Peace, Pot & Microdots
The Veteran I’ll Never Forget
Over 20 years ago an encounter with a Vietnam Vet left a permanent imprint on my heart.
Hiding under a drowsy haze, my eyes shift out the window and see his. This stranger’s weary eyes staring off into the great abyss, as if there were answers to his questions just a little bit further away. I barely hear my manager’s disturbed sigh over my own intrigue.
“Oh great,” he grumbles and heads to the back office.
I wonder where this stranger kept warm on these winter nights? I watch him as he, with an almost childish manner of hands, shoves half a muffin into his mouth. Leaving crumbs on his worn-out face and in his brownish-gray, tangled hair that has not seen a comb in quite some time. His faded, green, army-issued coat cloaks him in a constant reminder of the horrific place that emptied him of himself, returning him to a reality shoved into shadows. The only thing real that remains is his own hunger. He looks deep into the distance. I can feel his whole face asking, wondering, “What is there left to live for?”
It’s an early Saturday morning, the sun is peeking brightly over the Blue Ridge Mountains. The blue sky and melting snow are a welcome advertisement that Spring will soon be born. The hills are alive again in this little town veiled behind thick curtains of quaintness. I sometimes wonder what pulling back even just a little bit of it will reveal.
My deep wondering is interrupted by a raspy voice saying, “Fifteen on pump three.” A reminder that I am supposed to be working.
I work at the mecca of all activity for this small town, the local gas station convenience store. My daily observations here are definitely a peek behind the curtain. Customer after customer comes in and drops the clues to their life down on the counter. Cigarettes, energy pills, lottery tickets, 40 oz beers that I put in paper bags (even though everyone knows what’s hidden behind the paper). Many of the same people come in at the same time every day, and I bag up their survival kits that get them to the next day. Nearly every member of this town is a frequent patron, and our store buzzes with activity and small-town gossip. Although truth be told, not much really happens here. Not too long ago, a young man in a truck barely bumped an older woman’s car in our parking lot; before we knew it, all four police cars were in front of the store.
I take a sip of my coffee and resume observing the stranger. He sets his tattered, torn backpack of all his worldly possessions down on the ground and makes his way inside. He smiles brightly at me, revealing his toothless mouth, his eyes try to smile too but are clouded behind weariness and desperation.
“Hi there, darlin’.”
“Hi, how are you today?” I respond curiously.
He mumbles a response I can’t quite hear.
The stranger wanders around the store. It’s a busy as usual Saturday. The store is occupied with several people picking out their favorite snacks and cigarettes. A middle-aged man wearing a Ralph Lauren tie and crisply dry cleaned button-up shirt is leaving the store, and the stranger looks at him expectantly.
“Excuse me, sir, but could you help a Vietnam vet today?”
“Sorry,” mumbles the man without so much as even glancing over at the stranger as he walks out to his brand new Acura on pump 5.
Mr. Vietnam Vet looks at me, “It’s a hard life when you’re white and ugly… no one wants to help you,” he says. The mantra of a man who has lost heart.
This was not the first time he had been passed by, almost invisible, or smugly regarded as an incompetent drain on society. I supposed it would not be the last.
“Would it be alright if I used your phone to call my lawyer?” He asks me.
I try not to act surprised that he has a lawyer, and in doing so, I recognize my own stereotypes. I think he senses my doubts.
“My lawyer, he is a good man, he will give me a ride to the VA hospital.”
I dial the number for him and overhear the conversation. Apparently, Mr. Vietnam Vet is going to the VA hospital to collect some kind of money.
“Yep,” he says, “them sons of bitches are finally gonna give me my money, it’s about damn time.” As he hangs up the telephone, he pats the counter with his hands and says, “Peace, pot, and microdots.”
He looks around the store and asks me if I would give him a cup of coffee. My manager was in the back now, so I figured it would be alright. As I get him the coffee, we joke around about this and that.
“Have you ever tried the cappuccino? I ask.
“Oh nah, that will be way too sweet.” He insists.
“Oh you might like it.”
“Ok, I’ll give it a try just for you.”
As he drinks, the thick froth clings to his mustache and parts of his beard in a rather revolting way. I contemplate getting him a napkin; I refrain for fear of damaging his pride.
As our eyes meet again, he looks at me as if he is sure he has found a kindred spirit. As I look back into his eyes, I detect a soul yearning to understand and be understood. I recognize a heart in desperate need of love. I witness a soldier that feels betrayed by his country. I see a man whose life was taken from him, and he is hungry to have it back.
While waiting around for his lawyer, he rambles on about how “We all need to love one another…” and “No one seems to do that anymore.” He speaks of “them” coming, and of “Peace, pot, and microdots.” He keeps saying, “Peace, pot, and microdots” over and over like it’s a final conclusion or declaration. This phrase, stuck in his brain like a piece of shrapnel from the war, a wound keeping him stuck in a time that has since passed. The place where genius once lived now houses the vain repetitions of a lost man.
He continues to ask the customers that come in and out for a ride or a cup of coffee, or some spare change. Most ignore him. He gets a few odd looks. He even gets a couple dollars. “Peace, pot and microdots!” he says with enthusiasm.
“Ya know honey, today, people don’t know what’s important, ya know? I mean, you ain’t real if you can’t hug someone,” as he says this, he wraps his arms around himself and squeezes hard. “I can tell you know what I’m talking about, dontcha?” he looks around the store a little bit, “Yep, it’s a hard life when you’re ugly… and no one will help you, yeah. I’m one ugly son of a bitch.”
Just then, a little girl wearing a white dress with tiny yellow flowers on it walks in attached to her mother’s hand. The frills at the bottom of her skirt seem to be bouncing her around the store. Her bright, blonde hair, straight and stringy with bangs framing her huge round crystal blue eyes. Mr. Vietnam Vet turns around, and the little girl looks up at him wide-eyed. She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t hide behind her mom.
“Hi there,” he proceeds to talk to her about unimportant and silly things. Her responses to him are just as nonsensical. Her mother observes and seems nervous but allows it as she picks out her items.
Then the little girl asks, “What’s your name?”
“Well, it’s Thomas, but most people used to call me Tommy.”
She smiles at him. “Nice to meet you Tommy. I’m Sally.” She reaches out to shake his hand.
He gently joins his hand to hers, “Nice to meet you Sally.”
I think to myself, “I can’t believe I didn’t even ask his name.” I’d watched all these adults walk by Tommy as if he were invisible, but not this little girl.
As she leaves, he sincerely says, “Thanks for letting me talk to you, youngin’.”
She waves goodbye, looks back at him as she walks out and smiles. “Bye, Tommy!” To her, he was not ugly, or crazy, or scary, or even a drain. He was a real man, not an invisible one.
Tommy turns back to me, leans against the counter, shakes his head, and says, “I think that’s what I live for.”
“And what is that, Tommy?” I asked, even though I could feel the answer.
He took a deep breath, “Feelin’ real darlin’. Feelin’ real.”
When he headed to the door, he appeared to be standing taller than when he first walked in. He looked back at me and waved, “Peace, Pot, and Microdots.”