Golden Haven

He sat on the edge of the bed holding his face in his hands. The mattress rested on a plywood sheet balanced between cement blocks - spaced around the base; and where sheets once protected the surface, now only a torn Army blanket graced the yellow stained surface. He once owned shoes but those like his life were stolen sometime in the night. His feet were covered with the remnants of once white socks and dirty red toes protruded from the threaded openings.

“Oh, God.” His moaning plea verified his pain. A lone cockroach looked up, and then scurried to a darker corner. Smoky plastic sheets flapped in a missing window frame and somewhere a distant train whistle added to the music of the room. “Oh, dear Jesus.” His voice was more prayer than expletive, yet a veritable concert in the hollow space of his soul.

He brushed a mop of hair from his eyes and tried to focus on the brown paper sack resting on a folding chair in the middle of the room. The chair back was stenciled “property of Golden Haven Hotel.” Why is it there? He rose and attempted to move but the vitamin E deficiency made it difficult to stand and focus his gaze. He held on the bed, then stood and balanced against the wall. With one foot sliding forward he took a step and waited for the world to catch up. One hand rested on the wall. Pieces of dried wallpaper crumbled beneath his grip.

“Where are you now doc?” he yelled into the empty room. The doctor at the clinic gave him a shot and a piece of paper. The shot wasn’t bad and he felt better immediately. There had been promises of help, the numbers were written down for him; but he lost the paper. He didn’t need literature to tell him that his end was near, and if he could reach the sack, the end would be sooner than later. Thank God for small favors.

Somewhere a siren echoed through the streets, he cocked his head then remembered he was not on the street, he had crawled into the old hotel sometime in the night. Time and places had little meaning. Another step. Maybe crawling is better. He sunk to his knees and tried to put a hand down on the floor, but missed and his palm slipped out beneath him and he bumped his chin on the cracked linoleum . He rolled over on his side, the searing pain in his stomach made him double up in a fetal position. “Augggg.” A tear ran down his face and dropped onto the floor, a curious red swirl snaked through the liquid.

He thought he saw something move across the room and reached a hand to grab it, but only air was in his grasp. Only the remnants of abandon spider webs hung in the filtering light. A banging sound momentarily distracted his attention. Somewhere outside the door voices were shouting, or fighting, it didn’t really matter. More strangers in the darkness moving about caused dust to fly. “They don’t care,” he shouted toward the empty wall.

He waved his hand about until he managed to stretch to the chair and with his fingertip he touched the leg. “Aw, please,” he begged toward the chair. Finally, he worked his other hand free and pushed his body forward, his arm rocked the chair. The chair tipped then with a loud crash collapsed onto the floor. The sack fell with the chair and a strange shaped plastic bottle fell out and bounced on the floor. An ounce of brown liquid splashed on the linoleum. With another loud “Augggg,” he thrust his hand through the sticky liquid and then licked his fingers. A flash of the doctor’s warning blinked in his memory. “Who cares?” His shout bounced off of the vacant wall.

“I care.”

The voice startled him. He rolled from where he lay and searched for the source. An image silhouetted in the window opening was standing with open hands.

“I care.” The voice repeated.

Somewhere in this the recesses of his mind he remembered a God of old. Something he thought he believed in during his youth. He remembered the white washed church, the families gathering on the lawn. He remembered the touch of people, of love, and life; and he remembered his belief, and the stories of faith. “What happened?” he heard himself say as he heart answered, “help me Lord, is it you Lord?” The anguish twisted his face as he cried, “forgive me Lord.”

“I care.”
______________

The article in the next day’s paper read “Transient man found dead in closed hotel. The former Golden Haven is known to be frequented by the city’s homeless. Police are searching for relatives.”

A Quiet Hero

Nelson Gables loved to walk along the river. Each day during his walk he would stop by the hotdog stand in the park. There he would purchase a Coney dog and a big orange drink. Then he would walk over to a park table, sit and eat. The only days he missed his trek was when it snowed very hard, or the rain blew in such a way that walking along the river was too difficult.

Nelson never bothered anyone, didn’t speak, and didn’t seem to have acquaintances. Nobody seemed to notice Nelson, so the day he quit coming to the hot dog stand, there was nobody around to inquire about his absence.

