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The Fallen Soldier

Harry Noussias

    I observed him as I had done so many times before.
    He sat with a bottle gulping the wine, GULP, GULP, GULP, with each gulp keeping perfect rhythm with the dripping water from the bridge above him, DRIP, DRIP, DRIP. His Adam’s apple was going up and down with each swallow as if not wanting to emerge from beneath the dirty collar that surrounded it. Who could blame it? But, I wasn’t feeling sorry for him. There is always help available – at a reasonable hourly rate.
    He sleeps at his usual spot beneath the bridge in that cardboard box which was once used to ship a refrigerator. I wonder; does the thought of the box’s former function cool him in the sweltering summer heat?
    He probably doesn’t smell the stink of the sewer anymore or bother to notice those little whirlwinds of dust that occasionally sweep across the pavement beneath him. He pays little attention to the lone pigeon that always seems to hang around. There used to be hundreds of them. A lot of things used to be.
    Maybe it would have been better if a bullet had taken him. Instead he was taken by the bottle. And now he has to forever fight the war over and over again in his own mind with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Is there no rest, not even in his dreams?
    Or is it something else? Poverty? Or?
    No, it is the war. It’s that god damn war. He is a has been, messed up, discharged soldier. No, he’s more than that. He is a hero. Guys like that can’t stand being called heroes. They think people abuse the term. But, who cares what they think? Who cares about them at all? Maybe I shouldn’t say that. Some people care. There is always help available – at a reasonable hourly rate.
    A three legged rat used to come around. He named it Corporal (your guess is as good as mine). He would feed it. But, one day Corporal went out and never came back. The three legged rat met a four legged cat. Corporal died in battle. It is an honorable death to be taken in battle. Battle. Bottle. There’s only one letter difference. One insignificant letter separates honor from disgrace. A lot of things are insignificant.
    Off in the distance the ringing of a church bell. It chimes the time. Churches used to be a place for comfort, help and relief. That was before religion evolved into the time clock business. But, to be fair it must be noted that they still offer help – at a reasonable hourly rate.
    Soon the evening would arrive and sometime just before the sun sets the street light will come on. In the night the insects will be flying near it. But, the hero won’t see them. His blood shot eyes cannot focus that far.
    It is the same old thing, over and over. I got tired of looking and thinking.
    I turned my back and lifted my collar not wanting to feel the barely perceptible yet stabbing intrusion of the stench filled breeze. Off I went in silence, trying not to think at all. I set my feet before me tapping the sidewalk beneath me being ever so careful not to step on the weeds growing in the cracks of the cement. Weeds have meaning. It is better that I think about that. Weeds have purpose.
    At least I was comforted by the thought that help is always available – at a reasonable hourly rate.

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