old friend named Herb who tried to dodge the draft by deliberately failing the psychological exam. He studied psychology texts so that he could answer the questions in a way that would make him seem woefully unstable. When the draft board called him in, an officer clasped Herb’s hand and said, “Figured it out, huh? No one’s ever scored so off-the-charts insane. You must be some special kind of brilliant.”
They assigned Herb to intelligence, and he spent years in the jungle trying to extract information from locals about underground tunnels and weapons caches. When he returned home, he refused a government job, choosing instead to move to Reno, Nevada, where he lived off of blackjack winnings. The dealers weren’t nearly as disciplined in Reno as they were in Las Vegas, and Herb claimed that when these novices drew a face card or an ace and had to check their hand for blackjack, he could read subtle clues in their eyes that would tell him whether to hit or hold. Odds tipped ever so slightly in Herb’s favor, but ever so slightly was always enough in the long run.
When his winnings were large, Herb carried a lot of cash, but also a holster that bulged in his jacket and made people think twice about pulling fast ones. He didn’t pack a gun, though. After what he’d seen in the war, he hated guns. Instead, he kept his winnings—his wad of twenties and fifties—in the holster.
One night Herb was grabbing a bag of cheese curls at a gas station when a fidgety cashier—also a veteran—saw the bulge and the flash of leather. The station had been robbed a few weeks before, so the cashier now kept a shotgun hidden in a box of candy bars beneath the register. As Herb stepped to the counter, the cashier buried his hand deep in the box and curled a finger around the trigger.
Just a few minutes before, Herb had slipped some bills to a man who had approached him in the parking lot. The man wore a camo jacket and carried a piece of cardboard with a message inked on it: We gave our souls for your freedom. All we ask you to give in return is your spare change.
The cash Herb gave this other veteran was the cash he kept in his pocket so that he didn’t have to dip into the holster stash and startle the civilians. Luck goes as luck goes, and giving away all his pocket money was one of those things that made Herb’s luck go the wrong way. Because when Herb placed his cheese curls next to the register, he placed his other hand in his pocket. No cash there, so he went for the holster.
The shotgun blast didn’t knock him on his back or into the display of snack cakes, but it tore his shoulder open. The cashier didn’t keep firing. He ducked down behind the counter and prayed for things to end.
Herb stumbled outside into the parking lot and collapsed on the ground between the gas pumps. The panhandler was still there and he raced over to help, but when he saw the holster and the wad of bills sticking out from the bloody and shredded jacket, baser instincts took over. Soon the beggar was fleeing through scrubby and vacant lots with nearly five thousand dollars tucked into his pants.
Herb survived, but lost an arm, and now lives in a cabin in some state forest where he reads a lot and talks to truckers on his CB radio.
So, no, I didn’t know war. I knew stories about men who went to war, men defined by their decisions, decisions made out of desire or fear, or for survival, or simply because their spirits had been bent one way or another. And I couldn’t help but apply such stories to Fiona’s uncle Dorian. Was he a guy like Herb? Did he once have great potential, only to see it squandered by luck and consequence? Was he like the cashier? Perpetually scared? Paranoid? Quick to employ violence? Or was he like the panhandler? Broken? Desperate? Willing to do anything to satisfy his needs?
Maybe he was a little bit like all of them. It didn’t matter, really. What my mom said was the most important thing. War will change
They assigned Herb to intelligence, and he spent years in the jungle trying to extract information from locals about underground tunnels and weapons caches. When he returned home, he refused a government job, choosing instead to move to Reno, Nevada, where he lived off of blackjack winnings. The dealers weren’t nearly as disciplined in Reno as they were in Las Vegas, and Herb claimed that when these novices drew a face card or an ace and had to check their hand for blackjack, he could read subtle clues in their eyes that would tell him whether to hit or hold. Odds tipped ever so slightly in Herb’s favor, but ever so slightly was always enough in the long run.
When his winnings were large, Herb carried a lot of cash, but also a holster that bulged in his jacket and made people think twice about pulling fast ones. He didn’t pack a gun, though. After what he’d seen in the war, he hated guns. Instead, he kept his winnings—his wad of twenties and fifties—in the holster.
One night Herb was grabbing a bag of cheese curls at a gas station when a fidgety cashier—also a veteran—saw the bulge and the flash of leather. The station had been robbed a few weeks before, so the cashier now kept a shotgun hidden in a box of candy bars beneath the register. As Herb stepped to the counter, the cashier buried his hand deep in the box and curled a finger around the trigger.
Just a few minutes before, Herb had slipped some bills to a man who had approached him in the parking lot. The man wore a camo jacket and carried a piece of cardboard with a message inked on it: We gave our souls for your freedom. All we ask you to give in return is your spare change.
The cash Herb gave this other veteran was the cash he kept in his pocket so that he didn’t have to dip into the holster stash and startle the civilians. Luck goes as luck goes, and giving away all his pocket money was one of those things that made Herb’s luck go the wrong way. Because when Herb placed his cheese curls next to the register, he placed his other hand in his pocket. No cash there, so he went for the holster.
The shotgun blast didn’t knock him on his back or into the display of snack cakes, but it tore his shoulder open. The cashier didn’t keep firing. He ducked down behind the counter and prayed for things to end.
Herb stumbled outside into the parking lot and collapsed on the ground between the gas pumps. The panhandler was still there and he raced over to help, but when he saw the holster and the wad of bills sticking out from the bloody and shredded jacket, baser instincts took over. Soon the beggar was fleeing through scrubby and vacant lots with nearly five thousand dollars tucked into his pants.
Herb survived, but lost an arm, and now lives in a cabin in some state forest where he reads a lot and talks to truckers on his CB radio.
So, no, I didn’t know war. I knew stories about men who went to war, men defined by their decisions, decisions made out of desire or fear, or for survival, or simply because their spirits had been bent one way or another. And I couldn’t help but apply such stories to Fiona’s uncle Dorian. Was he a guy like Herb? Did he once have great potential, only to see it squandered by luck and consequence? Was he like the cashier? Perpetually scared? Paranoid? Quick to employ violence? Or was he like the panhandler? Broken? Desperate? Willing to do anything to satisfy his needs?
Maybe he was a little bit like all of them. It didn’t matter, really. What my mom said was the most important thing. War will change
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