car ride to Vietnam

“You ready?”

Can anyone be ready for war? Why are we even fighting Vietnam.

“What did they do?”

My brother turned to me, confused. His eyes turned brown at some point, and he looks younger than last night. I don’t know where he got that haircut, but it makes him look so unprofessional.

“What did who do, Dad?”

Dad. I’m a dad now. No, I’ve always been a dad. My son’s so old now, he’s a dad now too.

“The Vietcong, of course. They didn’t do anything for us to go off and fight them, bombing and killing for no reason at all. Such a shame all those boys died, such horrific deaths too. God bless their souls.”

“Yeah Dad, you’re right. They didn’t do anything, and those soldiers did die in horrible, horrible ways. You’re very lucky to have made it out.”

Lucky. Lucky to see my brothers in arms explode right in front of me. Lucky for being diseased with whatever they made use against those foreign kids. He’s lucky, he didn’t get drafted. My brother’s always been the lucky one.

“Lucky? I’m being sent off to die! Stop joking this is serious.”

“You’re not going to die Dad, Jesus. It’s just a senior living environment. We’ll all visit you as much as we can and you’ll have plenty of autonomy, but this way if you fall again or have another serious asthma attack a doctor will be right there to make sure you’re okay. Now I got all your bags and Delilah in the car, its you’re turn.”

Arm in arm we walked out of the house and up to the car. This might be the last time I see this neighborhood. It’s changed so much since I was a kid; flower beds torn up with trees and fences replanted in their place, boxy bland cars line the street while the neighbor’s new kids play in it, houses painted dull colors with more floors added and facing a different direction.

“Don’t forget your seatbelt, Dad. Here just let me…”

On the plane already. Seems like just a second ago I was saying bye to everyone. Now I’m in a helicopter with a gun, scouting the ground for any movement. The pilot keeps reporting commands from our general, but the sound of the blades and whirling drowns him out.

“YOU SOUND LIKE TV STATIC MAN; WE CAN’T UNDERSTAND YOU!”

“Jesus Christ Dad! Why are you screaming? Delilah’s a baby, no one can understand her. Just face forward and listen to the music, okay?”

As the radio gets louder everything around me gets darker. I think I’m in a hospital, I smell bleach and death. There’s crying and screaming, and prayers being mumbled everywhere.

“This is it, isn’t it? This is it.”

“What are you going on about now Dad?”

Clarity.

“This song. They played it when I woke up in the hospital. My first thought was to check my legs, make sure they weren’t chopped off. They loved to do that back then. They didn’t know what else to do but it’s a cruel world they sent those boys back to. The guys on either side of me were amputated, left leg on my right and both legs and my left. I wonder what happened to them. I was released before them, and they were glad I wasn’t seriously injured. They were mature, war really does age you. They were so old yet so young, we all were. ‘Them good ol’boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye and singing ‘this’ll be the day that I die.’”

I turned to my son, hoping he’d sing along. We used to sing in the car after his baseball practices all the time when he was younger. His strong brown eyes are covered in tears, turning them cold and blue.

“I don’t think I remember the last time I saw you cry.”

“Probably back when mom died.”

Gone.

He sniffed, wiping his face, and checking on something rattling in the backseat. It’s odd what he said. He died before mom, car accident. Some drunk driver smashed right into him on his way home one night. Mom and Dad were out of state, and I had to id my own brother.

“You had blue eyes when you died, I don’t know why they changed.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just stared off at the road making turns and following traffic. I must’ve gotten into another fight. I’m always getting into fights, it’s routine at this point. Some kids make fun of me, and I try to teach them a lesson. I barely get to throw two punches before the principal is on my ass talking about ‘safety’ and ‘respect’. Then my dad picks me up and we drive home in silence. A rage-based silence. Except this time was different, the silence wasn’t from rage but more from grief. He’s finally given up on me. I’m the mayor’s kid, I need to be setting an example not getting suspended every chance I get. It always feels so cheap when he says this, if I’m your kid why are you never here? You’re less of a dad and more of a neighbor. A neighbor that only comes over to yell at me for being such a screw-up. He parked the car and we both went inside without a word.

“Dad? We’re here. The nice nurse is gonna help you get settled in and we’ll see you in a few days, ok? Dad? Are you listening?”

“He’s listening, don’t worry. Dementia patients have pauses like this sometimes. Just hug him bye and get going.”

“Oh, ok. Yeah, um, bye Dad. See you soon.”

He hugged me and left. Not even a second look back. He just hugged me then left. This could be the last time he sees me and doesn’t even try to remember my face. Screw you, Dad! I’m going off to fight in a war, I’m finally becoming the man you bullied me so hard to be and you don’t even care if I die or not because of it. Am I your son, or just another disposable soldier whose death you’ll use to fuel your blood-hungry campaign?

“I hope I never see you again.”