Flash Fiction Contest entry

What I Saw At The Beach
I saw a dragon flying up the beach this afternoon. Some may think I’m making this up or that I must be nuts.
The only reason I bring this up is to explain why I am sure that I am not crazy. Back in ‘65, I joined the army, as many of my friends had done. There was a war where the southern part of this country had decided that they wanted to be their own country and the northerners decided that it would be better to completely destroy the south then to have it be it’s own country.
Well, my experience as a solder was a short one. I arrived at the regimental headquarters at about 6 in the afternoon and at eight I was in the hospital with a gunshot wound to the head. I was sitting by the kitchen tent cleaning the new rifle I was issued when a guy about fifty feet to my left thought he was being funny and aimed his rifle at a water bag hanging nearby. Well it was loaded and went off when this guy “accidentally” pulled the trigger. The bullet ricocheted off a cast iron frying pan, passed clean through the water bag and hit me right behind my right ear. I woke up about dawn with the most extreme headache and I was not able to move my left hand or leg. The surgeon explained to me that I had been shot, but the bullet had hit so many things before it hit me that it had flattened out and just barely penetrated my skull. The good news was that the damage was minimal to my brain and that most, if not all the use of my arm and leg would return, hopefully. The bad news was that first, they had decided to leave the bullet in my head. To remove it might cause more damage and it was best to just leave it where it was. Secondly, the war, for me was over. One day! And I wasn’t even shot by an enemy solder. I was home exactly four day from when I had left.
That was nearly forty years ago. The war ended. The north won to my disappointment, and the country is again reunified. I still have terrible headaches and I see crossed eyed when I get really tired, or drunk. The bullet is still there and I use it as a bar gag to get free drinks. I bet people that they can see the bullet in my head and they gladly buy me drinks for the privilege. Sometimes quite a few drinks.
But I wasn’t tired or drunk when I saw the dragon flying up the beach this afternoon. I was out pulling crab lines along the tidal pools about a mile from town. At first I didn’t hear anything. I just sensed a shadow passing overhead. When I looked up there it was. A hideous sight to be sure. Dark brown and glowing in the bright sunshine. It had two wings about forty feet wide, one on top of the other. Just as it passed me I heard it growl. A low whiny growl like the noise from an injured cat. And, then it was gone. Over the dunes and out of sight.
I hurried as fast as I could to town and went directly to the Sheriff’s office to report what I had seen. A large crowd had gathered in front of the office, so I assumed that I must not have been the only one to see the monster. As I drew closer, I could hear that the Sheriff was making an announcement. “Ladies and Gentlemen, It is my great honor to welcome Misters Orville and Wilbur Wright to Kittyhawk.”

THE THREE SEASONS OF MAINE

An Essay by a Maine Man in Mexico
Let me begin by saying that I was not born in Maine so I am not a Native Mainer. That fact makes a difference to some "real" Mainers, although I can't for the life of me understand why. I guess it's like being Italian or Jewish. A way to include some and exclude others. I was brought to Maine when I was three and raised as a Mainer. I have not, however, lived in Maine for many years. Some of those years by choice and some by chance. If the philosophers are correct, we experience life as a succession of choices which have consequences, which lead to more choices and ...well, you get the idea. Anyway, through a long sequence of choices and consequences I have been away from Maine since 1973. But my memory of Maine and it's seasons is as clear as if I had never left. Maine has only three seasons. Humorists and cynics say there are only two seasons, Winter and Tourist. While others insist that Maine has four distinctly separate and beautiful seasons. This could be true if a Spring and Fall can be a week or ten days in length. And then there are those who divide Maine into recreational seasons. There's Black Fly season, Trout season, Mosquito season, Hunting season, Black Fly season, again, and, of course football season, High School Football Season, to be correct. But I know, having been raised there, that there are only three distinct seasons. One of these seasons, however, repeats twice during the year.
