By starting with an
afternoon happy hour visit to the Black Barnacle in downtown Bath, Maine, I came to the join with the intention of asking the bartender out.
She is very cute, dark haired with big brown eyes. Her
name is Jamie Lynne, my heart thumps an extra beat thinking of her and I just had
to be here. She had that sparkle in her eye when she came to
greet me.
"I saw you the
other day", she said, "in the coffee shop, but I could not
remember your name."
I smiled,"Eric", I said. Just the fact that she remembered
me and the much missed encounter was enough.
"Jamie right?",
I smiled again. She simply smiled back and moved on to her task at hand.
"What can I get you
to drink?'
"Beer, HSA, please.", I
responded.
The afternoon went on, people
came and went. I worked on often looking up to just
catch Jamie smiling again and again. Gosh I like her, I thought. I sat as the early drinkers left and
contemplated what to do next. Then one of them said "Hey, I'm Keiyatah...
2hours later....
This guy could have torn my throat
out at any moment, the clear clean hollow dark eyes stared back at me, we were in Lebanon, it was
1983. He stopped and took a moment, then proceeded to tell me how the
explosion at the UN Barracks was 275' away when the bombs went off. I
stopped and his eyes closed slowly reaching for the ability to keep telling me
the chaotic scene that instantaneously unfolded in front of
him, again in his mind. He grimaced and the lines of fighting wore hard
on his face. I gulped in understanding. I saw the
beige brick in shambles around him, the dust thick from the
explosion. His eyes darting left and right; where was his team? The
order came over the still moving air, "Weapons hot, find your weapon!"
He still had both fire arms and a rather large knife. His eyes
creased tight and tears dropped out of his pores and onto his face. Ears ringing, he
shook the sweat off his head, no doubt to clear his mind. As he turned to get up he
spotted a friendly a step away. Marine he was, laying on the ground
in half. My stomach turned and I looked to my beer. He
shimmered, then clinched his fist, his eyes silent behind the weight of memory.
I looked inside myself and regained his image. A US Marine of the 2nd
Recon Team was screaming in pain. The shock had worn off and the body
still ticked, I went silent with bewilderment. His tears
streamed now, stricken with the ultimate realty of his memory.
It persisted, I went into passionate mode. A long pause of agony made camp on
his face. The terror and fear and emotion and training all whipped away
inside his mind. Lost, he stood in the moment feeling hopeless, searching
for the answer of how to let go. I thought at any moment he could snap, he
didn't. A deep long breath was only interrupted by emotional pain
stirred by the overwhelmingly traumatic experience. I weep now
as I write this, his pain reeling inside of me. The bar was a forgone
background of people that simply did not understand. KEIYATAH did not want to open
his eyes. He was aware like a bee is of nectar. The breaths came
through his nose, fast and deliberate, honing the control. He
dragged his fallen comrade from the rubble. Gun shots
and mayhem rang around him. The right hand went to the med-pack
and the injection of morphine plowed thru. "It never works for
long.", he said looking straight into my eyes. A feeling of truth
came over me and I sat searching for an answer. His fist pounded down on
the wooden picnic table, my beer jumped. I look around the room, people
knowingly ignoring us, we were being judged, how sick. No one would look
me in the eye, the bar tender looked distraught, yet not concerned enough to ask
what. Had the locals had enough of KEIYATAH and his stories, I sure had
not. My insides shouted back at me, rise up
and throttle thee menagerie of despicability. Ability
to seek truth is rarely meet with reality; however the reasoning for these
peoples lack of understanding, of judgment was irrelevant to me.
I watched KEIYATAH, now wringing his hands tightly. I tossed a white napkin in his vicinity. Searching deep for the meaning of the
experience, I lost a grip of mentality. I wanted to stand up and start
yelling profanity at the nay-sayers. Screaming support for veterans of causality and
the real job american-humans do. To call a person of true dedication to
his limit is only met with serious insensibly? I shook my
selfish in-sensibilities off and focused on my struggling friend.
The lids of his eyes, white with pressure, twitched in agony. His
hands had now grasped the napkin and it was rung tight, like the neck of they
who say nay. I came out of his memory and to my senses.
"It wasn't your fault.", I said seriously. His shell
shock quickly subsided and he slowed his breathing. His eyes still shut,
his hands still writhed. I spoke again,” It wasn't your fault." He
realized now that I was no chump, he knew I meant what I said. The lids
released his mind and then looked deep into mine. "I do that all the
time.", he said as he looked down at his hands. The napkin was
twisted and frayed, the true representation of his
life's experiences. Twenty four years in the Marine core
sat in front of me. Me the guy who came to ask a gal for a date. The
guy who had, by no means of myself, become part of KEIYATAH's life. At
this point we wanted a whiskey, they wouldn't give it to us. We
sat silent for a moment thinking how can they say nay.
