independence days
Some of us layabouts at the Poker Parlor were trying to think up something special for an upcoming 4th of July celebration. We figured we got so many Vets down this way the Diner might as well declare itself a VFW South End Auxilliary. And since most of them are vintage car guyz too, they could hold their own annual Independence Day Parade from Camano Head to the Elger Bay Store. I, of course, wanted to just use these militiamen as an excuse to secede from the Island, but cooler heads prevailed. As usual.
Two Toke Tom served in Viet Nam and now is pretty much anti- every war. Jimmy Z, who’s old enough to be Tom’s old man, fought the Japanese in WW2. Tom thinks Jimmy’s still fighting em and maybe so, but I notice Jimmy driving a Toyota pickup now even though he swore for 60 years he’d never buy a ‘Jap Car’. Baghdad Bill fought in the second Iraq War and Big Larry just got back two years ago from Afghanistan. Jerry spent a year in Korea and frostbit a couple of fingers he wishes he had back, but he still can play a mean guitar. We even got Crazy Eddie who ‘liberated’ Grenada. We’re missing Somalia and Panama and Bosnia, but with all the newcomers rolling in, we may cover those too eventually.
Sometimes the boyz argue among themselves about those wars and sacrifice and what patriotism really means at the Friday night poker game we’ve been running since 1986 down at the Marina and Bait Shop. Two dollar limit on bets, no limit on alcohol. The pots don’t do much damage, but single nettle Daddle Distillery moonshine sometimes does. I sit in with these war-hardened patriots most Fridays and serve as their patsy and their sometime referee, the one who never served even in peacetime. Or what Two Toke calls a draft dodging, student deferred, flag burning, Summer of Love hippie protester. He takes great joy in telling me I would’ve loved the smell of napalm in the morning over there on the Delta. Jimmy Z chimes in how his platoon could’ve won Viet Nam single-handed although Jimmy never once has told us one iota the hell that must have been Iwo Jima. But he’s the one who puts a liver spotted hand on Bill’s arm whenever Bill gets overwhelmed by memories of buddies lost in the HumVee he was driving when it was blown off the road to the airport in Baghdad.
We’ve fought too many wars, I think, before realizing I’ve said it out loud. I see by their pinched lips and averted eyes I won’t get an argument tonight. Patriotism comes in all uniforms, even no uniform at all. Big Larry finally breaks the swelling silence, pushes a handful of quarters into the pot and says, real quiet, “I’m willing to spend a couple bucks, Skeeter, to see if you got more than bluff in this hand.” Grateful to change the subject, I say, “Name of the game, Big. Read em and weep.”
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