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Della,
Monte and the Divinity Student
Sectons of this fictional short story include memories drawn from experience as a PFC
As I step up the curb I notice the some trace of intermittent puddles from
yesterday's early spring shower. The gutter below the curb is now dusty dry
with only a few glossy grey spots greeting the morning light laced with ice
from the hard freeze last night. The warm yellow glow from behind the steamy
windows of the cafe sure look inviting, yet, it is early and like most
Saturday mornings, I will probably just take a stool at the counter, alone.
Most mornings, I am the first customer in here. I drink my coffee and watch
the houses down the street open one lighted rectangular eye and then another
until the silence of the morning gives way to the sounds of community and
commerce.
I am kind of a loner anyway. It has been hard for me to make and keep close
friends as an adult. I am not quite as peculiar as Monty. I get along with
most folks and I enjoy people, it is just that friendships mean
responsibilities and since the late 60s I just prefer to avoid any kind of
real close friendship which may be painful when or if it ends.
Closing the door behind me, I step into the warmth of the ''Spoon''.
Glancing back into the kitchen I catch a glimpse of the old cook, Della, in
her usual place, over the grill, working her particular kind of
gastronomical magic (at times, black magic). She used to have a little cafe
of her own down the street before it was burned down by a jealous lover back
in the early 60s. I can remember the rare times, on my parents anniversary,
when Dad would pack all of us in the car and take us down to 'Della's Cafe',
so that Mother would have someone prepare the meal and wait on her (and the
rest of us) for a change. It was always quite an occasion. We were always
dressed up, finger nails clean, hair combed, bows in my sisters' hair. Seems
like I remember green beans, mashed potatoes, chicken fried steak with
homemade dressing.
As we got older, there seemed to be a string of jokes about Della. You
know......finding a dead cockroach in a burger. I think that happened once.
Then there was the ever present cigarette hanging out of the side of her
mouth. That long silvery ash hovering out there just about to fall, as she
sweated over the burgers on the sizzling black grill. Oh, yes....there was
the saying, ''Coffee, strong as Della's breath.'' I think I always like the
one Dad used the best. It went something like, '' Coffee strong enough to
make a rabbit spit in a dog's eye''.
Back there...back then, before Vietnam, there seemed to be a place for
everyone in our little community and with exception to a few 'Della' jokes,
most adults naturally deserved a child's respect. Sure wish a cup of hot
coffee was still a nickel, as was the case in the Della's Cafe. At least,
the morning coffee here at the ''Spoon'' is usually a little better.
As I look up and start to head for my counter perch, I notice a young man in
a booth by the front window. He looks kind of lonely and a bit lost here as
the first and only customer until now. He looks at me with a faint smile
and so I naturally turn and walk over to where he sits.
''Morning, would you like some company?'' I say.
''Sure,'' comes his response.
As he slides his books and papers over to give me space on the table across
from him, I notice that one of his papers slipped off the formica toward the
floor. As I picked it up to hand it back to him I notice he had been
copying Psalms 59.1-5 on the page. For those of you who do not remember that
one, it is David's Prayer for Deliverance. It goes something like this:
59 Deliver me from my enemies, O my God,
For, lo, they lie in wait for my life;
Rouse thyself, come to my help, and see!
As he takes the paper from me, I look him over close and then ask,'' are you
a preacher?.''
''Well, not yet,'' is his response. ''I am a divinity student.''
As Della slides her last batch of bacon off the grill, puts down the
spatula, and starts shuffling our way with her order pad, I ask this young
man across from me,'' What is this your working on?''
He says, '' Well, I have been working on an assigned sermon on one of the
scriptures for people who feel themselves quite vulnerable and helpless in
the face of overwhelming danger and evil. God's presence and protection is
the way through these lonely and frightening times when we feel weak and
susceptible.''
