Sorta Like a Rock Star(32)
So I had to look for the right number, the regular old address-finding way, and, when I found the 618, I went right up to the door and knocked.
No one answered, so I knocked again, and then again.
I was just about to leave, thinking, Duh, the guy is probably at work, when the door swung inward and this very normal-looking almost elderly man wearing a yellow button-down shirt, silver glasses, and tan slacks appeared. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Did you get a letter from some crazy high school girl named Amber Appleton?” I asked him.
“Yes. Why?”
“What did you think of her letter-writing abilities?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s why you didn’t write her back?”
“Are you Amber?”
“We learned about your war in school and I met some of your friends.”
“My friends?”
“Guys who fought in Vietnam like you—they came to our class and told us all sorts of things.” I didn’t want to mention his friends being killed, or people spitting on him, so I brought up the part that most seemed to unite the dudes who came to speak to our class. “Like about that bitch, Jane Fonda.”
He just looked at me like I was crazy.
“You know Hanoi Jane?”
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to apologize for writing you that crappy form letter. My teacher made me write it—but that was before your friends came and told us about what it was like to fight in the jungle. Had I known what it was really like, I would never have written you such a lousy form letter. I wrote you a better letter today—more interesting and personable. But my teacher made me mail it, so you won’t get that letter for like—three days or so, I would guess.”
Private Jackson just looked at me for a second, and then said, “Is this some sort of joke?”
“Hell, no! Seriously. I just thought that maybe you’d want to—like—get to know me?”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“I’m not going to tell you war stories, if that’s what you’re after. I don’t talk about the war anymore. I’ve let go.”
“No. I’m totally not after Vietnam stories at all. I couldn’t believe all of the things your friends told us when they visited our classroom, and it was really hard to listen to them, especially since they all cried at least once, and it’s really hard to watch grown men cry. I’ve heard enough. True. Do you have any kids?”
“No.”
“Can I come in?”
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”
“Do you want to—like—maybe take a walk with me?” I asked him.
“Why would I want to take a walk with you?”
“I don’t know—I’m interested in learning more about the you of today.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like writing strangers, so since I was forced to write to you, I figure I should at least know something about you, so we can keep writing letters and maybe even hang out from time to time.”
“I’m sorry,” Private Jackson told me, and then shut the door in my face, which made me feel really sad—and like a peon.
So I pounded on his door with my fists and yelled, “That was mean!” even though he wouldn’t open the door a second time. “You’ll regret slamming the door in my face when you read my next letter, especially since it took me hours to write and is therefore very moving! And if you hadn’t fought for our country in Vietnam, if you hadn’t been in the jungle for a year or whatever, I’d call you a bad name right now! Goodbye!”
About a week or so later, when I had all but forgotten about Private Jackson, at the end of Mr. Bonds’ class, when all of the kids were lined up at the door, my history teacher said, “Ms. Appleton. You got mail.”
He handed me this envelope that was addressed to me C/O Mr. Bonds via Childress Public High School.
I opened the envelope and the sheet of paper inside had eleven handwritten words on it:
WALKING MS. JENNY
FIVE O’CLOCK P.M. TODAY
SHE RUNS THE DIAMOND
—JACKSON
I instantly recognized that Private Jackson had written me a haiku—which is a form of Japanese poetry that has three lines and seventeen syllables. I learned all about haikus in—like—third grade, back in the day. But I had no idea why Private Jackson had written me a haiku, nor what the hell his haiku meant. But I did know that I’d be going to his house later that day.
I realized that this was highly irregular activity—receiving haikus from a strange man—but I chalked it up to Jackson’s being in Vietnam. A lot of men didn’t come back right, but they’re still our men, damn it! I felt it was my civic duty to check out what the hell Private Jackson’s haiku was all about. As a citizen of the free world, I owed him this much.
So at five PM I stood outside of Private Jackson’s house and waited to see what would happen.
Private Jackson emerged on schedule wearing a brown coat and one of those Irish hats that old people wear forwards and black people wear backwards. PJ wore his the old-man way.