Memorial Day

I delivered the Patriot Ledger to the Fitzgerald household on North Avenue during the spring of 1968. One day as I dropped the paper on their steps, I happened to glance inside a window into the darkened living room. There I saw, his back to me, Mr. Fitzgerald in his armchair, staring at the fireplace mantelpiece. On it was a shrine of cards, candles, and rosary beads adorning a framed photograph of a son in Army dress uniform. Johnny Fitzgerald had been killed the week before in a helicopter crash in a place named Binh Quong.

Later, in the Pacific: The Poop Deck is an un-polished gem; its bartenders hardened souls who appear to have spent their share of time on the other side of the bar. Patrons are aging locals, kids looking for cheap pitchers of beer, and a gaggle of grizzled, older regulars sitting together as a sort of silent majority. Away from the bar, chairs line one-way windows overlooking what scenery moves on the strand as well as volleyball nets, the Hermosa Beach pier, and the great spread of ocean beyond, whose wonderful sundowns bless Pacific waters.

Gus has been bartending here for 20 years. We have become friends because he is from Needham, Massachusetts and I am from Norwood. Old high school rivals, Rockets and Mustangs, here on the west coast. I greet him “Hey, Needham!” to which he responds, “Hey, Norwood!” Today I overhear that Gus was a Marine and when he comes to refill my glass, I ask if this is true. He nods, leans against the bar.

“What year did you graduate?” I ask him.

“1964.”

“That's close.” He knows full well what I mean, but says, “Close to what?”

“Well, close to some bad years to graduate from high school and go into the Marines.” He folds his arms, leans forward over the bar.

“What are you asking me, was I in Vietnam?”

“Well?”

“I was in I Corps.”

“I Corps?” I repeat, and he laughs.

“You weren't there, or you'd know what I mean,” he said, and walked away.

His shift over, the bartender came around the bar and sat next to me. He cradled a glass of beer in both hands. “So, you weren’t a Marine,” he said, and I shook my head.

“Well, you don't talk about Vietnam to anyone else. It wouldn't be right to those you left. You just don't do it.”

“I don't want to hear about what you did there,” I said. “I’m more interested in how it shaped your life. What effect the experience had on your life.”

“Well, it was jail or the Marines,” Gus told me. “Vagrancy, whatever that means. I graduate from high school, and I want my party time. My old man – we're Swedes, both stubborn as hell – my old man wants me to work. I want to party. I'm stubborn and I say the hell with you, I'm outta here. Lived out of suitcases around Needham with my buddies. We had a cottage down the Cape. I go down there and break in with a couple of my buddies. No big deal, my family owns it. My older brothers did it, for chrissakes. But my old man files charges. Vagrancy.

“So I'm in Dedham Court, and the judge says either you join up, or you do time. Hell, that's a no-brainer. Me and my buddies, we're football players, we're hot shits. We go to the Army, the Navy, the Air Force, and none of 'em want anything to do with me. I go to the Marines – the old Customs House in downtown Boston, the one with the big clock – I go into the Marine office and they say, ‘When can you start!’

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“Parris Island kicked the shit out of me. It turned me around. We're football players, we thought we were tough. I mean it kicked the shit out of me! I think every asshole kid in this world ought to go into the Marines to put some respect in them.” Gus paused, sipped his beer. “You ain't writing this down or anything, right?”

"I'm not even gonna remember it."

Gus stood and turned, pointed to a serving spoon-sized indentation in the back of his leg. “I Corps sector was up north. Da Nang. An AK-47 did that. That's what it looks like, what an AK-47 does to you. I killed the bastard that did it – I had my .45 out and just blasted Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! – you know MASH? The only reason I didn't lose my leg is because of Hawkeye and what's-his-name, what's the other guy's name, you know, MASH, the TV show. If it wasn't for Hawkeye and his buddy I'd be on a prosthetic leg my whole life.”

“How did it happen?”

“We were looking for our (unfamiliar Marine jargon), and—" “

What's a (unfamiliar Marine jargon)?” I interrupted, and Gus jerked his head back. “You don't know what (unfamiliar Marine jargon) is? Oh Christ,” he blurted, threw his hands in the air and walked away, shaking his head. He sat with the silent and I realized who they were, what their bond was.

I walked to the window to stare at the sundown framing Pacific waters. As it slides, everyone on the strand, everyone in the restaurants and bars, all the joggers, the volleyball players, everyone stops to watch. I look back at Gus with the charred remains of his wartime buddies and envision Mr. Fitzgerald among them, their faces all gaunt and tired with thirty-five hazy years and one vivid one, all staring out the windows over layers of changing hues, adorning the mantelpiece shrine beyond.

I turn back to a dying sun.