Veterans Day -- Sarge Enjoys Free Meals

If you run a restaurant, and a veteran shows up for his free steak, but is unfortunately missing his manhood, and you're somehow able to realize this, either by sight or his higher voice, you might wonder, Could this be the guy? Let me tell you about him, because his discharge papers are perhaps not up to snuff. He's a guy Sarge had to deal with...

It just so happens that I have a friend in the neighborhood, called Sarge (Walter), who's now a handyman, but in prior years was a sergeant in Vietnam. He was just recently over at my place; I think it was last Wednesday -- could've been Thursday -- no, it was Wednesday. Several years ago he made me one of those boards that has a row of jars nailed to it in which you store screws and nails. Well, I'll be damned, but some moisture got in there and rusted the lids shut! So there I was, actually breaking one of the jars for a quick screw.

Sarge came over to make it right, since it was still under warranty. In talking, we got on the subject of free food for veterans on Veterans Day, and I know he's definitely all set. By now, at this writing, he's surely had free breakfast at one of the grocery stores. And in a little bit he'll have lunch at one of the diners, since they've also jumped on the bandwagon. Then tonight, my warrior friend will sit down for a much finer meal at the steak house. The steak house is a very patriotic bunch and they've really led the way in free meals, with the only downside being a long line. Some of our older vets have been known to pass out waiting; one year one cut his head, but insisted on his steak before getting treatment. That's the way they're trained: Mission first, personal safety last.

Anyway, Sarge was over, and I thought, "No, I'm not gonna get him reminiscing about Vietnam. Let old wounds die." But as luck would have it, we got to talking about the tables at the steak house, quite innocently, how they're always loaded down on Veterans Day, literally to the point that they'd collapse if they weren't so sturdy. This led to him telling me about another table, the desk he had in Vietnam, under which he had duct-taped a gun, pointed outward at whoever sat across from him. I can't imagine, but that's the way they did things! Because Sarge is wise.

Day and weeks passed, when, lo and behold, who comes in but this one totally crazed son of a bitch, a guy no one could figure out, just loony bins, total bananas, hopped up on who knows what, caffeine, stronger drugs, illegal drugs, killer drugs... He also had what could only be called a general spirit of cussedness. This guy had no reverence for authority, being whack, either half out of his son-of-a-bitch mind or completely. I can barely stand to hear it, let alone put myself in Sarge's shoes, when that crazy idiot came in there loaded for bear, and every authority figure he saw -- whether he knew it or not -- was bear.

The way Sarge tells it, he immediately recognized the guy for the total bad news he was, and tried his best in the precious few seconds he had to bring him to heel. But then there's that flash in your brain, that trigger that once triggered tells you you have about three seconds to live, unless... unless you're prepared to defend yourself. I looked in Sarge's eyes as he recalled the incident and I could see fire where the whites should've been. In that split second Sarge knew it was him or the other guy... And just as that bastard was coming up, as if to strangle the life out of him, in a split second, Sarge reached down and pulled the trigger, and essentially blew the guy away, from the crotch down. He still had legs, that's not what I'm saying, but ... he was subdued. They carried him out and that was it. Sarge was cleared, and now here he is, my hero. And handyman.

With Veterans Day looming, as he was leaving, I did as instinct compelled: I snapped my feet, made my posture erect, and gave him a more or less convincing salute. Gotta love 'em, veterans!

Shell-Shocked -- The Easter Craft Sale

It's ironic that, after the Army couldn't save from destruction the shopping center, where we've always had the Easter craft sale, this year we had it at the VFW hall. Of course if you lose the battle you shouldn't reap the spoils, but I'm only one voice.

Right away, I saw this one local character, Terry, a shell-shocked Vietnam vet, handling everyone's stuff roughly. He left some of the ears on my bunnies bent, then was oblivious to it. I was using psych tactics on him, busying myself with unnecessary rearranging when he was around, trying to get him to leave. So he didn't do too much actual damage.

The place was a terrible place for a sale. They have their bar right there in the next room with an open door between us. You get the secondhand smell of drinks and smoke, pretty intense. Terrible. I saw the pool table, untouched, with the casual light above bearing down on it. There was a quarter in one of the corners, like someone called next game, but was then was so shell-shocked he forgot.

