He was dressed in black from head to toe. Even his back pack and the duffle bag he carried were all without color. Tall but bent over slightly, you could tell age was creeping up on him quickly and he reserved his energy for things other than running for the bus. He walked and the driver waited perhaps out of respect. I’d like to think it was because of the hat.
I didn’t notice it at first because he looked like so many other men is black jackets and black hats on the streets of New York. It wasn’t a fashion statement but the trim and the writing on the hat were gold, green and red. Big letters proclaimed “Viet Nam Veteran” and he looked the part, looked the age. That slight bit of machismo in his ever so slow but precise step was a reminder of the brothers who came back from that conflict with a different mindset all together. He sat in the very front, behind the driver and once he got settled he pulled out a copy of Jet Magazine. I grew up reading a copy of that publication every week. My mother decided that would be the only publication she continued to subscribe to after my father’s death.
“Hum, well,” the Veteran said aloud and leaned over to read the magazine. The price tag was still on his hat. “$19.95. Is he a vet I wondered or a pretender to the times?
“Nice, good body.” I was sure he was referring to the picture of the week that was something of a Jet centerfold. When black women were not considered beautiful a lovely woman of African American descent graced the center of the magazine. I don’t remember when they started dressing in what passed for bikinis but it this beauty made him smile. It was then I decided to give him his due and consider him a vet even though the price tag on the hat was throwing me.
“I like that.” His voice was loud but not brash yet when he spokes everyone looked up. Afraid. He didn’t look like the crazies that roamed the streets and gathered enough change to ride a bus or sleep on the train. He was clean shaven and freshly showered. Despite my sinus headache after shave floated my way each time the front doors opened. I looked at his hands and saw manicured nails that were in better shape than mine.
Crazy, clean and groomed. But what was with the hat? I wanted to tell him about the tag but then I didn’t want to embarrass him. If I approached him on the bus, especially with his Tourettes like outburst, everyone would look his way. And mine. They would think I knew him, or was trying to get to know him. They might even think I was trying to get him to shut up because every time he spoke the baby in the back cried and the woman knitting dropped a stitch.
“That’s right.” He said it to no one and I wanted to know how he got that way. How he got to wear that hat and talk out of tune. Was this a product of the war or the environment that surrounded him afterwards? Why he was in all black?
It didn’t hit me until I got off the bus and he exited slowly after me. The next day was Veterans Day but there were events all week long to honor those who went to war. He was probably on his way to one of those events and got the new hat to replace something lost or worn. As a writer I conjured up a lot of stories about this veteran in my imagination. But there was none better than the one that said he had a home and was able to keep some benefits. He had enough money to buy a hat for his day for $19.95. Or he had someone who loved him enough to give it to him.
He strolled down the street towards Columbia University. I thought about the many veterans this nation has forgotten who have no homes, no benefits and no care for their injuries that have continued long after their service to this nation. I thought about those who died in that same service.
I saluted them all as I wished him safe passage. Some brother in arms would make a joke about the hat and the price tag and that would allow him to create a story about how and why he had it. I wished I could hear it but it was not my place to intrude. I am not a veteran just a grateful citizen. It’s time to show him honor and respect.
