AT THE PIECES TABLE
AT THE PIECES TABLE
BY JOHN TUFT
Long ago, in another day and age, the USA and North Vietnam were trying to find a way out of the war. Finally, there was an announcement that peace talks were to be held in Paris. The first issue to be negotiated took many, many months to decide. Negotiations were tough, with many a start and stop. One day the big announcement at long last arrived. They had agreed to the size and shape of the table at which they would sit. That was it. Round or rectangle, nameplates or none, flags or no. As we are presently living through a time of being governed by those who follow their whims and fears, with all of its chaos, and the gullibility of those susceptible to contagious delusions and empty promises, the sense of futility can become paramount.
On this day, I find myself at a table in McDonald’s in Van Nuys, trying to make peace with my own pieces. I’m sipping my ‘senior’ cup of coffee and staring off into space, as writers are wont to do. It’s our superpower — don’t bother me, I’m lost in thought. This important work is interrupted by ungodly screeching and moaning coming from behind the counter. It goes on and on, stops briefly, then resumes. Serena, a middle-aged employee is wiping down tables nearby. She stops and studies me for a long moment. “Are you okay?” she asks, with concern in her voice. I smile, “Yes, I’m just enjoying the peace and quiet.” Serena nods. “I kinda enjoy it myself.” I focus in, “What is that noise behind the counter?” She laughs, “That’s the ice cream machine. She likes to make a lot of noise but doesn’t want to do much.” My turn to nod, “Reminds me of my ex.” I can hear her laughing all the way back to her station behind the cash register. (To my exes, it was a joke. Honest. Just a joke.)
“Chico profeta!” I hear my new Spanish name being sung out by Bobby. He looks like he’s near 80, white hair and trimmed beard, walking with two crutches in a shuffling kind of step. He usually comes in and makes his way around from table to table asking for change. I slide a bacon, egg and cheese bagel across the table and nod for him to take a seat. He speaks in a low voice, laden with reserve and pain. “Gracias, profeta,” he says. “How’s the water running today, Bobby?” I ask quietly. Bobby was in the Brown Water Navy during the Vietnam War. They patrolled and fought in the Mekong Delta in the southern part of South Vietnam. He looks me in the eye. “My pibber is sitting low, the tide is coming in, and I’m almost out of ammo,” he replies and I can hear the anguish in his voice.
“Chico profeta!” I look and it’s Alejandro, a day laborer with a new baby and three other kids to feed. He daps me up on his way past. “I never saw you,” I say, the new greeting in the age of ICE patrols all over Los Angeles. Governing by whims and fears has real life consequences for families, for the food supply, for those waiting for housing to be built. On my way here this morning I watched four helicopters hovering in a box formation over the block behind mine. A lot of noise and bluster in a country searching for its soul, ensnared in its own arrested development, unable to leave adolescence behind. Alejandro unobtrusively slides a dollar bill under the food wrapper in front of Bobby and goes on his way.
Bobby gets his crutches settled. “You on ROM/ROM, profeta?” I shrug, and nod. “Ran out of money before ran out of month. Story of my life, Bobby.” He looks me over and without a word breaks the sandwich in half and hands one to me. “Never leave a man in the water,” he mumbles. I nod; indeed. A pibber is a PBR, the small boats the Navy used to patrol the Mekong Delta. The goal was to disrupt the supply lines of the Viet Cong. He was in Operation Game Warden, manning the .50 on the bow, shirt off against the heat, young and strong and just trying to do a good job. “How are you doing with the pieces?” I ask as we eat our breakfast. He sets down his food. “Every single night I hear him out there in the water, calling my name,” he says.
Everything that happens to us, good or bad, becomes a piece in our brain, in our memory. Like a bed of glowing embers, always present in our lives. Sometimes they glow hot and bright, other times they may seem dormant. But they are all always there until the day we die. It’s how we handle them and their permanent presence that makes the difference. Bobby’s best buddie, Jugs, was in the twin boat that went with his everywhere on the river. One night Jugs was dropped ashore to try and locate a squad on patrol who were hours late checking in. The boats backed off and waited in the inky blackness of night on the river.
Tense hours passed with excruciating slowness. Finally, a flare was fired high above the river bank. It had been fired by the Viet Cong. It showed Jugs staked out on the river bank, stripped naked and bleeding from too many cuts to count. He was screaming Bobby’s name, over and over. Begging for help, begging for mercy. Under his head was a mine. More mines were tied to his arms and legs. As the light faded and the screaming of his name went on and on, Bobby pulled the bolt on the .50 and emptied it onto the bank where his friend lay. There was a thunderous explosion of mud and water as the mines lit off. The screaming stopped.
Here at the pieces table there is no fuss made over size and shape of the table. All are welcome.
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