The river rolled on, excited children purchased Coney dogs and sweet drinks, and the city moved at the same pace it had before Nelson quit walking.

A few weeks later, the hot dog vendor opened the newspaper and read a headline to an article on the second page. It said, “Remains of elderly man found in abandoned house.”
The article went on to say that the remains were of Nelson Gables, a WWII veteran; a man who had lived in the village all of his life after the war. He had no known occupation, belonged to no civic groups, and there was no known church affiliation.

The probate judge said there was enough in his bank account to bury him; so a committee from the VFW organized a grave-side service. Three older men fired rifles in the air. And a woman from the auxiliary placed a small American flag next to the plain headstone.

When the probate judge ordered his bank-box unsealed they found only three boxes and folded piece of paper. The boxes held two purple hearts, and an odd shaped silver star; the paper was a Presidential citation signed by Roosevelt. The contents were sent to the local historical society, where they were put into a drawer with other WWII memorabilia.

The Veterans disability check showed up for two more months. A court appointed estate attorney begrudgingly sent the checks back, listed the house for the sheriff’s tax sale, and hired a junk man to clean out the house.

About a year later, an elderly woman entered the bank claiming to be Nelson Gables half sister. She was directed to the court house, and managed to speak with the appointed attorney. The last anyone saw of her was when she left the courthouse and drove away.

For years after that, a small flag and a single rose decorated the Gable’s grave – at least every Memorial Day. Eventually, that practice too, stopped.

A couple of years ago the state decided to widen the highway. The tiny village graveyard was in the way. Amid much ado the families of the deceased were all notified and arrangements for relocation of the graveyard were made. That is, except for Nelson Gables.

The cheap marker had crumbled away, and although the authorities knew that someone was buried there they could not identify the plot; so, they had the grave moved to a section of the new cemetery designated for unknown individuals. A white cross was driven into the soil at the head of his grave.

Now, as cars drive by, Coney dogs are consumed, and the river rolls on, the forgotten remains of Corporal Nelson Gables stand their final watch.

Short Writings from Pain II

I looked at my watch; it had been an hour since the Captain gave our patrol front control. A flare lit the night sky. My men and I sunk lower into the trench. In seconds we would probably hear the explosions on the wire, and then we would raise up and target the men, women, and children climbing through the razor wire. We waited.

“Sarge, when?”

“Hush, Ollie, you’ll know the signal.” Oliver Mason was a new body in our short patrol; fresh out of high school and thirty days out of basic. He was a big kid, so we strapped him with an M-60, and two belts of ammunition. With four grenades hanging off of his flak jacket he looked like a metal cow on two legs. He also had a big wad in his back pocket.

“Ollie,” I whispered, “what’s in your pocket?”

“Grenade, Sarge.”

“Man, you fall on your tail and you’ll kill us all.”

Nunez the Rat took a half step to the left of Ollie and glared back at his heavily armed comrade. The Rat held an unlit cigarette between his lips, but he sucked on it like a baby’s bottle. Nunez was a slight kid, about nineteen years old, perfect for poking down tunnels. He was always nervous about tunneling, but followed orders. I liked to say he was patroling the underground. I think he was still partially deaf and stunned from discharging the 45 in a tunnel earlier in the afternoon, but we needed every warm body we could find on the line that night.

I had the Tremor Dog on my right, not a four-legged one, but a man of unusual viciousness and totally uncaring. I didn’t know much about him, except I wanted him next to me. I had seen him rip through a charge of our dark enemy – his M-16 chattering from his right hip and a stolen AK firing from his left hand. He wore the notches on his knife handle like a badge of honor. Often at night he left camp only to return in the morning with another notch and a string of ears. Nobody controlled the dog.

Reynolds, the lieutenant, was on the end the back row with Big “O,” the radio guy. They were both new, simply replacements for body bags. I think Reynolds got a commission from a cereal box, I had spent most of my off minutes teaching him the art of surviving. On paper, Lieutenant Reynolds was our leader. I guess that is why he was behind us.

Big “O” the radio guy was a communications specialist. Somebody told me he was a disc jockey before the draft. He supposedly was our communications back to the line. Communications guys don't last long on the line.

