by: d. heidel

He stands alone.  He stands there.  His head is bowed.  He is surrounded by hunched, crouched, charging Marines.  Bayonets fixed.  Shells popping black smudges overhead.  And he stands.  He does not crouch.  His head is bowed.

I pack up my suitcases.  Handbag inside travel bag inside extended adventurer.  We have many models to offer.  For the wife, for the businessman, for the jet-setting executive.  I pack my samples one inside the other as I stand inside Howard Johnson’s room 143.  There is no noise about me other than the rattle of the radiator, the drip of the bathroom faucet, and the sound of leather and vinyl sliding across one another, zippers zipping. 

The bags are ready.

I sit down again at the sideboard, look at the bible that some Gideon left here, and smooth out the print that some other traveler left inside of it.  Across a faux gold scroll, the print is labeled: Belleau Wood, Schoonover.

I see the boy – strong in the new body of a man – standing, head bowed, weighted on front and back with packs, and I cannot decide what it is that holds my eyes.  Is it his stance?  Upright while everyone else is crouched; stationary while everyone else is charging.  Or is it the bowed head?  Thoughtful, reverent, or just depleted of energy, breath, life.  He is in between this place and that other place.

It holds my eyes.  And as it does, I think of my own Michael.  So long ago, my own Michael.  And my eyes fog a little.  A boy in the new body of a man.

I go back to the bags, one inside the other inside the other.  I pull them off of the bed, situate them by the door.  I make sure my own bags are packed.  One with my toothbrush, the other with my clothes.  I put the toothbrush bag inside of the clothes bag.  My bags are used, slightly beaten up.  The sample bags are pristine, smell of leather and new vinyl.  I put my bags next to the sample bags.

All is packed, ready to go.  Today I go to Clarion and maybe Sioux Center.  Knock a few doors, recite my pitch, smile my old smile.  Maybe I will meet another old man or woman who remembers someone else.  And I will say, “These suitcases would work well in that Skylark of yours – make for an easy trip to go visit so-and-so…”

We are always traveling.  The clock ticking on the nightstand says 5:35.  It’s still dark.  Will be for another couple of hours.  The highways should be clear though – hasn’t snowed for the last few days.

I go back to the sideboard in the Howard Johnson’s room 143.  American industry, American highways, my American product ready for more sales.  I sit, put a finger on the boy in his new man’s body.  I look at the black smudges over his head, think about the things that he might be thinking about: the smell of summer in Europe, the smell of sulfur and saltpeter, the feeling of young strong arms, the feeling of arms that are suddenly too exhausted to keep living.  Black smudges.  Black smudges.  Michael, where are you?  We come in through a rush of blood.  And black smudges pop all around us.  Abrupt and mercifully quick.  Mercifully quick, Michael.