Only the dead have seen the end of war - Plato

Memorial Day 2011 found me meeting my lady in Boston on a humid summer day. She struggled to find parking, so I went into a cafe & grill for a sandwich after a failed attempt at getting a bagel. I enjoyed a barbecue chicken sandwich which for me is the official sandwich of Summer. I love barbecue chicken year round but on that late day in May, I knew summer had arrived.

She arrived just as I finished my sandwich and we began to stroll through the Commons as many others did. Most people seemed in a daze trying to find some icy oasis from the heat. We stumbled upon a sea of American flags put up all around in memory of the fallen. I jokingly said to my girlfriend 'I would love to have the job of picking these up.' Almost as if on cue, a minute later several trumpet players who had dispersed themselves around the crowd started playing Taps. We all stood in silence, hats over hearts for those that had them. As they finished playing, the people apparently in charge of the flags asked everyone to help gather the flags in bundles of twenty. I leapt at the opportunity, but as I gathered more and more flags I had what I now call an 'existential moment of patriotism'. Each flag was in memory of soldiers who had fought and died most likely on foreign soil for this country that got on generally the same without them. And I here I was happily picking up these little pieces of fabric hanging off small wood dowels. It made me acutely of how easily we can be plucked from this 'mortal coil' and the futility of war. These memorial flags were being rounded up and placed in tupperware and at most required an extra tug to get them out of the dirt. And what is the symbolism behind the ones that would rather break and be trashed than get put in a rubber band with nineteen other 'soldiers'? I was glad to be honoring those who died defending this country that I so love, but at the same time it made me almost depressed.

War is often associated with valor and honor, but if so many soldiers only get twelve inch flags in park for one day a year, where is the honor in that? And I'm not saying the flags should remain year round, they would get ruined and we'd all need bigger parks. There are memorials, plaques, and of course the beautiful Arlington National Cemetery, but I feel the masses need something more than those damn yellow ribbons on the back of so many cars. After rounding up over five hundred flags personally, we were all thanked and went on our way. That was it. I felt proud of the sheen of sweat I had gathered from my honoring our patriots, but they put so much more in than that for something far bigger than them. I don't know the message I'm trying to get across here, war is bad, mortality is scary, take your pick, but just remember how many people sacrifice everything for our freedoms. And think of them more than just one day a year. Pray for them to God, Allah, Flying Spaghetti Monster, or to nothing just send out positive vibes or whatever. Being human is more important than religion and politics. Thats one thing I'm thankful for. Happy Thanksgiving!

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Special Guest Writer!

This post is courtesy of Zac over at tunetheproletariat.com I highly recommend their blog for good music/stories and photos! This story actually helped motivate me to get off my bum and start this blog and the Listener song attached is a great one too. Enjoy!

A little over a year ago I drove up I-5 from Los Angeles to Seattle with the cruise control set at 75. I cranked the music up over the road noise. The incessant vibration and blaring radio jarred me into near senselessness.

I stumbled out of my Civic at a rest stop somewhere in the middle of Oregon and blinked a few times. A happy homeless man bounded up to me.

“Hi, I’m Keith. Can you spare any change? I’ve got to buy a sack of hot dogs for my wife and dogs.” He gestured to a lady chatting to the owners of a van a few spots down the parking lot and at two large dogs tied to the wall near the bathroom.

“Today’s your lucky day,” I said, and dumped well over $5 worth of quarters (a roommate’s idea of a joke in payment for a minor debt) into his outstretched hands. Our fingers brushed; his skin was rough and scarred.

But his face was bright, soft, grinning dumbly like one of his mutts.

“Where ya headed?” he asked.
“Up to Seattle. I’m moving from Cali.”
“You should keep on driving right on up to Everett, get a job with Boeing. That’s what I did after the war. Pays real great and with the benefits.”
“You were in the war?” I asked.
“Yeah, Nam. Me and my buddy Robbie were there before we came here. We camped just across the freeway down there.” He pointed over the highway to a dirt road that led around a hill. “He’s not around anymore.”
“Hey, listen, we can keep talking, but I’ve got to piss something serious.” I usually don’t pull over unless I have to get gas or am about to piss my pants.
“Oh, of course, by all means. You can enjoy my music too. Go right ahead.”

Keith had the male restroom door propped open with a jukebox which blared AC/DC. I kicked it aside to let the door close, filling the bathroom with tinny guitars and thin vocals as I held my dick in my hand and peed into a toilet millions of men had peed into before.

I propped the door back open and went to see the two dogs. They sniffed and licked my hand; their fur was gorgeous and lush, not the fur of a homeless man’s dog. I think they were half Boxer.

“What are their names?” I asked when Keith came over.
“The mom, this one, she’s Nance. This one’s named Robbie. I was going to give my friend Robbie one, but I can’t, so I named it after him instead. He died on that highway right out there. Little Robbie’s the only one of the litter left.”
“Oh yeah? How many did you have?”

Keith told me a convoluted story about how the policeman who came around the rest stop had threatened to take his dogs away, but eventually Keith had talked the officer into buying one for his niece. Keith seemed especially proud of that one.

We slowly meandered back to my car, chatting. He sometimes spit chunks out when he talked, and I could see the back of his mouth. It dawned on me that Keith wasn’t completely there, but he seemed good natured enough. I asked him where he was headed that night.

“Oh me and the wife are camped out across the highway, same place me and Robbie found a while back. Robbie, he was my best friend. He saved my life, you know. We were in Nam, and I got shot in the ass. They got me right here,” he turned around and pointed to his butt cheek. “But Robbie, he carried me out of there. Slung me right on over his shoulder and carried my ass to safety. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.

“He died right over there. We were headed back to camp after dark, and I made it across alright, but Robbie didn’t make it. A car hit him wham! and then drove off. And he was dead. Robbie, he saved my life, but I couldn’t save his.” Keith was openly weeping now, all tears and spit and distorted face. “I cut back across the highway and I dragged him to the shoulder, but he was already dead, man. Nam couldn’t get him, but a minivan did.”

I wiped some snot off my upper lip. I could see it: the pitch black, Keith – driven half insane by war and menial jobs and America – holding his only friend in his arms, as Robbie’s body cooled and stiffened with death.

Keith quickly moved on, telling me the story about the cop and the puppy again. I smiled, and put my hand on his shoulder and said it was nice to meet him, but I had to get going, a life was calling up north. And I drove on off up the freeway where Robbie died.

-Zac