I fought in the wrong war. I fought in the wrong war. I fought in the wrong war.

Semper fi... do or die.

A short, black man with a graying handlebar mustache and a wooden cane called aloud without any apparent purpose, but in the direction of the parade.

Between me and the marching band, that is a gang of high-schoolers much shorter and much smoother skinned than anyone I ever saw in high school, thumping drums strapped to chests with cartoonish bravado, marching nearly in rhythm down Market street in the meagerly attended Veteran’s Day parade, stood a staggering balding man with long, curly greasy snakes of hair licking his shoulders. His clear blue eyes bulged as a took a step, nearly a lunge, towards me and grinning said:

I fought there two years and this. THIS is my reward.

He gestured broadly towards the bony kneed, metal mouthed, four eyed child musicians, marching like an ill prepared army, like a children’s crusade.

Thmp. Pshooooooosh.

Semper fi... do or die.

His arm arched upward over his head. He ducked his head as his eyes followed an invisible trail through the sky.

Know what that is? It’s a... grenade. Shrapnel every fucking where. Too, too, too. All over my face, my legs.

Semper fi... do or die.

I killed... four of them. They killed six of me.

When he realized that I was listening to his rambling speech, he slowed down. He was terribly drunk. His eyes turned glassy and his gaze distant. He rocked slowly back and forth on his heels, trying to maintain balance.

I was eighteen and a half years old. Fresh out of Colorado Springs, Colorado... I didn’t have any fucking idea where I was. Dropped out there. South Vietnam... Two years. For two years!

I took part in the wrong war... I took part in the wrong war... I took part in the wrong war. And I took part hard. Hard. Hard as I could.

Those little Vietnamese deserve their freedom... just as much as you and me.

And with that he stumbled off down the street, away from the parade.

Semper fi... do or die.

Later that evening, as I was returning from the art supply store, I spotted the same Vietnam vet walking along the sidewalk toward me with a cup in hand. He recognized me, though I had the impression that he wasn’t sure where he recognized me from.

Spare a quarter?

He addressed me with the flair of an actor on stage. The way your friend might behave when you arrive at Starbucks and find him behind the counter. Acting out a script, but since both you and he are aware of the scripted nature of the forced dialogue it becomes a shared joke. And though the words spoken are the same, the message shared is of an absolutely different nature. The words “welcome to starbucks, how can I help you?” is roughly translated to “you sly old bugger, you came here because you know I’m working and you expect to get a free drink, and you will too, you know, because we’re friends, and honestly I’m terribly glad that you stopped by, regardless of your motivations,” and “yes I’ll take a double shot capuccino please,” could be understood to mean, “isn’t it great to be friends in this world and to find you working here on this day, we’re both here and can enjoy this moment where I order my coffee as if I was just another customer, but I’m not, but isn’t it fun to pretend like I am, like it’s our little secret.”

I dropped a quarter in his cup. He took a Shakespearian bow.