The only other member of our team was Liam our forward man. He was buried under some brush - just before the wire. If the perimeter was breached he was to sit up with the fifty and begin shooting from the rear. Hopefully, his friendly fire would not find one of us. Also, if we were all down, he was to find a way to our line before the enemy caught him.

The sparks from the flare descended from the sky. I peeked through my scope at the wire, nothing was moving. I could feel my heart rate slow. “Martin Luther” never was in this situation.” I slid down the trench beside Ollie. I could see his eyes peering beneath helmet. Big white circles circled in black grease. He kind of looked like a raccoon.

“Relax Ollie, everythings smooth. Nothing moving for two clicks.” I tipped my helmet back.

Nobody felt the earth shake, nobody thought about the pain, and nobody expected the end. But, there it was, at least for us.

I heard Big "O" yell, "medic!" He was paniced.

The last thing I remember before the wire lit up, was a voice whispering to me. “Who’s in control now?”

----

Short Writings from Pain

We weren't expecting much action, we had been moved to a rear area for real beds and hot meals. They called our job recon, we had been out, but we were back; so, we certainly had not anticipated a body bag count. But, there it was, at least for seven of us. I was one of the lucky ones, in the can for midnight dysentery; I didn’t hear the explosion, didn’t feel my body being lifted off of the wooden seat; indeed what I have said so far had to be told to me later.

It was December 1967, the nights were freezing and the days were rainy. We were on flat ground with only concertina wire for protection – we simply called it “the wire,” two strands of razor wire interwoven – virtually impossible to penetrate by hand after sloshing though knee deep mud. I was an interrogator; putting it in polite terms a part time interviewer. A dubious honor bestowed because I spoke both French and Spanish. Neither language did my interviewees know. We spoke English, they spoke something else. I had a keen ear to their inflections, and with that we determined their fate.

A nurse waved her hand in front of my face and tried to mouth some words. I had a card from my girlfriend, so I picked up the envelope and wrote: “what do you want?”

She took my pencil and wrote beneath my scribble. “Your dad is here.” She tossed the envelope on my chest and walked out of ward. I was accustomed to the surly attitude in our ward. Thank God for Demerol.

My buddy, in the bunk next to me, poked me and pointed at the note. He got no mail and seemed to delight in reading the letters I was receiving from my family. I felt sorry for him, and wanted to ask him for an address so we could write, but I never did. He looked at my note, then slapped my arm, and seemed to be quite delighted. I hoped it was for me. I think he was yelling something down the ward. Because, when I lifted my head there were men applauding and seemed to be shouting with glee.

Our hospital ward was akin to a skin rash with bursting blisters; a cesspool of blood and bandages; a virtual example of, well lets just say, for the wounded and dying. Our government closed its eyes to returning men and women. I think politicians were more interested in killing college kids.

Two large black men in white tee shirts suddenly appeared at my bedside. One picked me up while the other slid pants over my legs including the cast. Then they handed me a class “A” shirt, said something, and left. A wheel chair soon appeared. A cute nurse, I had never seen before, pushed it to my bunk. She patted the seat and indicated for me to sit. I hopped on one leg out of my bunk and waved to my buddy. The note said I was going to see my father, I guessed it was visitation day, and I was going out for awhile.

The nurse rolled me down to a sterile lobby. There, seated on a couch, was my father and another man, I assumed the man was our family physician. Both stood when I rolled in. The nurse said something to my father then handed him a large brown envelop.

The other man rubbed my shoulder and bent down to look at my ears. I looked up and saw kind eyes of the gentleman. Minutes later I was sitting in the front seat of my father’s huge sedan. The other man sat in the back and examined my ears and head; otherwise investigating me as best he could from the rear seat of a car.

Again, thank God for Demerol. I think I slept from New Jersey to home, so I obviously missed a couple of stops. When we arrived at my parent’s house my mother and sister met me at the car. The physician wasn’t with us then, but I began to hear the sound of the neighbor’s barking dog – the first sound I had heard since December.

There were no parades, although our pastor and a number of men from the VFW stopped by and talked to my dad. Each day my hearing improved until I began to understand words. Eventually, I fully recovered. Now, nearly 40 years later, my hearing is again leaving, I still walk with a limp, and a check arrives on the first of the month. I never knew the physician’s name, I didn’t ask. My parents are gone now; I suppose the physician is tending to them.