Winter is the longest of these three. It begins somewhere around Columbus Day and ends around Memorial Day. Other than being exceptionally pretty once in a while, winter is dark, cold and quiet. Dark because the sun doesn't rise until after school or work begins and sets at, or very nearly at, the time you get home from work or school. Quiet because everyone bunkers in, shuts down, and goes into hibernation mode for the entire season. The tourists are gone, the "away" people have left for another year, and, other than ice fishing, and that strange crowd that ride snowmobiles, there's really nothing much to do. Winter in Maine is cold. Not a refreshing, exhilarating type of cold. But a forehead numbing, finger freezing, peel the skin off your cheeks, cold. And damp. I have many, not so fond, memories of walking home from school in the dark when the temperature was dropping from a high of 15. By the time I got to the old iron bridge from Bangor to Brewer I was so cold that my tears froze on my cheeks and I couldn't feel my forehead anymore. Why was I crying? Well, I hated the fact that I had to go to that Catholic school five miles away instead of the public school which was literally in my back yard. Now I know that sounds like sour grapes, and maybe it is. I had no one to blame for my fate. I had behaved badly in public school and was sent to the Nuns for the discipline I so desperately needed. So, I made that trip every day for three school years. As it turned out, I learned much more about myself and life than anything the school taught me. These daily treks alone through the freezing cold and stinging snow gave me time to contemplate my fate, and I hated my life in Maine at those times. This same walk in the opposite direction, however, was full of promise and excitement. It was just as cold and just as long, but the walk to school was, somehow, fun. I looked forward to it almost every day. Some days I would stop at the Bangor Rye Company and buy a freshly baked "Boogie" roll for a nickel and use it to warm my hands. It also warmed my body as I savored it while walking up the hill to Broadway and St. John's School, and later, John Bapst High School. I loved my life in Maine during those times.Summer, or Tourist Season, began around the middle of June and ended precisely at 6:00pm on the first Monday of September, Labor Day. Why 6:00pm? That was the time when the restaurants brought out the "off-season" menus, priced for the Mainers. Summer was the time when Mainers would gear up to take money away from the people coming from "away". These "away" people were those who came to Maine each summer to work in the tourist traps. A lot of people refer to the "away" people as tourists, but they weren't. College kids, hucksters, Carnies, and "foodies" were the real "away" people. They would open craft stores, "antique" shops, and "Authentic New England" food stalls with food shipped in from New York. And summer was their time. Even though they were resented, Mainers permitted these "away" people to come to Maine to work because they always spent more then they earned. The did the work that Mainers did not want to do. And, for the most part, they provided a constant supply of beer and causal sexual opportunities for the locals. Otherwise, they stayed to themselves.
For me, Summer was that brief interval between school terms when I had to work. I worked in the tourist industry, sort off. My Aunt Anna worked in the New Franklin Laundry. For over forty years, she did almost every job in this large commercial laundry, from sweeping the floors to packing finished laundry for delivery. It was hard, crippling work, and she did it every day of her adult life. It was through her influence I was able to get a coveted position each summer. The laundry operated a second shift during summer to accommodate the motels and hotels in the area because they could never keep up with the demands by themselves. I worked the dryers. Four large commercial gas fired dryers that I kept busy for the entire shift. Each afternoon I would begin loading hundreds of pounds of towels, wash clothes, and bath mats into these dryers and then I folded the dried product and packed it for delivery. It was hot, heavy, and repetitious. But I thoroughly enjoyed it. I was left alone. I knew my job and did it without interference from the foreman or other distractions. These were happy times. And I got paid real money. Twice as much as I could get bagging groceries or picking beans or berries. Probably as an omen of the future, I spent a large part of my savings at the end of each season taking the Greyhound to Boston to see the Red Sox and be the same type of resented tourist in Boston we resented in Maine. My mother still says that I couldn't wait to get out of Maine, even then. Maybe she was right.The last of the Maine seasons is Mud Season. This is the few weeks at the end of winter when the melting snow and ice causes the ground to swell with wetness. In farm country, like Iowa or California, this wetness would be welcomed