In our room, the sale area, there was a similar bad vibe. The walls were lined with huge black and white portraits of past commanders, trim looking old guys, mostly from the Greatest Generation. Then there's a number of more modern pictures, some in fading color from the '60s. The '70s pictures are more casual, showing the breakdown that started after Nam. And I believe Ronald Reagan allowed much more breakdown, then, in the '80s. You see it in the '80s pix, hair over ears, bushier mustaches, and darker glasses, in what might be called the military's Mr. Potato Head years.

None of this was good. Because the whole point of a craft sale is to get women in. And women don't want to come to a revolting man-cave like this. You'd be afraid to bring your kids. They'd catch one glimpse of Terry and swear off war altogether. So the sale sucked.

I had plenty of time to look around. I and some of the other crafters -- we're usually complaining about something -- could do nothing but shake our heads and laugh. Once you see you're not going to make money no matter what, that's when you laugh. It was different at the shopping center; you didn't always make a lot of money, but the potential was there. That's why we were always bitching.

This place, though, with the beer/smoke/old carpet odor, the odd stacks of chairs against the walls, the old nicked-up wooden coat racks, the dim lighting, and those godawful leering pictures, killed us. And the flickering fluorescent lights! They made my bunnies look frail and sickly. And their purple ears don't need help! And the Styrofoam, my God! I was afraid it was softening up, maybe even subtly melting from the alcohol (actual and from guys' breath) in the air. They say Styrofoam lasts forever in the landfill. Maybe all they need is the VFW to go and break it down!

On the positive side -- just to be fair -- the tables were definitely cheaper. Although, to be negative again, if you're not making money, what's the use? I felt like a crafts sadist sitting there. You have to have some traffic, besides these shell-shocked guys bending things and breathing on  you. As I was hauling my unsold bunnies out, I saw Terry one more time: hat on backwards, food on his mustache, saluting the jukebox, in a word, shell-shocked.

So, unfortunately, I ended up with bad results today, no big surprise, I know. At this rate -- money being what it is -- I might be able to afford a medium Easter ham. But that'll be it. No sides, no bread, no glaze on the ham. Just one dry naked bare ham. But, I'm happy ... Keep repeating, I'm happy; better than an empty table.

Never again! Seriously, this is my vow before God and man, and please, someone, mark it down! We will never again have the craft sale at the V-freaking-FW, or I'll know why!

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Previous Easter Bunny Craft Sales:

2010:
Local Man Makes and Sells Easter Bunnies
Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center
Last Call for Easter Bunnies
Boxing Up My Bunnies

2011:
The Easter Craft Sale

2012:
I'm Selling Easter Bunnies at the Craft Sale

2013:
Easter Bunnies -- Is This The End of Crafts?
The Easter Craft Sale -- Post-Mortem

Sarge: Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

I wrote about Sarge a couple times already. Once a little over a year ago. And a second time, toward the end of last year. He's a great guy, and in my humble opinion it's guys like this that give the military a good name and make me want to stand up and salute. Honestly, I'd rather see a one single ex-military humble handyman tinkering with broken stuff in my garage than a thousand old guys on top of green trucks rolling down the road at the July 4th parade to wild acclaim.

Another name for Sarge is Walt. But Sarge is good, since it tells something of the guy, that he was able to ascend all the ranks to sergeant. I'm not sure how high that is, but I'm thinking it's pretty far. Mostly what I know about the service is what I remember from Gomer Pyle, that one guy comes in and is a private the whole series and one guy's already there and he's a sergeant the whole time.

But what happened with my Sarge is different from Sgt. Carter, in that he had to serve overseas in a war, namely Vietnam. It's hard now to realize what kind of turmoil we were in when it came to Vietnam. I suppose it was similar to Iraq and Afghanistan, at least in length, but the big difference was that the people back home here really cared about it. To the point of going ballistic. Those were my formative years, so I pretty much stayed on the sidelines and thought about other things.

OK, here's the set-up ... Once again I needed a handyman. For something I saw on Pinterest, basically baby food jars with the lids nailed to a board, then they hang down and you put nails in them, and twist them back to the lid when you don't need them. Damn! This seemed like the kind of thing I should be able to do on my own. It's just a farking nail! But every time I tried it, the nail either went through the board at the top, being too long, or wouldn't hold the lid because it was too short. Then I was messing up too many boards and too many lids (I traded a half dozen Easter bunnies for a box of baby food jars.)

Anyway, to cut it short, I called Sarge, who hightailed it over. He took one look at my mess and said, "Screw it!" I go, "What?!" And he explained, you need to use screws; even if they're short they'll still hold, and they won't poke through the board. Then he did it for me and now I have a nice display, a bunch of jars full of nails I'll never need ... since screws are really what I needed.