About this time, I am thinking, '' what did I get myself into this early in
the morning. This young kid is going to be giving me a sermon all through my
morning coffee.'' Well, I chose the booth and now I am just going to have to
sit in it. ( Kind of like making your own bed and having to lay in it, I
guess.) It would be kind of rude to go back over to my stool at the
counter. I'll just have to sit here and take it.
I offered him my hand to shake and told him my name was Bob. He responded
with his, which I did not bother to remember. I am kind of bad with names.
Anyway, after Della had taken my order, the young fellow explained that he
was having a real problem trying to come up with something for his assigned
sermon on the scripture. He explained that he really could not identify
with the situation in the verse.
Things got kind of quiet as I looked again at his handwriting and the
scripture. The whole thing was another of those strange moments where
communication is choked out by memory. Let me try to explain......
Over the past three decades when I hear or read those particular verses, the
very ones in this young fellow's sermon assignment, I have been confronted
by a host of unexpected and disturbing Images.
Like many young men growing up in the late 60s, I was drafted into the U.S.
Army Infantry and soon found myself confused and fearful for my life in the
rice fields of South Vietnam. However, the particular memory that keeps
coming into my head as I hear this prayer does not place me helpless and
vulnerable in the face of my enemies. Quite the opposite, my squad was
often ordered to move out into the countryside and wait in ambush for the
enemy who might be using the cover of darkness to move though the, so
called, ''free-fire zones'' on their way to infiltrate the local villages
and base camps.
This particular night, our ambush was placed along a road which connected
two small and distant villages. As six of us slept, spread out behind a
paddy dike located parallel to the road, our man on guard began to hear the
faint sound of Vietnamese voices in the blackness of the night. He silently
began to crawl along the dike awakening each of us in turn and giving us
warning. Then, silently saying prayers and wondering what was to come, we
listened to the multitude of voices coming through the darkness toward us.
These people were not supposed to be out in that area at night and if they
were the enemy, we were going to have to follow orders and try to stop them
if we could. The few minutes that passed as they moved on toward us seemed
like several lifetimes. There were so many of them and we could hear them
tramping along the road and there was the occasional sound of metal, perhaps
weapons,intermixed with many voices. As the sounds began to take the form
of black figures coming along the road above us, time seemed to stop. I
remember the rush of panic as I realized that the silhouettes were those of
old men, women and children who had probably been walking for hours in the
darkness to market in the other village. Everything seemed to be spinning
out of control, I wanted to yell out ''don't shoot them'' but I could not
risk startling others in my frightened squad who might trigger others into a
senseless massacre of these helpless people.
God was in that dark place. A silent, frantic prayer to protect the people
was answered. Every man in the squad held their fire and nearly fifty
helpless human shapes passed over us on the market road in that dark early
morning. They never knew the danger we posed for them. I later discovered
that each of us had shared the same silent prayer at the very moment we
recognized that these were not the enemy and realized how very terrible and
wrong the situation was about to become. I am sure that none of us would
have been able to overcome the overwhelming guilt which could have come into
our lives had our prayers been unanswered.
I kind of think a situation similar to mine must have happened to Monty, but
he must not have been so lucky. Every morning I check in on him on my way
to work. Since he returned from Nam he has not spoken. He is alone out
there, in his rusting little trailer, seven miles from town. There with only
his dogs, he wonders that lonely bit of country, silent, expressionless,
unkept, and strange. People are afraid of him and nothing seems to help or
change him. He has few visitors now, but he does let me stop in. All we
ever do is stand near my pickup in silence for a moment. He never seems let
me do anything for him and I don't even know if he appreciates my visits.
Well, the young divinity student must think me strange to sit in the booth
across from him, deep in my own thoughts, and not say a word. What could I
say. We were living in different worlds. This morning, ours would not
connect. I drank my coffee, nodded to him, dropped the coins by the
register for Della and quietly went on with the day.
As I drove up to the old trailer, Monte was in his usual place, standing out
to the side, looking off through the morning to God knows what.
©Robert Alexander Fromme 1996 -rfromme@fromme-usa.net |
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