for over a year now.”
I asked about his hat. He tells me about his time in Vietnam, when he was just nineteen.
“Went in with my older brother, Bobby. He enlisted first. Told me I should, too, because it was the only way we would ever get anything.” He pauses, then laughs showing his few teeth. “See where that got me, don’t ya? I came back to a middle finger and a minimum wage job.”
“Straight up Rubik’s cube,” I said.
“Me and my brother did everything together. He was athletic—strong as an ox… and I was clumsy and small. But he took care of me and never let anyone pick on me.”
In the days leading up to basic, they fished, camped and drank beer. Then they kissed their momma goodbye and got on a bus heading into the unknown. They were brave but terrified. But they stood tall and with stiff upper lips as their bus rolled out of town.
The training was quick. They needed young men with rifles in ‘Nam and time learning was time wasted. This would be on-the-job training. But then, reality hit. They found out they would be heading to separate locations. They hugged it out. That was the last time he ever saw Bobby.
A triangular-shaped folded flag was delivered to their parents’ doorstep. Two servicemen. A small box with a few personal belongings was handed over. That was the only “thank you” that their momma ever received.
After telling me this, we both remained silent for a few seconds. He doesn’t say anything else about his brother. He turns the conversation back to this “darned system.”
“A veteran signs up for whatever his or her country needs,” he told me. “I put my life on the line for this country. My brother gave his. But ya know, we signed up for it, so we did our part and didn’t complain.”
“That’s bravery, sir,” I say. “It takes a special person to stand up for an entire country… no matter what the rest of the ones back home believe in.”
“I’d do it all again,” he continued. “You see, I was born here. I’ve been given more opportunities than most. It may not look like it now, but I’ve been blessed. Some say this country has changed. Not me. I say it’s the same country as a hundred years ago. But a few people have changed. But everyone wants to judge the whole darn nation for what a few knuckleheads do. That’s what hurts.”
We are interrupted. A lady walks out sternly. “He bothering you?” She asked.
“No ma’am. I was …..”
“See what I mean,” the old man grumbled.
“We’ve done told you to quit harassing our customers. Now go on before I call the police!”
“He’s not bothering me. We were just…”
“Go on! You know you ain’t supposed to be out here!”
“Good to meet ya, fella,” he says, extending his hand. “God bless ya!”
I shake his hand. He squeezes like he’s making lemonade. His eyes are sad, and I want to fix it. But I know I can’t. But I can do something.
I hugged him. He smelled like a billy goat.
“Hadn’t had one of them in so long I’d forgotten what it felt like,” he told me.
I open my wallet. I’m embarrassed to even be telling you this. You don’t do these things and speak of them. But it’s part of this story.
“No… no,” he says. “Hey, I just appreciate your time.”
“Please, sir. This is as much for me as it is for you.”
I gave him a wad of cash. It’s not important how much it was, but I promise you that if I’d had more, he would have gotten it.
His lips quiver. With glazed eyes, he looked at me. “Do you know what I see in you? I see Jesus in you.”
All of a sudden my eyes were glazed, too. Full-blown allergy attack. I don’t know how to respond to that. “I appreciate your service,” is all I could get out.
I’m a complete fool. I’m supposed to be a wordsmith, and all I can say is the same thing the government uttered to his momma when they delivered his brother’s flag.
He started to walk away. He turned back and smiled. “Going to the dollar store. They don’t care if I sleep in a shopping buggy over there.”
And just as fast as we met, he’s gone.
I’m a blessed man. I’ve never known hunger for more than the amount of time that it takes to get me to Taco Bell. My bed isn’t parked in a spot with a sign that says RETURN CARTS HERE. I don’t smell like a billy goat… usually.
And sometimes I forget how lucky I am. I feel selfish even. Plumb embarrassed. I have gotten spoiled.
This guy served our country. His brother gave his life so I could do cannonballs in my pool on holidays like Veterans Day. I have the freedom to eat unhealthy portions of ground beef and things that will cause diabetes.
But here he is. An invisible someone who is not allowed to stand in front of a store reminded me to be thankful. A man who may or may not have contributed to his problems, but after what he had seen in war, it should be enough to have given him the right to make those decisions. Who am I to judge?
Yes, he stinks to high heavens. He may beg for supper. His shoes may not match. You could count his teeth on one hand without using your thumb. But he is still my brother put here by our Father. He was built from the same dirt and sewn by the same thread as me.
He prays for food to show up. He asks Jesus for someone to come along that may consider donating some change. And somehow, Jesus keeps answering. Somehow.
It’s easier to look away. For many people, making eye contact is forbidden. They’d rather ignore him. After all, invisible people are easy to ignore.
I wish I could do more for this American serviceman. A few dollars isn’t going to change his life. But perhaps, our conversation changed mine.
He said he saw Jesus in me. I beg to differ. I think I’m the one who met Jesus outside that store. He was wearing a veteran’s cap. He was begging for change. He got a hug so tight that my clothes would have to be washed twice.
Jesus gave His life for us all. An American serviceman is willing to do the same.
Today, I’m a little extra thankful. And I realize that it’s because of people like him, and his brother Bobby, that came home in a box.
They are the American soldiers… veterans of our great country. Find one and shake their hand. Give them a hug. Say thanks! They were willing to give their all.
And if one day a year celebrating veterans seems to be enough for you… then you really don’t understand what any of this means.
(Editor’s note: Brilliant native and JR Guest Columnist Russell Estes wrote this never-previously published column and is sharing it with our readers in honor of Veterans Day. He noted this column was written about an experience he had last Veterans Day in Tuscaloosa, Ala.)
See complete story in the Journal Record.
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