Then we were sitting there and I started hinting around about the military: "Ya vol, mein Furher ... From the halls of Montezuma ... C rations ... Mess kit ... Stalag 13 ... A few good men ... The History Channel ... Hut two ... Atten-HUT ... IED ... The smell of napalm ... Enola Gay ... Beetle Bailey ... Uncle Sam Wants You ... My Lai ... Custer ... D-Day ... Dickless Wonder ... Chitty Chitty Bang Bang ... Bilko ... Foreign Legion ... " For most of this, spaced over 10 minutes of otherwise silence, he just sat there looking down at the garage floor, shaking his head, not saying NO precisely, but merely like he was in some sort of daze. When I said "Foreign Legion," he raised his head and said with authority, "Back up!" I said, "Bilko?" No. "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?" No. Then he said it himself and smiled, "Dickless Wonder."

OK, OK, OK, now we're on to something! Ha ha, I'm a genius! This is exactly what I wanted -- see, I was playing dumb! But God, I'm smart! Dickless Wonder, he couldn't help but pick up on that, and we were off to the races, with him telling the one story I love best. About the time ... God help me ... how he ... oh crap, let him tell it:

"I was a Sarge at a desk. It was a day very much like today, sunny and nice. We had so many dipshits in our outfit, spaced out, stoned half the time, out of their F-ing minds the rest. Me and a couple other guys were the only guys I could trust. Anyway, these dipshits had to keep coming in my office for something, paperwork, and none of them had any discipline or any sense. This is why we lost the war, drugs. Well, I had to protect myself against our own guys the best way I could. So I put a gun up under my desk, screwed it up there a lot like I just now screwed in your baby food jars." I had to smile, he hadn't lost the touch! And it's great he had that experience in the war that later had real life benefits!

"So, anyway, one day in comes this crazy guy, one of the biggest nuts, the biggest losers we had. So screwed up! An ugly guy, too. Butt ugly. And out of his F-ing gourd! Shake him, you'd hear the seeds. He comes in, I don't know what for, but he busted through the door and yanked the chair out of his way and looked at me like bloody murder -- daggers in his eyes. I was a dead man. He was coming up over the desk and I usually kept my finger on that gun but didn't shoot it too often ... mostly just to keep the action loose. This time, Jesus, I haven't thought of this in years! [I didn't contradict him here, that he'd told the story to me several times in the last one year plus.] That F-ing gun went off and blew the guy's crotch all to hell... There was dead silence. The guy's face goes from berserk to the face of a helpless baby. He backs up and smashes against the door and falls to the floor..."

Wow, that's exciting. Sarge was laughing, and I was laughing. "The face of a helpless baby ... You don't mess with me!" he says, a lot of his old strength returning to the fore. I said, "That's right, that F-ing guy got what he deserved! Chitty chitty bang bang!" What a story!

Sometimes I wonder if that crazy guy's still out there, now mellowed out, but even after these years, nothing down there... That'd be a weird feeling, just a bunch of tissue, whatever they could save, all sewn together and stitched to his legs. Would be rough.

Sarge: Of Men And Mousetraps

Here's another episode, entirely true, from the life of Sarge, a guy I also call Walt.

I hadn't seen Sarge (Walt) in some time. I was saving my money, trying to avoid handymen, if I could do it myself. But then I needed something only a specialist can handle, to have my mousetraps recalibrated. Too many are escaping, either scot-free or only minimally crippled.

Of course Sarge has the skills and tools for the job. He has a real touch with a mallet, a native intuition that puts man one with machine, a level of interaction I'm not good at at all, let alone being a master. For this particular task, you have to know exactly what to do to do it right, bringing together multiple skills, involving BBs, match-heads, and a careful awl. I stabbed my leg and managed to burn a toenail last time I tried it...

Anyway, Sarge came over, and we were out by the garage. He got out his mallet and began the meticulous work at hand. I sat there watching him with affection, making a mental note that the Old World techniques are almost a lost art. Kids today, who never escape our criticism, with their video games and parental pampering are total fools. Not like Walt. With the extra added bonus that he's able to tell a good yarn without referring to the idiocies of modern trivia. His stories go way back.

Here's something you might not believe. As man and tool worked along, and as I engaged him on the old days, Sarge seemed to become noticeably younger and more vital. And none more so than when I said something about Vietnam. I repeated the old (true) legend that I was "up for the draft" two times but my number was too high. Of course Walt had enlisted and worked his way up to being a sergeant.

