1917
In the middle of the night, I got up for a drink of water, trying to decide if my old ulcer was back or if I’m now just too old to eat pizza. Either way, my stomach was reminding me about my choices, a nagging ache of mild nausea and regret.
Last week, after working six days straight, I took a break – which means I took the bus uptown to the laundromat. Slouched in a plastic seat in the corner, I read a book, waiting for the washer and then the dryer to buzz. A young guy stood oddly near me, hugging the corner of the laminated folding table as I shook out my warm clothes, smoothly folded them and packed them into my bag. Once I finally gave him more than a cursory glance, I realized his attention was locked onto his phone screen. He was in his own world and not paying attention to me or anyone else.
After I finished my laundry, I went next door for a gyros sandwich. The owner of the Sahara Middle Eastern Eatery worked the counter. He tried to upsell me a salad, maybe fries, but I knew I didn’t need more. He seemed frustrated with my small appetite. I carried my sandwich on a red plastic tray, my plastic cup of mint iced tea heavy on one corner. The meat was spicy and rich, the cucumber yogurt sauce delicious in the gooey pita mess I held in thin foil between my sauce-covered hands.
Two middle-aged women sat at the next table, commiserating. The owner had advised one woman to move her SUV so it wouldn’t get hit in the small parking lot; they acted like he’d been ridiculously rude to make such a suggestion, but then the second woman went out to move her large car as well. They’d repositioned their ungainly vehicles in the tight corner parking spots.
I licked my dripping fingers, wiping them somewhat clean with paper napkins. Drinking my iced tea down to the bits of mint leaves in the bottom, I took my tray with my dishes to the counter. The man told me I could just leave it on the table next time; he has people to come pick them up, but thank you. He smiled. I smiled back and raised my hand to say goodbye before pushing out the big glass door with my laundry bag.
The bus took me back to my neighborhood. I recognized a couple of homeless people riding in the seats in front of me, but since I’m still pretty new in town, they didn’t recognize me. I hopped off the bus at my street corner and walked home.
I dropped off my laundry at my apartment, and since this was my only day off, I immediately went out again for groceries. At the store, a dark-haired woman in her 40’s kept appearing ahead of me in the aisles I chose. She would pull her shopping cart over tight to the shelves, or around a corner and huddle over it, glancing over her shoulder at me with haunted eyes. I wondered if she thought I was following her.
As I left the store, security checked the receipt of the brown-skinned couple ahead of me. They carried only a few items. As I approached with two full bags and a full daypack, security waved me through: “Have a nice day.” One of the cloth bags was zipped shut. No one checked it.
I crossed at the corner to the central bus stop platform. A young woman asked me the time. I pulled back the cuff of my jacket sleeve to check my watch. “Right at 5:00,” I told her.
“I like your look,” she said to me with interest.
“My look?”
“Yeah – is it easier, to have your hair short like that? Do you have to style it a lot?” Her hair hung in wild waves all around her face.
“I actually ignore it.”
“I’d love to cut my hair like that….” she added.
“Mine used to look a lot like yours,” I replied.
“Really?” She seemed heartened by this news, as if it might now be possible to cut her hair, change her look, maybe change a lot of things. She smiled and walked back to a different woman beside her bags, telling that woman about how she was new in town, but she saw a video of someone being robbed on the bus, and the video went viral, and the city won’t release their transit video to identify the robber, “so you have to take your own video whenever something happens.” I noticed the young woman’s bohemian skirt was torn in a few places, coming unraveled. Her bags were a hodgepodge of belongings. Her boyfriend had apparently been stabbed recently, per my eavesdropping. I was glad I’d given her the time from my watch and not pulled out my phone from the deep corner of my pack. Some people become very interested in where you keep your wallet and your phone.
At my street, I waited for a line of cars to pass the bus stop. The sun was going down and slowly adding color to the sky. After putting the groceries away, I headed out one last time. The movie didn’t start until 7:30, so I had time to get a slice of pizza and a cider at the corner pizza dive.