and promise banner crops and beautiful green, well, everything. In Maine, at least the part of Maine where I lived, it meant a soggy bog of slate gray clay mud. It oozed up through the cracks in the pavement, it crept out from under sidewalks. This disgustingly slimy, silvery mess splashed out of potholes large enough to sail in, dousing passersby with gray yuk. Every car was gray. Every tire on every car was gray. Every shoe not covered with rubbers, was gray. There was no escaping it. Now, as I said at the beginning of this piece, Mud Season is the one season Mainers get to enjoy twice each year. Enjoy is probably a poor choice of words because there is nothing whatsoever enjoyable about Mud Season. As slimy and sticky as the "after Winter" mud season was, at least it held a promise that things were getting warmer and that Summer was close by. The "after Summer" mud season was particularly uncomfortable. It provided all of the same yuckiness, without any promise of hope. This season was marked by rain. Relentless, cold, steady, days at a time, rain. Not a nice thunder storm to clean the air. But a cold, gray rain, falling from dark gray clouds that hung so close to the gray streaked ground that you felt like a iron gray anvil was hanging over your head. This mud season did not promise hope, it was the preamble to the long, dark, quiet, and cold winter. I believe that this Mud Season had a purpose, however. This Mud Season was designed to make people wish, no pray, for a change, any change. Winter, with all of it's problems was a welcome relief after enduring the clammy, gray cold of Mud Season. That first clear, crisp day of winter, with it's bright, sparkling blue sky that went on forever, was so refreshing and renewing that it made living in Maine a joy.In his infinite wisdom, the creator put those two sets of despicable, miserable few weeks in Maine to force Mainers to appreciate their short, hot, muggy summer, dominated by "away" people who had more money than sense, and their long, dark, and cold winter when nobody had anything except school, church, neighbors, and family.There is much I miss about living in Maine. My family mostly. I left Maine 35 years ago to earn a living, something not available in Maine at that time. I have traveled back "home" many times over the years. But each time, I was aware that I was now from "away" and not really a Mainer. I'm not alone in this. I heard the same thing at reunions from classmates who, like me, left Maine to find a career and go back now to visit. We had become tourists in our own home town. My wife and I have discussed returning to Maine now that we are retired. We remember events in our childhood and remember the places that were special to us. And then we talk to my parents, who continue to live in Maine, and hear that those places are no longer there. They tells of heating oil at four dollars a gallon and how it's a struggle to make it from one year to the next. So, unfortunately, now that we are retired and on a fixed income, we can not afford to live in Maine. We left Maine because of money and we can't go back for the same reason. We now live in a small city in Mexico. Our meager pensions go much farther here allowing us to live a comfortable, quiet life. No snow or cold weather. No heating oil bills, no snow tires, or heavy winter clothes. And, we get very little rain. But when it does rain, we get mud. Slimy, sticky, baby poop yellow mud that gets into everything. It splashes on the cars, cakes on our shoes, and tracks into the house. It's very yucky. It makes me homesick, sometimes.

Flash Fiction contest winner

Window On The World

“I am telling you the truth, Officer, I saw a woman running and screaming down the street with nothing on.” They never believe me when I call them. They think I’m nuts. Well, I’m not nuts and the woman was real.
I see the strangest things through my window. I’m lucky to have a good window. Some of my friends don’t have a window at all and some that do, can’t see anything through them. My window looks right out onto the street. The other day I saw a three legged man riding a bicycle, or was a two legged man riding a tricycle? Whichever it was it seemed odd at the time. I called the police, but they said that they really couldn’t spare an officer to investigate, but that they would cruise the neighborhood to see if they saw anything strange. When the officer was finished taking my report something must have happened in the station, because I overheard a lot of laughter on the phone. Maybe someone tripped or something.
“No, doctor, I’m not crazy. It was a woman, totally naked, running down the street, screaming.” I’m used to this. It happens every so often. Something weird happens through my window and people think I’m nuts because I report it. Most of the time they are polite and take a report and check it out. But sometimes they get upset and try to take my window away. I just remind them that I pay rent here and that they can’t just take my stuff away. I have rights, after all.