Once he got going, his tongue loosened up, and the mousetraps starting to sparkle, I went for the jugular, referring to that one crazy son of a bitch he shot. (See the link above). He smiled but then played coy, "Which one?" I put my hands near my crotch and made a mock grimace, mimicking the desperation of a man signing to the world that everything that he once held dear had been blown to bits. Sarge laughed and said, "You remember that?" The gleam in my eye said yes.

We had a great time then, as Walt recounted once again the old, old story of perhaps one of his greatest moments. He was very paranoid in Nam, extremely paranoid. But it was well justified, because so many of our guys were so stoned and just full of crap by nature that you had to be afraid. So he (he had an office) arranged a gun under his desk, bolted there or affixed somehow, to get the better of any crazy guy who might try to take him.

And then it happened. This one stoned son of a bitch was pissed off about something -- these are Sarge's words -- and he was making moves that he was going to come over the desk, just totally crazy stuff. At the last possible second, to defend himself, Sarge reached under the desk and blew the guy's crotch off. It was such a horrendous mess they're probably still trying to clean it up! Or piece the guy back together! It'd be hell to come off a high like that only to realize it was friendly fire that gave your wife grounds for divorce!

But it happened, and I have to say I'm actually quite glad it did ... because Walt is a hell of a handyman, and I would've never known him if that stoned son of a bitch would've had his way. Sure, Sarge had to face a deposition, but the blood tests on the guy were such that he was cleared. So everyone's happy.

The Disabled Patriotic Veterans

Now that the local newspaper has exposed The Disabled Patriotic Veterans of Distinguished Foreign Service to America (DFVDFSA) as a scam, and Walmart forbade them ever to set up their table of suckers sold for their benefit, we can only look back and celebrate their presence for those brief months.

They're gone now but not forgotten. I can still see them in my mind's eye: The various articles of slouchy clothes, the ratty camouflage, faded Doors T-shirts, patriotic caps burdened by trinkets and buttons everywhere, and of course the handlebar moustaches. They'd show up, and if you were lucky enough to get there early, you'd see the heartrending ceremony of unpacking the six inch flag and its wooden base, and proudly saluting as they erected it on the table. Then it was on to the cash drawer and the all-necessary priming of the tip jar with about 20 bucks.

The Disabled Patriotic Veterans of Distinguished Foreign Service to America.  Every word is important. They're disabled, or presumably serve others somewhere who are. They're patriotic, as we've seen them show their little flag all due deference. They're veterans who've performed service in the foreign fields, which has been distinguished. These weren't just desk jobs, supply guys, logistical staff, officers, or base personnel. This was distinguished service, meaning it was extraordinary. And America, that's a word that packs a punch!

All that time, there in the stifling heat of a Walmart entrance, they kept a brave vigil, testifying to their great sacrifice and sacrificing still, that with each sucker sold perhaps they could make a few cents over cost, to support themselves, not to mention those, their brethren, somewhere, the ones who are actually disabled and in dire need.

And you have to hand it to them, they had a great sales pitch to go along with their physical presentation. "No one gave us a parade, at least buy a sucker." And ,"We gave our lives for your freedom, buy a sucker already." But even with that there were plenty of people who acted like they didn't see them and would press into Walmart without stopping. Which is both bad and good. Bad, because those people are miserable, sons-of-bitchin' ingrates. But good, because it feeds into the DFVDFSA's complex that nobody appreciates them, giving them the resolve to double down on the guilt-inducing slogans.

I asked this one guy -- who asked me if I'd ever served, to which I had to go into my normal spiel about being eligible yet drawing high lottery numbers in the draft -- what the average gift for a sucker is. He said it was a measly buck. A dollar?! Crap, the suckers are about a dime to buy, so that's not much of a profit when you factor in the table, the flag, the stickers, and the sheer amount of time it takes to set up out there -- not to mention the heat! -- and time is money.

But what about the upper stratosphere of donations? We've all heard of the stranger who shows up at the Salvation Army bucket every year and puts in a 1609 gold doubloon worth a million dollars. No, he hasn't been here, but of course we'd love to have him stop by. The upper stratosphere, as it turns out, isn't very high. A few people have put in $20, and a few of those make the added gesture of not even taking the sucker!

Then, what is the most memorable thing that's happened to you out here? I asked. He thought it over and was visibly moved. His voice starting to break -- which he brought back quickly to normal -- he told me about an old guy who lives at a nursing home. OK? This stuff really happens. The nursing home (assisted living facility, I should say) brings them out in vans.

