Ummmm.... hello?

In honor of Pearl Harbor Day, which everyone else seems to have forgotten, I'm re-posting this piece from last March. It's called "Joe." I've gotten a lot of good feedback on it, and maybe people who've just picked up reading this blog will like it too.

God bless the men and women who died that day. Let's try not to forget.




Joe.


There's a greasy spoon in my town that is so greasy hardly anybody eats there. I get a lot of funny looks when I tell people it's one of my favorite restaurants in town. But it's prime real-estate for people-watching, and I always seem to meet some local yokel or wayfaring stranger when I'm there. I stopped in the other morning on my way home from the Del Cid's house. I was craving two eggs and dry rye toast like only Walt could make it, and I was glad I got there before his 2 am - 10 am shift was up. Seeing me walk up to the door, Cheryl already had my coffee waiting on the counter by the time I sat down at my favorite stool.

"Where's your newspaper, hon?"
"Eh, I try not to read the news on Saturdays. Why depress myself on my one morning off? I've got Hampton Sides today", pulling a battered copy of "Americana" from my bulging purse. (Speaking of which, has any other woman noticed that she feels compelled to fit as many things in her purse as humanly possible? I swear I feel like Mary Poppins sometimes, but I digress. More on this later...)

The book I had that morning was a collection of interviews with various Americans of note or non-note, all done by Hampton Sides, a magazine contributor. After spending all night watching bad Spanish soap operas, I was in the mood to hear stories about real life. Apparently, I went to the right place.

I was deep into building my egg-and-toast tower and holding the book open with my elbow and the edge of my coffee saucer when I noticed a man watching me at the other end of the lunch counter. He was very old, hunched over, with a sprinkling of peach fuzz on his head, and he was smiling at me. Now, ordinarily, when I see an old man smiling at me from afar, it's not in a friendly fashion and I try to ignore it. But there was nothing malicious or lecherous about this man; his eyes were kind and his face was sweet.

"You're reading!", he said, brightly stating the obvious. This caught me off guard and I giggled.
"Uh, yeah. Yes, I am.", not bothering to hide my amusement.
"You know, not many people do that nowadays." He was right, and his being right made me a little sad.
"You said it. But do you read?"
"Oh, I read just about anything that comes out. I snap 'em up faster then they can put 'em on the shelf!".
This made me laugh again, and I was glad for it. I liked this man.
"What's your name?", I asked him.
"Joe Craven." As he answered, he shifted a few stool closer to me.

We chatted about our favorite books and authors, and eventually it came out that I was working on a book of my own. I told Joe about it and he smiled, saying, "I'm sitting next to a regular Dorothy Parker!". The comparison made me blush. As I looked down to hide my embarrassment, he turned to look out the window. As he did so, I noticed his huge belt buckle, framed by the sides of his windbreaker, stretching from his lap almost to his chest.

Now, growing up in a semi-hick town, as I did, I learned never to make fun of belt buckles - better yet, don't even bring up the subject of belt buckles, because the minute you make fun of one will be the minute the wearer will tell you it's a steel memorial to their grandfather, or Dale Earnhart, or something. I've gotten in the habit of ignoring them, because I think they teeter on the edge ridiculousness as an accessory. (Then again, this is coming from a girl who has red and white strapped stiletto heels with huge beaded flowers on them, so I have no room to talk.) But I looked closely at this one, because it caught my eye. I noticed the words, "Blue and Gray" on it, surrounded by stars, and I figured it was Civil War memorabilia. But as he turned to flag down Cheryl, I saw the letters, "29th Infantry" on it as well. Judging from his age, I figured he had to have fought in World War II. It was then that I asked to see the buckle. When he turned to me and hooked his thumbs behind it, I asked him if he had been in the Army. His blue eyes grew quiet, suddenly shy.

"Yeah", he croaked, "the 29th." Then he muttered under his breath, as if embarrassed, "D-Day."
I felt my face change. "You were at D-Day?"
"Yeah, yeah, I was", he said, with a nervous tap on the counter.
Knowing what little I know about the battle, I didn't want to press for details. So instead I gave him that "please keep talking?" that is necessary to perfect.

He told me the story of a young man he had met in the same diner a few days before, a soldier in fatigues. It turned out this soldier was currently serving in the 29th Infantry division, just as Joe had, and was returning from a second tour in Iraq. They talked about wars both old and new, where they had fought, what equipment they used during battle, and found they shared a love of biscuits and gravy. Then the young man said his goodbyes, paid his check, and left. Later on, when Joe asked for his check, Cheryl placed it in front of him on the counter, saying, "That soldier wrote you a note, hon." The total was crossed out, and scribbled across the top were the words, "Paid on Omaha Beach."

"Yeah," he said quietly, as he finished recounting the story. "People who have been there know what it's like." He stared at his hands as he said this, and I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Our eyes met, and we smiled.

"Well, " he stammered, getting up to leave. "I'd like to read your book someday. I hope I get the chance."
"I hope you do, too", I said. "Would you mind if you're in it?"
He blushed the color of the Sweet and Low packets. "Awwwww, I don't have anything interesting to tell you."
With that, he waved goodbye and walked out the door.

He could not have been more wrong.