Peter, 'Nam, '69
Peter, ‘Nam, ‘69
“Hey Ken,” Charlie said.
Ken looked up from his shelving, a copy of Sledge’s With the Old Breed at Peleliu in his hands. “What’s up, Charlie?”
“You’ve got someone looking for you,” Charlie said, nodding back towards the information desk.
“Thanks,” Ken said and Charlie smiled before walking back to Fiction. Ken stretched as he stood, putting the book down on the shelving cart. He walked out of the Military History section and into the main aisle. A large man with unkempt clothes and wild hair stood at the information desk. As Ken walked closer he could hear the man.
“Listen, I know he’s working today. He’s the only one of you who actually knows a damned about books,” he snapped.
Dan, standing nervously behind the desk, looked uncertainly at the man.
“Hello Peter,” Ken said.
Peter turned around, grinning. He stuck out a large hand and Ken shook it. “I knew that you were working today. He didn’t know who you were,” he said, jerking his thumb back at Dan.
“That’s alright, Peter,” Ken said, leading the man away from the desk. “Dan’s new. He hasn’t got all of our names down yet.”
Peter grunted and they walked over to the bargain tables.
“So,” Ken said, turning to face the man, “what are you looking for today?”
“Nothing.”
“Really?” Ken asked, surprised.
Peter smiled under the white stubble of his beard. “I may poke around a bit after, but I came to have lunch with you.
“Well,” Ken grinned, “thank you very much.”
“You help me a lot with the books, Ken,” Peter said, “and I do appreciate it.”
“Not a problem, Ken said and he motioned to the café. “You know, even here there are only a few that I can talk with about collectible books.”
Peter nodded, leading the way to the café. “I understand. One of the reasons I love my wife so much. Not only is she smarter than me,” he smiled, “but she collects books, too.”
The sound of their shoes rang out sharply as they transitioned from the carpet of the book-floor to the tile of the café.
Hannah smiled at them as they walked up to the counter. “Hello Ken.”
“Hello Hannah,” Ken said, returning the smile.
“I’m buying,” Peter said. He took a monstrous, mangled, and horribly faded wallet from a back pocket.
Ken nodded, and Hannah did as well.
“Go ahead,” Peter said, motioning to Ken.
“I’ll have a plain bagel, toasted with cream cheese on the side, and a large black dark roast, please,” Ken said.
“Okay, and what’ll you have, sir?” Hannah asked.
“Small black and two of those chocolate chip cookies in the case there, please.”
“And what’s your number, Ken?” Hannah asked.
Ken rattled off his employee number and Hannah deftly entered it. “Okay,” Hannah said. “Fife thirty two, please.”
“Discount works here, too?” Peter asked.
“It does.”
Since there was no one in line behind them the two men stood at the counter waiting. Hannah got them their coffees, Peter his cookies, and put Ken’s bagel in the toaster.
“No work today?” Ken asked.
“Took it off,” Peter answered. “Anniversary of a sort.”
Ken nodded.
The bagel came out a minute later and the two of them went to a small table by the unlit fireplace.
“So,” Ken said, “an anniversary.”
“Of a sort,” Peter nodded. He lifted up a cookie. “I’ve taken this day off every year since 1969. Which makes it even stranger.”
“What?”
“Ah,” Peter smiled, taking another bite. He chewed quickly, holding up one finger. He swallowed and nodded to himself. “My mother found my silver stars.”
“Stars?” Ken asked.
Peter nodded, the smile fading. “I did three tours in Viet Nam, and they gave me two silver stars.” Peter took a sip of his coffee.
“My father was in Viet Nam,” Ken said.
“What did he do?”
“Army crew chief on a Huey.”
Peter grunted. “Good work. Hard work.” He dark a little more of his coffee. “I was in the Navy. A SEAL. That’s why I take this day off every year.
“Because you were a SEAL?”
“Yes,” Peter took another bite of one of the cookies, chewed thoughtfully and said, “You know that it’s not like the movies. I can see that. You get all these assholes jumping around and shooting shit with suppressors. That wasn’t how we working in Southeast Asia. We used our hands. Garrotes. Knife-work. Close and dirty work.” He looked down at his hands, the fingers splayed and the palms up.
“Dirty work, Ken,” Peter said. Looking up he asked, “Do you understand?”
Ken nodded.
“You don’t realize how strong a man is until you’re drowning him in a stream. How much he truly wants to live.” Peter opened and closed his hands.
“May Sixth, 1969,” Peter said. “The anniversary of the last man I killed. NVA officer I drowned in a little stream.”
Peter picked up his coffee, took a sip and smiled at Ken. “I take this day each year to remember him.”