One time the old guy saw the sucker stand and decided next time he'd do something special. So he put on his World War II uniform and came out. He stood about 20 feet away. The DPVDFSA rep stood near the table. The older gentleman walked straight toward him. People parted. The old man, his hand feeble beyond belief, and shaking like a leaf as a consequence, lifted his hand and saluted. The other returned the gesture. That was a beautiful moment. It was a meeting of generations, from one who probably did get a parade to one who didn't. As if to say, "You're all right, and your suckers ain't half bad either, and thank you for your service." He put in $10, took the sucker, and signed the rep's hat. I saw the faded signature, clearly the scrawl of an old-timer, someone very old.

Other than that, I have a clear memory of the naked girl tattoo on the guy's arm.

Now, though, it's all gone. The DPVDFSA appears to be no more, exposed by an ungrateful newspaper as a scam. And our opportunity to give them what they deserve as disabled patriotic veterans has now sadly passed.

No One Knows He Was A Sergeant

No one knows he was a sergeant. Technically, of course, somebody knows he was, like his daughter, a couple guys he has coffee with, and the doctor at the veterans hospital. But most of us don't know he was. I'm maybe the one exception, and even I wasn't privy to this strange fact until I started asking him about his life.

Let me climb up on my soapbox for a bit. Indulge me that? Because I for one am sick and tired of nobody really caring about the life stories of other people. I mean it, I'm sick of it. Take my own life story. I know my own life story pretty well, but the people I run into -- church, in the community, in meetings, etc. -- don't care a thing about it. That's cool, leave me out. It's anyone! You see an old timer, like this guy -- I'm going to call him Walt, just to be on the safe side -- privacy concerns -- and basically nobody knows he was a sergeant!

He came over to do some work at my place. I had him fixing the window in the garage. Someone put a rock through it, one of the neighbor honyocks probably. So I called Walt, a handyman. OK, here's something you might not realize: Handymen like being handymen not so much for the money, but for the fact that it gets them out of the house and with others. They're always extroverts. So whenever I'm dealing with a handyman, I know there's the chance for some decent conversation. They like to talk about themselves, but hardly anyone wants to hear it. But if you open yourself, you'll find a nice guy. It's worth breaking the window yourself just to try it...

So Walt comes over. And I'm standing there chewing the fat with him, shooting the breeze, and I start probing into his life story. And he comes alive, telling me all kinds of things about his life, such as the little known fact that, indeed, he was a sergeant! I thought, Wow! An actual sergeant, just like on TV, on the old shows I used to watch, Sgt. Bilko, Sgt. Carter, and others. Walt has a background! He was a sergeant in Vietnam!

I'm like, "Where were you?" and he answered me with a bunch of places, like Vietnam vets always do, that I have no idea where they were, making my question kind of stupid in the first place. "What was it like?" Etc. When I start probing, it goes on and on. And you know what? Just like Brian Lamb on C-SPAN could tell you, people like to talk about themselves, if you're mildly interested.

Walt told me a hair-raising story no doubt true in every detail. That he was a sergeant in an office, and guys would come in stoned out of their minds; it was the '60s. Some of them were like potential mass-murderers. He feared for his life, to the extent that he taped or affixed in some way a gun to the underside of his desk. Some of these stoned guys would come in, start seeing crazy stars or whatever, and get crazy. He'd tell them with the greatest confidence in his voice, "Turn right around and march your ass out of here, or else." And they'd go.

But it all came to a head when this one "crazy sick bastard, stoned out of his gourd" (Walt's words) not only got threatening, but started to come over the desk. Walt reached down and blew the guy's crotch all to hell. Seriously! It didn't kill him, but he (the guy) wished it had! He lived, but was never the same. Really, Walt had no idea what happened to him. They flew the guy out and that was it. Walt had to give a deposition and was cleared. Presumably, though -- I don't know -- the guy might still be out there, a veteran without a crotch, who, once he got over being stoned, came back down and had to wonder what happened to it. That'd be my first concern. Walt said, "The craziest shit happens in the Army!"

We talked like that for quite a while, with Walt pausing once in a while from fixing my window. He was laughing, I was laughing, it was great. I learned lots of other stuff about his life, which I'm not going to go into.

After he left, I started thinking, that'd be very cool, to have a gun taped to the bottom of your desk. You can never be too safe.