Sorta Like a Rock Star (13 page)

I met Private Jackson last year when my history teacher assigned us real live local veterans. We were supposed to write these dudes on Veterans Day for homework points. We were instructed to echo this form letter that Mr. Bonds had typed up and handed out. Basically, he wanted us to copy the words in our own handwriting, so it would seem like we thought up the carefully constructed sentiment. It was all about how we were proud to be Americans and were thankful for whatever our fill-in-the-blank veteran had done in whatever fill-in-the-blank war in which they had fought, and that while we would never understand what they endured for our country, we appreciated the benefits of American citizenship—what they fought to protect.

So I was assigned Private Paul Jackson and was told he fought in Vietnam. I copied my letter and filled in the blanks, but it made me feel sorta funny. I mean, how did I even know he did something good in the war? Maybe he was a crappy soldier who did more harm than good, and here I was thanking him for doing it. How would I even know? I felt sorta mad about this when I was made to write the letter, but truthfully, I forgot all about it after it was written, turned in, and sent—especially since most of the kids in my class got kick-ass thankful response letters, and I didn’t get jack crap.

About a month later, after the holidays, Mr. Bonds had some of the Vietnam veterans we had written come talk to our classes. Private Jackson didn’t come, but the four dudes who did told us some pretty wild stories that made most of us students cry, because the vets talked about their friends being killed in horrible ways and the anti-war hippie people spitting on our soldiers when they came home to the US of A and how much every Vietnam veteran hates Jane Fonda, who is an old-lady actress and is also known as Hanoi Jane because she posed with the enemy for pictures during the war, which is
so
whack. Word. When I saw these four dad-aged men fighting back tears—in front of a bunch of teenagers—still suffering from a war that happened so many years ago, I realized that our letters were pretty damn important to them, and I started to think a lot about Private Jackson and why he never wrote me back.

So I wrote him another letter, telling him about the men who had come to speak with our classes, asking him if he knew these dudes, only I did not call them dudes in the letter. And then I told him all sorts of stuff about my life: how my dad took off on me before I could even speak, and how I sometimes get lonely, but I am very loyal and would make a good pen pal if he were interested in writing someone who appreciated the sacrifices he made for our country back in ’Nam, but understood if he didn’t want to talk about all of that—I just wanted him to know that Americans like me welcome him home now, and shame on anyone who made him feel otherwise, back in the day. The letter was very formal and heartfelt, but it was also pretty kick-ass too.

When I asked Mr. Bonds for Private Jackson’s address, he wouldn’t give it to me, but told me that he would read my letter and if it were appropriate to send, Mr. Bonds would mail it for me. I told him that was unacceptable, and we sorta got into a fight about censorship and freedom of speech, which is protected by the first amendment—one of the very things Private Jackson fought to protect. Finally, Bonds agreed to listen to me read the letter aloud and then—if the letter were appropriate—I could watch him address the envelope, after which we’d drop it in the mailbox together, so I’d know that he’d mailed it, but he wouldn’t be forced to reveal Mr. Jackson’s personal information, which was not listed in the phone book or anywhere on the Internet; I know, because I checked in the library. Word. The deal was that we students wrote the veterans introduction letters, and if they wanted to write us back, then we were free to write them whenever. Since my veteran hadn’t written back, I wasn’t supposed to get a second shot.

So I read Mr. Bonds my second letter, and because I am a pretty kick-ass corresponder and I skipped over all of the really personal parts about my dad and whatnot, Mr. Bonds said my letter was well-written and appropriate and worthy of a postage stamp, which he applied to a Childress Public High School envelope and then stuffed my words in that white rectangle.

When we got to the mailbox outside of the school, I asked if I could put the envelope into the box, because I love mailing things, which was a lie I made up, and he said, “Sure.”

I glanced at the address just before I dropped the letter into the mailbox, and when Mr. Bonds went back into the school, I walked to Private Jackson’s home.

Private Jackson lives in a very small barn-red rancher at the edge of town, near the ghetto, as I mentioned before. There is nothing particularly interesting about his house—he has some bushes out front and a young maple tree. He drives a regular car. You’d pass right by without even thinking twice if you were walking down the sidewalk and trying to guess which house belonged to a Vietnam veteran. I was sorta expecting there to be one of those black POW flags flying outside, but no dice.

So I had to look for the right number, the regular old address-finding way, and, when I found the 618, I went right up to the door and knocked.

No one answered, so I knocked again, and then again.

I was just about to leave, thinking,
Duh, the guy is probably at work
, when the door swung inward and this very normal-looking almost elderly man wearing a yellow button-down shirt, silver glasses, and tan slacks appeared. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Did you get a letter from some crazy high school girl named Amber Appleton?” I asked him.

“Yes. Why?”

“What did you think of her letter-writing abilities?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s why you didn’t write her back?”

“Are you Amber?”

“We learned about your war in school and I met some of your friends.”

“My friends?”

“Guys who fought in Vietnam like you—they came to our class and told us all sorts of things.” I didn’t want to mention his friends being killed, or people spitting on him, so I brought up the part that most seemed to unite the dudes who came to speak to our class. “Like about that bitch, Jane Fonda.”

He just looked at me like I was crazy.

“You know Hanoi Jane?”