It’s been like this for the last seventeen years. Ever since I moved here. I needed a place to stay after my wife left. She was such a nag. Bitch, bitch, bitch! Well the bitching stopped the day she looked through my window. I don’t remember all of the details, but she stopped nagging at me all of a sudden. Whatever it was she saw through my window must have set her straight. There was so much blood. I had to move because of the blood.
“More medication? No, I’m fine thank you. Do you have any raisins?” They’re very nice here, always checking if my meds are OK. I have a medical condition. Kind of embarrassing, in a way. Apparently I need medications to be able to see clearly through my window. When I don’t get enough, the window seems too dirty to see through. When I get too much, I don’t go too close to my window, I might fall out onto the street.
“What do you mean, was the woman I saw running down the street my wife?” Some of the questions these people ask, I just laugh. I think they think I don’t know that my wife is in Des Moines, visiting her sister. She’ll be back soon. But I must admit, it is a lot quieter since she looked through my window. It’s time for lunch. I always get hungry on electric shock day. I hope they have fish.

HADLEY'S CAFE

In the very small town of Brewer, Maine, the chances of anything exciting happening during the long, cold winter is very slim. Folks around here bunker in during winter. They stay to themselves and family. Other than to attend the occasional church and school function, they don't go out much. That's what makes this so remarkable. About a month ago, a series of events changed my life and the life of my life long, best friend, Hadley.The phone rang at about ten past midnight. It was not completely unexpected. It had been snowing and I had the contract to plow the IGA parking lot. I did think it a bit strange that they would be calling this early, or late, depending on your point of view. But it wasn't them, it was the Penobscot County Sheriff's office. The deputy asked me my name and if I was acquainted with a Joseph A. Hadley, of Brewer. "Yes", I said, "what's this all about"? Could I come to the Emergency Room at Eastern Maine? She would explain there. He was my friend, of course I would be there for him. The things that went through my head on the way from my home to the hospital ranged from suicide to homicide. From someone finally taking all of the shit they could from Hadley and beating it out of him. Or, maybe he needed my special services, again.
Hadley's Cafe is the kind of place that exists because it has to. It has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The food's not good and it would be an insult to the word to claim any ambiance. The Cafe has been on this spot for 75 years. Ever since the Mill was opened. Now, that's not exactly accurate, and I want to be as truthful as possible in re-telling this story. The building housing the Cafe was moved once to make way for a new rail line to the Mill. It would have been cut in two, so they moved the building ten yards to the left. That was in "48. So, anyway, as far as anyone is concerned, the Cafe has been a fixture of this town, forever. It wasn't always called 'Hadley's' though. For 60 years this place was known as the JET Diner. Hadley changed the name when he bought the place. The whole of South Brewer was up in arms when he did that. Cries of "tradition" and "history" were thrown about the City Council meetings. A petition was circulated by the good members of the Committee for Historic Preservation to force Hadley to change the name back to the JET. When that didn't work, the City started to apply pressure by issuing codes warnings and threatening to rescind his permits. Hadley responded to these concerned citizens by closing the diner. He decided that it wasn't worth the hassle to keep fighting, so he just went in one morning and cleaned out the perishable food, shut off the gas and electric and locked the place up. It stayed closed for about two weeks before the Mill owners came to Hadley, asking him to reopen. It seemed that not only was the diner an historical place, but, (and evidently of higher importance) it was also the only place close enough for the mill workers to get lunch in the short time they had. In our town, the Mill always got what it wanted, so the City stopped pressuring Hadley and he reopened the Cafe. Feelings had been hurt on both sides and the resentments never went completely away. But Hadley didn't care. He didn't seem to care about anything except money.
