Waiting Room Storytellers

I went to my local VA clinic this week to get my eyes checked.  While waiting with pupils as big as marbles in the “dilated eye waiting area,” I talked to a few Vietnam vets and other era veterans.  One of them struck up a conversation by saying “Damn son your pupils are so dilated I can’t tell what color your eyes are.”  I laughed and said, “Sir you’re just a blurry shape to me right now so I’ll take your word for it.”

We talked about the isms that brought us all to war—theirs being communism and my war being terrorism.  We talked of the absurdity of fighting wars for ideas or tactics.  Their war, like mine, felt like some get-rich-quick scheme for politicians.  Although I know we did good things in Iraq, at least when I was there.  I can’t speak to Vietnam.  Both conflicts seemed to last way longer than the missions should have dictated.  We discussed how those types of wars lend to indefinite conflict by bolstering the military-industrial complex.  Then, to break the seriousness a veteran in a motorized scooter yelled “I’m practicing my left turns for NASCAR” as he sped into another waiting area.

One of the guys told me he retired from the Air Force and flew C130s in Vietnam for a few tours.  “That whole war was pointless, and don’t get me started on your war.  We should have never invaded Iraq.”  I smiled and agreed.  I failed to see the logic both then and now for our involvement in Iraq.  I am still proud I got to serve nonetheless, another example of my perpetual state of dissonance.  The conversation ebbed and flowed from combat tours to college time afterward.  It was a good way to pass the time while waiting for my appointment.  This is why I always arrive early at the VA.

Another elderly veteran told me he was an eleven bravo (infantry) in the Army.  He said that he’d been drafted and when he got to Vietnam, they made him a typist.  He said he couldn’t type a lick so they made him a mail clerk.  He collected and sorted the camp’s mail during his time in Vietnam.  I guess as far as combat assignments in Vietnam that one shouldn’t have been so bad.  During our conversation, he kept referencing how he respected what General Schwarzkopfdid in Iraq.  “He took swift action and handled business…I respect that.”  I said I was unfamiliar with the nuances of his mission since that was the same soil but a different war, a generation earlier than my conflict. 

The conversation shifted to a Cold War-era veteran who came in after Vietnam and left before the Gulf War.  Schwarzkopf’s war.  He said his job in the Army was simply a driver.  He spent a good deal of time doing jungle training in Panama but wasn’t there during that conflict either.  He said that he shuttled Army Rangers and Special Forces all over Panama to ranges.  He didn’t want to just sit in the truck so he got to shoot and blow up all sorts of things they were using on the ranges.  He said his unit sent him to the Mojave Desert to train after that.  When he went home on leave news stories were circulating about the conflict in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.  His mother forbade his reenlistment because she knew we were getting ready for another war.  He listened to Momma and got out.  She was right, not long after he got out the Gulf War began.

A few of the guys asked me about my tattoos.  “Did that hurt?” 

“How much do you have invested in your arms?”

“Did you have those in the service?”

“What happens if you scratch your arm…will it tear up the tattoo?”

I answered as I always do, yes it hurts, I invested more free time than money into my tattoos and a good chunk of my GI Bill college stipend.   I got tattooed while I was enlisted but only on my upper arm.  Nothing happens when you scratch them—they’re in there deep.  I explained that I don’t regret the tattoos but I always regret it while I’m in the chair getting them.  I hate the whole process and dislike pain very much, believe it or not. 

It’s weird being the young guy in the room by comparison.  I enjoy it actually.  I love listening to the stories of my elders.  I have the utmost respect for those older veterans.  The Vietnam guys especially.  That is the beauty of hanging out in waiting rooms at the VA clinic.  The VA has its problems but you can’t beat having the opportunity to sit next to true American heroes and soak up all that wisdom.  Next time you’re hanging out at a VA clinic or other waiting room and you see the old guy with the bedazzled hat, ask him about his time in the service and see where the conversation takes you.