The barroom was dark, except for dim overhead lights. An off-duty medic, firefighter, and nurse sat on red leather bar stools at the end of the polished wooden bar. They were watching the morning news on television and reading the morning newspaper.
.
Sarah sat next to an already drunken man, who was smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, and talking to himself. He looked about 40. His brown bangs were pressed down on his forehead by a well-worn cap. His striking blue eyes could be seen, despite his eyelids drooping from intoxication.
Sarah heard him say something about the gulf. Since a lot of former military people spend time in this neighborhood dive bar, she took a guess.
"Did you serve in the Persion Gulf War," she asked?
"Yes," he said. "I was a Lance Corporal in the Marines until the court-martial."
"What happened," Sarah asked?
"Someone said, 'You have 24 hours to live'," he answered.
"Who," Sarah asked?
"I don't know," he replied, "but I broke into a sweat and started shaking," he said, butting his Marlboro in a cheap black plastic ashtray and ordering another Budweiser.
Believing his life was about to end soon, he jumped into a formidable MIA1 Abrams tank and drove it at its maximum speed of 45 mph to a liquor store in Iraq. After buying four cases of beer, he strapped them to the sand-colored, armored battle tank, and rushed back to camp.
His journey didn't go unnoticed.
"Someone snitched on me," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. The court martial resulted in his losing the rank of Lance Corporal, but he faced no other disciplinary measures, at least none that he told Sarah about.
About a year later, she saw him at a neighborhood party. His short dark brown pompadour was neatly styled. He had grown a gray and brown beard. His blue eyes were clear. He stood erect, his chin firm. Had he been in uniform, he would have made a great model for a United States Marine Corps recruiting poster.
Standing by the band playing rock classics, he sang along and tapped his feet. He had an open pint of Southern Comfort in a brown paper bag and a pack of Marlboros in the pocket of his khaki slacks.
Walking up to him, Sarah said, "Remember me from David's Bar?" "Yeah," he said. People were shooting pictures all over the park during the event. There were speeches, food trucks, free pumpkins, face paintings, and raffles.
"I want my picture taken with a handsome man," Sarah said with determination. "What handsome man," he asked? "You," she said, smiling. He seemed genuinely surprised that anyone considered him handsome.
After the photos were taken, Sarah asked about his military career. "My twenty years are up in January," he said, looking up through the golden leaves of a tree to a blue sky with cotton puff clouds floating by. "I can't wait to get out. I've watched the world blow up."
.
Sarah sat next to an already drunken man, who was smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, and talking to himself. He looked about 40. His brown bangs were pressed down on his forehead by a well-worn cap. His striking blue eyes could be seen, despite his eyelids drooping from intoxication.
Sarah heard him say something about the gulf. Since a lot of former military people spend time in this neighborhood dive bar, she took a guess.
"Did you serve in the Persion Gulf War," she asked?
"Yes," he said. "I was a Lance Corporal in the Marines until the court-martial."
"What happened," Sarah asked?
"Someone said, 'You have 24 hours to live'," he answered.
"Who," Sarah asked?
"I don't know," he replied, "but I broke into a sweat and started shaking," he said, butting his Marlboro in a cheap black plastic ashtray and ordering another Budweiser.
Believing his life was about to end soon, he jumped into a formidable MIA1 Abrams tank and drove it at its maximum speed of 45 mph to a liquor store in Iraq. After buying four cases of beer, he strapped them to the sand-colored, armored battle tank, and rushed back to camp.
His journey didn't go unnoticed.
"Someone snitched on me," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. The court martial resulted in his losing the rank of Lance Corporal, but he faced no other disciplinary measures, at least none that he told Sarah about.
About a year later, she saw him at a neighborhood party. His short dark brown pompadour was neatly styled. He had grown a gray and brown beard. His blue eyes were clear. He stood erect, his chin firm. Had he been in uniform, he would have made a great model for a United States Marine Corps recruiting poster.
Standing by the band playing rock classics, he sang along and tapped his feet. He had an open pint of Southern Comfort in a brown paper bag and a pack of Marlboros in the pocket of his khaki slacks.
Walking up to him, Sarah said, "Remember me from David's Bar?" "Yeah," he said. People were shooting pictures all over the park during the event. There were speeches, food trucks, free pumpkins, face paintings, and raffles.
"I want my picture taken with a handsome man," Sarah said with determination. "What handsome man," he asked? "You," she said, smiling. He seemed genuinely surprised that anyone considered him handsome.
After the photos were taken, Sarah asked about his military career. "My twenty years are up in January," he said, looking up through the golden leaves of a tree to a blue sky with cotton puff clouds floating by. "I can't wait to get out. I've watched the world blow up."