Hadley was cheap. Not the "I don't tip" kind of cheap, but the penny pinching, hoard every dime, cheap. This was reflected in the way he ran the Cafe. Hadley charged for everything. If you had coffee he charged extra for sugar and cream. Crackers with your soup would cost you more. If you wanted your BLT toasted, extra. Don't even think about free seconds of anything. Full price, always.
Hadley measured out portions as if he was measuring chemicals, and to be off, even a bit, would cause an explosion. Not that his portions were small. Hadley was cheap, but he wasn't stingy. If you ate at the Cafe you went away satisfied, if not comforted. Comfort was in short supply at Hadley's Cafe. You see, not only was he cheap, Hadley was also not a nice man. He never, ever, smiled. He was rude and somewhat vulgar to his customers. The up side, though, was that he almost never spoke first. Most of the time all he would do to answer customers questions was grunt or utter one or two words. That is, if he chose to answer at all. If someone, especially a tourist off the bus, asked a question that Hadley deemed too stupid to answer, like "is the fish fresh" or "can I get change?" Hadley would let go with a string of curses and slams that would make a sailor blush. So most of the time the regulars didn't bothered to talk to him. They would point to the chalk board at what they wanted to eat and help themselves to a coffee or a soft drink out of the cooler in the corner. That suited Hadley just fine. The less human contact he had to suffer the better.
Now, why I even bring any of this up is... Well, it was last month, as I said, on a Tuesday. It was cold. I mean one of those colds that causes your forehead to freeze up. And damp. I was at Hadley's with Flynn, my friend from the Mill. Up until then it was just a typical day. we had snuck out a little early to get to the cafe before the rush. We needn't have hurried, though. Rush hour at Hadley's was really just rush 'ten minutes' because nobody who could avoid it went in there any more. And those that did, the Mill workers, wanted their food to go and got out of there as soon as possible. Hadley charged extra for the plastic cartons and forks, but it was worth the price to avoid him. Even on this cold, damp day in February, people would rather get their food and eat in their cars than sit in the warm cafe and endure Hadley. Flynn and I ate in for two reasons. First my car heater didn't work that well, and second, we knew Hadley from before. We all grew up on the same street. Flynn, Nichols, Reed, Mitchell, and Beck, God rest his soul, and Hadley, were all about the same age, and we went to the same schools. We played sports together, went to church together, we went exploring in Adams field and misbehaved at Puck's Muck together, we shared our lives as intimately as brothers. So, Flynn and I knew that the Hadley of today was not the Hadley we grew up with.
Something terrible had happened to him from the time we graduated High School and when he came back to Brewer from the service. The Globe and Anchor tattoo on Hadley's arm told some of the story. But without specific details all we could do was guess about what had happened. Hadley was one of the few people from our town who joined the service out of High School. Most of us went to work in the Mill or in our family's business. At that time, joining the military was an honorable thing to do. It was something to boast about. Servicemen were given respect. A man in uniform couldn't buy a drink in a bar because everyone there would buy for him. Girls still swooned over medals and stripes. Businesses would give discounts. Mothers would display stars in the windows of their houses and fathers had pictures of their military sons in their shops. That was 1966. Over the next few years all of that was to change. It changed while Hadley was with the Marines in Viet Nam. Now, I say Hadley was 'with' the Marines because he was not "in" the Marines, per se. Hadley joined the Navy, just as his father and grandfather had done before him. His was a Navy family. He went to Basic Training and advanced his education by attending the Hospital Corps School where he learned how to be Corpsman.
