Memories & Memorials

On a beautiful Thursday, I decided to walk to Charlie Hooper’s for a burger and a beer.  It was the perfect time of year to walk through the village known as Brookside to one of the local iconic pubs that helps to anchor this eclectic neighborhood.  Its heavily scarred wooden door was propped open.  Just as I turned to go in, I saw two older guys get out of a slightly rusty 1953 Chevy pick-up truck parked on the street just a couple spots down from the door.

I had just sat down when I saw they had followed me in.  “Hooper’s changed hands,” the old duffer with a six foot walking stick informed his partner as they sidled their way to the dimmer regions at the back of the pub.  Things change slowly in Brookside.  That’s the way the locals want it.  But Charlie Hooper’s does indeed have a new owner.  With new owners come changes.   

They chose a high top table nestled in the corner just steps beyond mine.  The guy with the walking stick took the stool where both walls were behind him as if he was a nineteenth century gunslinger who made it a practice to keep a wary eye on the barroom door.  He rested his walking stick in the corner and hung his POW*MIA cap on it, suggesting he was a veteran from the Viet Nam era.  

He settled on his stool and waived away the menu offered by the server.  A regular didn’t require such things.  “I just don’t know why they need to change everything!” boomed out as if through a conical megaphone pressed to his lips.  “Have you ever tried to get fries out of one of those little wire baskets that are only about four or five inches on a side?  They must be stainless steel.  Just adds to the cost when they could just throw the fries on the plate.”  After a pause, “Of course, they also got rid of the plates.  They just give you a tin tray instead.”

When his partner, who he called Joe,  spoke, the corner seemed to swallow his words.  For the rest of the patrons, the room regained its equilibrium while the typical barroom din filled the air. 

“Not if you have Time-Warner,” he blasted out a minute or so later.  A soliloquy on how to use a television with a computer ensued.  His voice rose more strident and absolute as each point was made.  Near the end of his dissertation, Joe broke in and corrected some point.  A cough and guffaw followed as his entire stream of egoistic expertise unraveled as decisively as when my seven year old grandson says to me, “Papa you just need to push this button on the remote.”

For another few minutes the welcome pub din reclaimed the room.  Patrons' heads clustered around their own tables.  All eyes turned away from the back of the bar.  

I could hear Joe telling PJ, that’s what Joe called him, to relax and enjoy himself.  “Don't be so critical of everything.”  Without summoning his full throated volume, PJ almost whispered back, "I just miss her.  I miss them all.  Nothing stays the same.  I feel angry almost all of the time.”  From their conversation I could tell they had been soldiers together decades before.  They fought in the war where no one at home said thank you.  It was the war when soldiers mustering out were told not to wear their uniforms when they got home.  They were called baby killers, not hailed as protectors of freedom.  They were shunned by people who sent them into southeast Asia; their lives permanently changed by fate.  

With Memorial Day weekend just days ahead, I had stopped to buy flowers and flags for the graves of my dad and brother.  I understood what missing people, family and close friends, feels like.  PJ might have arrived at that point in life where future expectations weren’t sufficiently real to keep him moving on.  Too many expectations had gone unfulfilled or failures weighed too heavy.  So many changes had left sadness and feeling lost in the crevices carved by loss and longing.  He might have worried that he had simply failed at life.

But Joe was a good friend to PJ.  Joe would not allow despondency to win this day.  He tweaked PJ, as only banter between close friends can do.  He egged him on so that PJ would unashamedly boom forth his unfiltered thoughts.  

After a few loud comments punctuated with belly laughs PJ said, “Joe, you’re seventy-eight years old.  Don’t you realize that you’re never going to be seventy-six again?!  Go ahead and live a little!” … So they ordered another round.  Sadly, it was time for me to leave or I might have ordered one too.

  Too little, too late, but as I passed the old Chevy truck, I stuck one of my flags under the wiper.

—td