Chapter 5: July 4th
“Good morning Sir, can I help you.”
“Just looking for my train.”
“I can help you with that, where are you going today.”
“Washington...Union Station.”
“Oh, ok sir, you can board just over there, have your ticket ready for the conductor, nice day to travel, right before the holiday, smart, three, three-and-a-half hours, quick ride.”
“For some it is a quick ride, others not so...”
The large, tall man with an Amtrak train ticket to Washington, DC in his hand turned mid-sentence and walked away mumbling, “...others not so short, not so short at all of a ride.”
And with that the big man steps into the southbound Amtrak railroad car and takes a seat.
Alone.
“Ticket, can I see your ticket please.”
The big man nods his head and hands the conductor his ticket.
“Washington, going to be a nice easy ride.”
“uh huh.”
“Here’s you ticket back, you have a nice day now, Mr. Blue.”
He stands motionless at attention, right hand a half inch from his eyebrow in salute.
And he stands.
And he stands all morning.
And he stands all afternoon until dark, and past some.
Strands of his black hair stand out like wings in the wind, his thick black mustache drips rain drops mixed with tears.
His name is Blue...Sugah Blue and he is the Monday thru Thursday piano player in a smokey Manhattan gin mill no one has ever heard of except the regulars to the joint.
One day every year he comes here to stand.
One day ever year he comes here to salute.
There stands a large old man, straight and tall, black raincoat whipping in the rain.
He stands alone, most other people don’t even see him, don’t even know he is there.
Eyes forward, he stands, he does not notice the crowd around him, he only glimpses his reflection in between the constant movement in front of him.
And the large old man stands.
And the large old man cries.
And the large old man comes here every year, on this day.
And he never moves.
And he never takes a break.
Just stands.
Stands.
Alone in the crowd.
In time the crowd fades from sight, in time the noise of the crowd dims.
Slowly, it begins, a slight tremor in his right shoulder.
Slowly, the tremor moves to his right elbow, he grits his teeth, bites his lip some, clenches his jaw so tight his back teeth hurt.
All done to try and stop the shaking in his right hand, and its salute.
Then it starts, as it always does, whispers.
And still he stands straight, salute now touching his brow to control the shakes.
A little girl walks by glances up at him and keeps walking down the sidewalk.
Then it starts, as it always does, shaking.
The large old man tries to swallow but can’t, he tightens his buttocks, toes move up and down within his polished shoes.
Then it starts, as it always does, his eyes close.
And the bombs go off.
And the yelling starts.
And the running and shooting starts.
Copters low, jets high, thuds of missiles, flames reach the sky and suck all the air out from around you.
And then the crying starts.
And then comes the shouts for “Mama.”
And slowly the shouts go silent, and the crying stops.
The large old man is shaking, and the large old pees himself.
Then it starts, as it always does, his eyes look right.
And while no one in the crowd notices the large old man standing there, the large old man sees his arm point to the right.
Within his mind the large old man sees his buddy, Roger, 10-4 his command.
Within his mind he sees his buddy Roger move towards the outward flank.
And the large old man begins to shake within his large black raincoat, and his salute fades away as both his right and left hand reach up to cover his face.
Then it starts, as it always does, with a load noise.
Then it starts, as it always does, with a scream…”Blue…Blue…Blu….”
Then it starts, as it always does, silence, he listens, HE LISTEN…nothing.
And the large old man slowly opens his eyes and looks though his fingers at the black shiny wall in front of him.
Vomit fills his mouth as he stares at just one name.
The name of his best friend.
The name of his best friend carved into the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall.
The name of the man he pointed at and sent to the outward flank.
Then it starts, as it always does, the voice that shouts within him that he killed his best friend, sent his best friend to die on July 4th, 1968.
And the large old man turns slowly from the wall to begin his walk back to Union Station, as he does every year.
No one in the crowd sees him leave.
It’s a big crowd.
On this, July 4th holiday.
A big enough crowd that a big man can cry and no one will know.