After training he was assigned to duty at the Navy hospital at Newport, Rhode Island. That's were we met up for the first time since High School. Hadley had been stationed at the hospital for almost two years, ever since Corps School. He had settled in to what had to have been the best duty station on the East Coast. Newport in the mid sixties was THE happening place for young people, especially young sailors. The clubs, beaches, and the half dozen all girls colleges in the area made Newport a party town. The Folk, Jazz, and Rock festivals were icing on an already tasty cake. I arrived in June of '67. I had completed Corps school three months after Hadley and was very excited to be stationed in the same town. I was already assigned to the Fleet Marine Force and was part of the Marine Security Detachment at the Naval War College. Hadley took me under his wing and showed me all of the ways I could get in trouble in Newport. It was Hadley who told me that "if you never woke up in the brig, with stitches you don't know how you got, you didn't have a good time". And, unfortunately, he was right. I didn't expect to live long enough to worry about a Good Conduct Medal anyway. All of the Corpsmen of that time eventually went to Vietnam and the odds of coming home in one piece were not in our favor. Six weeks after I arrived in Newport, he left. Hadley was reassigned to the Fleet Marine Force, Viet Nam where he joined a Marine platoon in a combat position. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one of our group who knows these details. I was one of the few from home who received letters from Hadley in the early days of his tour. After he was there for about six weeks he stopped writing and I lost track of him for about five years. His mother took down the star after a while. His dad changed jobs and never put the picture of Hadley in his Navy dress blues up again. Life went on and everybody just sort of forgot about him.
Then one day, out of the blue, Hadley showed up back in Brewer at a High School football game. We hadn't seen each other since Newport, six years earlier. This particular October Friday night was Homecoming. I was hanging out with Flynn and Mitchell. I didn't recognize him at first. He had lost about fifty pounds. His hair was long and shaggy and his clothes were out of place; combat boots, jeans, and a military style field jacket. He just didn't look as if he belonged there. It wasn't until I heard his voice that I could place him. I went up to him to say hello and it was then that I knew something was terribly wrong. This man was Hadley, but not the Hadley I remembered. The most striking thing was the absence of life in his eyes. Black holes where bright blue eyes had been. His skin was sallow. He looked dead. When I said hello, he nodded and walked away. That was it, not even a "how've ya been" or "get lost", nothing, he just walked away. When I told Flynn and Mitchell what had happened they just said,"fuck him, if he can't take a joke". The following Monday the JET Diner was Hadley's Cafe, owned and operated by my best childhood friend who I didn't know at all.
Back to last Tuesday. I was sitting with Flynn eating chili burgers and fries when it happened. The Bus from Portland stopped across the street and this guy got off. Guys getting off the bus was not that unusual, but this particular one, he was different. We watched as he hesitated a little, looked both ways, then crossed the road and walked into the Cafe. Flynn and I knew immediately that this was going to be good. We knew that we was going to see the closest thing to theater in Brewer. Hadley was going to blow his top. The anticipation of the show was so intense that I couldn't even eat. Hadley had his back to the counter, as usual. Flynn and I almost died waiting for him to turn around. We knew that Hadley had a very low tolerance for different people, and this guy was different. Maybe not different in Boston or even Portland, but in Brewer he was different. You see, the man was black, African-American, Negro, colored, whatever the politically correct term is these days. There were no black families living in Brewer. Never had been. There was that family in Orrington who had the great produce stand each summer, but that's another story.
The tension in the cafe was so thick it almost cut through the smell of the fries, almost. It all but exploded when the young black man walked up to the counter, took a seat on one of the stools, and spoke. "What can I get to eat for a dollar and seven cents?" Flynn and I almost fell out of our chairs. Here was this guy, a black guy, a stranger in our town, asking probably the cheapest, rudest man in Maine, the one person who we knew was last person to care about this man's problems, and he was asking Hadley what he could eat for a dollar seven. Flynn hit me in the shoulder and nodded toward the door as if to show me the emergency route, anticipating an eruption of anger and maybe even violence. Hadley turned and faced the young man, stared directly into this man's eyes, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, and said in a calm, almost friendly voice, "you can have anything you want off the board". "You want some coffee?" Hadley poured the man a cup of coffee and brought him the sugar and creamer. Something he never does, not even for Miss Fickett, with the artificial leg.