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to apologize for writing you that crappy form letter. My teacher made me write it—but that was before your friends came and told us about what it was like to fight in the jungle. Had I known what it was really like, I would never have written you such a lousy form letter. I wrote you a better letter today—more interesting and personable. But my teacher made me mail it, so you won’t get that letter for like—three days or so, I would guess.”

Private Jackson just looked at me for a second, and then said, “Is this some sort of joke?”

“Hell, no! Seriously. I just thought that maybe you’d want to—like—get to know me?”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not going to tell you war stories, if that’s what you’re after. I don’t talk about the war anymore. I’ve let go.”

“No. I’m totally not after Vietnam stories at all. I couldn’t believe all of the things your friends told us when they visited our classroom, and it was really hard to listen to them, especially since they all cried at least once, and it’s really hard to watch grown men cry. I’ve heard enough. True. Do you have any kids?”

“No.”

“Can I come in?”

“I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

“Do you want to—like—maybe take a walk with me?” I asked him.

“Why would I want to take a walk with you?”

“I don’t know—I’m interested in learning more about the you of today.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like writing strangers, so since I was forced to write to you, I figure I should at least know something about you, so we can keep writing letters and maybe even hang out from time to time.”

“I’m sorry,” Private Jackson told me, and then shut the door in my face, which made me feel really sad—and like a peon.

So I pounded on his door with my fists and yelled, “That was mean!” even though he wouldn’t open the door a second time. “You’ll regret slamming the door in my face when you read my next letter, especially since it took me hours to write and is therefore very moving! And if you hadn’t fought for our country in Vietnam, if you hadn’t been in the jungle for a year or whatever, I’d call you a bad name right now! Goodbye!”

About a week or so later, when I had all but forgotten about Private Jackson, at the end of Mr. Bonds’ class, when all of the kids were lined up at the door, my history teacher said, “Ms. Appleton. You got mail.”

He handed me this envelope that was addressed to me C/O Mr. Bonds via Childress Public High School.

I opened the envelope and the sheet of paper inside had eleven handwritten words on it:

W
ALKING
M
S
. J
ENNY

F
IVE O
’
CLOCK P.M. TODAY

S
HE RUNS THE DIAMOND

—J
ACKSON

I instantly recognized that Private Jackson had written me a haiku—which is a form of Japanese poetry that has three lines and seventeen syllables. I learned all about haikus in—like—third grade, back in the day. But I had no idea why Private Jackson had written me a haiku, nor what the hell his haiku meant. But I
did
know that I’d be going to his house later that day.

I realized that this was highly irregular activity—receiving haikus from a strange man—but I chalked it up to Jackson’s being in Vietnam. A lot of men didn’t come back right, but they’re still our men, damn it! I felt it was my civic duty to check out what the hell Private Jackson’s haiku was all about. As a citizen of the free world, I owed him this much.

So at five
PM
I stood outside of Private Jackson’s house and waited to see what would happen.

Private Jackson emerged on schedule wearing a brown coat and one of those Irish hats that old people wear forwards and black people wear backwards. PJ wore his the old-man way.

But the coolest detail about this moment was that PJ had this tiny little funny-looking gray dog on a leash. When I saw the dog, I ran over to it—all girly of me, I know—and I bent down to give the pup a big kiss and a pat on the head.

As you know, I go frickin’ nuts for dogs.

“You pass the test,” Private Jackson said to me from above. “She likes you. And she’s a very hard judge of character.”

“So this is Ms. Jenny?” I said, rubbing the crap out the little dog’s head.

“Yes.”

“What breed is she?”

“Italian greyhound.”

“What did you mean by writing
she runs the diamond
?
”

“You’ll see if you take a walk with me.”

We started walking down his street, following Ms. Jenny.

“So you dig haikus?” I asked him.

“Yes.”

“Kind of interesting for a dude your age to be writing haikus.”

“Why?”

“Aren’t they for children?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Elementary kids write haikus when they study Japan. I had to read one while wearing a homemade bedsheet kimono at the Cultures of the World Festival, back in the day, when I was only a wee one.”

“Do you remember the haiku you read?”

“No.”

Private Jackson didn’t say anything in response.

“Why did you write me back this time?” I asked him. “Why did you send me a haiku?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to. If we’re going to be honest, I now wish I hadn’t.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really like people.”

“Why?”

“Dogs are better than people. I have a dog. That’s all I need. Dogs are easy. People are complicated.”

“Tell me about it. Dogs are way better than people.”

“It was rude of me to slam the door in your face. My actions troubled me for days. It was rude. Unkind. I feel as though I have accrued bad karma.”

“No worries. People are rude to me all the time. I’m totally used to it. My mom’s boyfriend slams the door in my face all the time. At least you didn’t call me a bitch, right? Oliver’s a grade-A a-hole.”

PJ didn’t laugh at that joke but said, “You looked like the type of person who likes dogs.”

“How can you tell?”

“You have a kind dog-loving look about you.”

“Thanks.”

“I wasn’t complimenting you. I was just stating a fact.”

“Un-thanks.”

He laughed slightly at that one, covering his mouth, as if he had burped, and then said, “I thought maybe if I sent you a haiku, and you understood what it meant, that would prove that you’d like to see my dog run, and then—after you saw Ms. Jenny run the bases—we’d be even.”