The Super Bowl was on the TV, so I read the news on my phone while I waited at the bar for my food. Sipping on the bottle of cold cider, I was engrossed in an in-depth story about investigations into the Saudi connection to 9/11 when suddenly the halftime show came on. Half-dressed, Shakira belly-danced, thrusting her pelvis along with a cadre of all-female dancers, each missing a sleeve and a pant leg to their costumes. I thought of the #MeToo movement compared to these movements. As I finished this thought, Jennifer Lopez burst onto the stage, her dancers wearing miniskirts and leather jackets, J-Lo in leather chaps and a leather bikini. As she and her dancers pumped their crotches at the cameras, her body being panned slowly from bottom to top, a group of little girls in white dresses appeared onstage. Shakira came back dressed in a gold lame swimsuit with fringe on the hips, at which point Lopez returned in a pearly white swimsuit with fringe on the hips.
My pizza slice had lost its flavor as it cooled, sitting half-eaten on the plate as I took another swig from the bottle before me.
So much sparkly fringe. So many costume changes. And here comes the next generation, waiting to sparkle. Nothing changes.
Around every corner, you find people making choices. I can have opinions about those choices, but that’s not always necessary, and often it’s counterproductive. Ever since I got the phone call earlier that day, I’d tried to just listen and pay attention. I’d tried to just notice what was happening around those corners. So many corners. So many lives. So many choices.
Sorry, what were the choices again? Because so much of it seemed to be waiting to catch a bus to Destiny, that place where what has to happen, happens. It’s a loop route that circles back every generation, so the wait’s not too long.
I looked up at the Super Bowl in the corner, as the players returned to the field. This momentous battle between champions reconvened every year, utterly meaningless as a result. Different teams, different costumes. Same battle. Nothing changes.
The bar was busy – too busy for good service. Surrounded by people, I watched the waitstaff hustling, trying to keep up. At a large table behind me, some women celebrated one friend’s birthday, loudly and boisterously. A man came in to pick up several pizzas to go. A family asked for a to-go box, while the men at the next table ordered another round of beer.
Another round. I’d thought of my dad when I’d gotten the call. My youngest son had phoned that afternoon to tell me he’d gotten in. He made it. Not into college – into the Marines. Not ROTC – he enlisted.
I knew it was coming. After all, I’d signed the papers.
Just like my dad, he’ll be 18 by the time he ships out to boot camp. Just. He’s not there yet. But with only five weeks until his birthday, I knew it was futile to block him. He’d simply lose the military intelligence assignment he was hoping for. So I signed to allow a 17-year-old boy to enter the Marines.
The papers were sent to the local headquarters in Denver. Once they found out he already graduated high school, HQ said his recruiter couldn’t let him wait for the military intelligence assignment that started in August. He needed to ship out now. He could have a crew chief position instead. A combat airborne position.
He jumped at it – the action, the glory. He signed for it as soon as it opened up.
After adding a decent tip, I paid my tab and stood to leave, waiting as I put on one sleeve of my jacket, paused as people pushed by, then slipped my arm into the other sleeve. The waitress called goodnight as I gave a nod and headed out the door.
I crossed at the corner and entered the theater. One couple formed the entirety of the line. I stepped in behind them.
“Next.” I ordered my ticket. “Choose your seat – any one you want.” I touched a numbered box and took my ticket. I walked down the nearly empty hallway and entered the theater. Alone.
“You’re the only one,” the man at the ticket counter had told me. I stood a moment and looked at all the empty seats, then slowly walked up a few steps and chose a seat in the center.
1917. I’d already made plans to see “1917,” before my son called, before I knew he was headed for combat. I sat quietly, silently, as the lights dimmed in the empty theater. And then I watched the World War One movie all alone, a lone witness to the flickering images, all the people missing from all the seats, dead bodies all over the screen, the horror, the grim camaraderie, the anguish, the devastating loss, the utter waste of war – shared with no one.
So many sparkly medals. So many costumes. Different teams, different costumes, same battle. And here comes the next generation, waiting to sparkle.
I walked home in the dark, hearing my own footsteps echoing under the train bridge, as if I linked the past to the future around every corner, walking an endless loop.