Hadley talked to this guy. He actually engaged in polite conversation. Now, as I said before, I've known Hadley for all of my life and he has never, ever, had a racist bone in his body. So, that he was polite to this black man was not unexpected. That he was being polite to anyone, was. I didn't hear all of what was being said, only bits and pieces. A word here and there. "jar head", "2/1", "Iraq", "Nam", "1st Med", "Boston", "Calais". The man ate his food with gusto, like it had been a long time since his last meal. Hadley compounded our confusion when he asked the guy if he needed seconds. Flynn choked on that one. When he was finished with his meal, the guy got up and shook Hadley's hand. And then, to take us over the edge, Hadley refused to take the guy's money. He flatly refused to accept the dollar and seven cents. As confidently as he came in, the young man walked out of the Cafe. I saw Hadley watching through the window as the guy got back on the Bus. As it drove away, I heard that mean, rude, and sometimes crude man say, in almost a whisper, "Semper Fi, brother". That's when it all became clear to me.
The parking lot at the ER was all but empty. Only a few cars covered with the new snow and two Sheriff's department patrol cars at the entrance with their blue emergency lights still flashing. The combination of the orange light coming from inside the hospital and the blue strobes of the police cars reminded me of the light shows I saw at the Cheetah Club in Chicago while on Liberty from Great Lakes. Only much colder. It didn't take my mind off wondering why I had been summoned here. As I entered the lobby, I was immediately struck with the staff and how they moved in a rhythm, like dancers in a ballet. Nobody bothered to ask me why I was there. They apparently were anticipating my arrival. The lady behind the counter looked up and, without speaking, gestured for my to go down the hall to the left. The corridor was cluttered with spare stretchers, electrical equipment, and linen baskets on wheels. The bright florescent lights made everything parked in the hall look stark and cold. Two Sheriff's deputies were standing outside of the last room on the right. The door was closed. Before I could get to the room, one of the deputies, I guessed the one who called me, because the other was a man, approached me and asked, "Are you Bobby James?" I nodded. She went on "Mr Hadley has had an 'episode' of some sort". "He asked for you, specifically". "Can you tell us why?" It took me a moment to gather my thoughts, but when I did I told the deputy that I had a pretty good idea. "What kind of 'episode' are we talking about?"
Hadley's Cafe was closed for about three weeks after that. The sign on the door read "Closed due to family illness". No one knew any details, except me. It was the black guy, you see. That was the trigger. There wasn't a thing anyone could have done to predict it, or prevent it. Sometimes shit just happens. Hadley had been found crouched in the ditch along the Bar Harbor road, armed to the teeth with knives and guns. The sheriff's patrol almost shot him when they saw the weapons. It must have been very scary for them. When he starting raving about "VC" and "ambush", they understood, thank God. They had to mace him to get him under control. That's when he asked for my help. Even though he was experiencing vivid hallucinations and was totally consumed with fear, he knew that he needed help. And, he knew I would be that help. This was not the first time Hadley had needed this type of help. It had happened before. He was experiencing another of what they explained to me as a "flashback" to his Viet Nam days. The first time happened about two years after he had returned to the World from Viet Nam. Not as severe as this one, but just as dangerous. That time all he needed was to have his meds tweaked and his counseling sessions increased to twice a week. This time, however, I knew that Hadley was going to need a refresher period back at the PTSD Center at the Togas VA. I asked the Sheriff if they would drop the charges and permit me to take Hadley with me. "Did I want an escort?", "Was he safe?", they asked before calling their superiors to get the necessary approvals. The hospital people agreed to discharge him to my care. They knew me, after all. I'm "the veteran's guy". The guy they call when someone needs Viet Nam related help. When someone steps out of reality and regresses to that scary and dangerous place.
I know that at any time, for no apparent reason, any one of us could go off to that place and need someone who has been there to recognize the symptoms and intervene. I went to Viet Nam the year after Hadley. I had been a Marine Corpsman just like him. And I knew that what was happening to Hadley on that cold Wednesday morning in Maine might happen to me next week or next year. I was there for Hadley on that night so he can be there for me when I need him. You know what they say, "once a Marine, always a Marine"? It goes for Corpsmen, too. We live it, still, every day. Semper Fi, Brothers.

