Stories

by Xavier F.Aguilar

 

drawaing of three young men with fishing gear

FELIX

In the winter of 1967 while
our friend was fighting
somewhere near the Saigon
River, Bobby and myself were
trading bits of information
we'd received in letters
from Vietnam.

The yellow light from the
streetlamp entered the room
through the small window.

Bobby had graduated from
high school the past summer
and was working as a laborer
at a steel mill. “ The job is
good,” he would say, “It pays good money.” Money was a big thing with him; he thought it was the cure for every problem in the world.

“Felix should be coming home soon,” he said as he shuffled through the pages. “I'll bet he's different than what he used to be.”

Felix had landed at Danang in March of '65 and kept an ongoing rapport with us through his writing. He told us of a jungle where booby traps and snipers were as common as a cold Pepsi on a summer day here at home. The swamps reeked of malaria and black-water fever from which too many soldiers fell victim as with dysentery.

And what did Felix used to be like?

I first met Felix in the summer of 1960. My cousin had invited me to his house in the country for a cookout. Away from the main house was a tree where my uncle had tied an old truck tire with a rope for a swing.

As I sat inside the tire with my arms resting over the top, I gazed out across the field of high, orange grass. Suddenly I was grasping the tire as it seemed to ride an invisible force! With eyes wide open, I watched the orange brush turn to blue sky and my stomach became queasy.

I caught a glimpse of the tree top as my feet reached high in trying to touch it. As gravity pulled me back, I saw a blurred figure standing on the ground as I passed in an opposite direction. Again the color orange flooded my vision.

“Swing high, swing low,” yelled the person standing. It began to take on the shape of a human as I began to settle to a stop.

“What's the idea?” I blurted out the words as my feet finally touched the ground.

“The idea, my friend, was to give you a great ride!”

That was the first time I ever saw Felix.

The letters were full of his sarcasm as he told about the encounters with the Viet-Cong. He wrote of the underground tunnels of Cu Chi and of death. He once related that the only excuse for war is insanity.

“I heard his sister saying he'll be home this summer.”

The broad smile on Bobby's face was evidence of his joy that our friend would be home soon. “Maybe we can go fishing for a weekend or camping.”

****

By May it was known that Felix had been killed. His sister was the one to tell me as she knew we were close friends. When her news touched my brain, I went numb for a couple of minutes; the time it took me to grasp the reality of the situation.

I'll never forget the pain in her eyes as she told of her only brother. How pale she had become like a ghost, her eyes turned void of life, a deathly hurt had captured her soul. I remember the very last words she said to me, “Forgive me, I have no more tears to cry.”

“Well, Bobby,” I said, “it's just you and me for the fishing trip.” I choked on my words.

Bobby buried his face in the palms of his hands and began to sob. He had always looked up to Felix as a big brother image.

I rested my hand on his shoulder to let him know that I understood his emotion and I was supportive. “Come on,” I suggested, “let's go.”

The sky was overcast and the rain began as a downpour. Not really caring if we got wet, the two of us walked slowly along the broken sidewalk as we headed toward the railroad tracks which run parallel to Donora. The warmth of the day allowed us to remove our shirts and tie them around our waist. After a week of listless despair, we began to pull away from the sorrow. Bobby and I made peace with our world to the extent of which we could. We accepted that life goes on and we were a part of such.

It was mid-July when I ran into Felix's sister at a grocery store. “Hi,” I said, “how are you?”

She looked much better than the last time I saw her. Her natural color had returned and her eyes were more than just mirrors of troubled times.

“Oh, I'm glad I ran into you. If you ever come back to the Mon Valley give me a call.”

“You can bet on it,” she smiled at me, “bye.”

It was Saturday and Bobby was at the mill working a sixth day. “Time and a half,” is what he called it.

After paying for my groceries, I planned to do some shopping for clothes. School would be starting in September and it was never too early to pick up some bargains.

The sunshine was bright as I walked out into the parking area of the A&P, and brighter still were the thoughts of my friend Felix and the good times we had shared.

 

© 2006 by Xavier F. Aguilar

Illustration © 2006 by Aaron R. Aguilar

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