Probably the most important thing I have ever done

In 1969 I was sent to Viet Nam as a combat corpsman with the US Marines. Never before and not since, have I ever been so alive and so proud as during those days in the mud and sand of I-Corps with "H" 2/1 and then 1st Med Batt.

In honor of Mr. Libby

I fancy myself a writer. There is absolutely no reason for doing so. I just decided to be a writer. I teach English to students on the Internet. One of my students, Marcelo, from Brazil, asked me to explain why I had become a writer. I was stuck! What does it take to be a writer? I couldn't give him an answer that made any sense. The flippant answer was all it takes is a pencil and a piece paper. But that didn't sound like a fair answer to a legitimate question, so I told him I would give the answer at our next class. What follows is that answer.
While a student (and I use that expression loosely) at Brewer High School in Brewer, Maine, I was routinely called to the Guidance Office where Ms Curran would tell me that I was not working up to my potential, that I was at risk of being held back, and that I would not graduate with my class. She was correct, of course, and as a result I failed Junior English and was required to take both Junior and Senior English the following year. This would be difficult under any conditions, but there was a tricky bit of fate at work. On the first day of my Senior year I was assigned to Mr. Libby's home room. For those who are unfamiliar with Homeroom, this is where each student starts the day, receives announcements, and is counted for attendance for the day. On this first day of classes I was given my class schedule for the school year. The scheduling gods, for whatever sinister reasons, had assigned me to Mr. Libby not only for homeroom, but for Junior English, Senior English and for my only study period. Of the seven class periods in the day, I was to be in with Mr. Libby for four of them, three of which were consecutive.
Having to take both Junior and Senior English in the same year placed a tremendous strain on my ability to fake my way through. Having Mr. Libby in four out of seven class periods each day made it impossible to slide through and ditch classes. It seemed that at last the academic powers had caught up with me and I was actually going to have to do some school work. But the real kicker was that I was now responsible for reading books and writing reports on these books. Twelve books for Junior English and 14 books for Senior English. I was being required to both read and write a report on 26 books in one school year. And to complicate matters further, I was required to do these reports for the same teacher.
I was to find out only after completing High School and enlisting in the Navy that I was essentially blind in my left eye do to an astigmatism. I was unable to see words in the correct order. So it is enough to say that I didn't read any books, or anything else for that matter during school. But I did complete 26 book reports during my Senior year. I would go to the library and find the books that hadn't been signed out for over a year believing that if they had not been signed out no one else would be writing a report on those books. I would read the dust cover and maybe the first and last pages of the book and then create a complete four page synopsis of the book from my mind. I would sign out the books and keep them out until Mr. Libby graded my reports. That way he would not be able to go the library to check my work. My God, I was clever!
Mr. Libby was a very good teacher and a very compassionate man. As a good teacher he held me to very high standards of behavior and compliance with the expectations of the classes. As a compassionate man, he knew that I was not reading any of the books I wrote about in my reports. But he accepted my reports anyway and graded them for content, grammar, and spelling, knowing full well that I had not read the books. I know that now, but at the time I was sure that I was getting away with the biggest hoax in the school. It wasn't until Graduation Day that he stopped me in the parking lot and told me, in a very calm but serious tone, that he would very much like to read the books I had written the reports about, and that it was a shame that a God given talent was being wasted on me.
I graduated in the class of 1966 from Brewer High School and went immediately into the service. While in the Navy, I was fitted with glasses and was, for first time, able to read the words in the order they were placed on the page. I was able to go on to earn a Masters Degree in Education and recently retired as a Guidance Counselor. I have just had my first work of fiction published, a short story entitled Hadley's Cafe. I can't help but to think that Mr. Libby would be sure that I stole it from the dust jacket of someone else's book. And who could blame him. I don't know if he lives today. I hope so. And I hope he is still inspiring students to be creative while complying with the expectations of their school. I would like him to know that I did go on to write and that his influences on me were not wasted, and neither are my talents, limited as they may be.