I could be late for the Ethics Committee meeting on the 12th floor of the hospital. Clearing security with my University ID, I am in front of the arriving elevator with two others. I nod to the new member of Ethics whose name I forget and to an unknown, tall, old, emblem-vested Vietnam War veteran of about my age.
We three are the only occupants. I press 12, and the veteran asks for 23. We can barely feel the slow lift of this elevator. The veteran is a half-a-head taller than me, and I am 6 foot tall. My colleague asks me if I think the meeting will run long today. I say, “We do have some tough reviews. I would be surprised if we finish on time.” My thoughts turn to a proposed project that I found troubling. I never like to see dogs as research subjects.
At the first floor, a short old man wearing a Vietnam veteran’s hat steps in. The tall vet smiles and puts out his hand. They are facing each other and shaking hands. The tall vet says, “In-country?” The new man says, “Khe Sanh.” The other says, “Tet.”
Fifty years before, these soldiers suffered and survived the poisoned jungles of a doubted war I opted to avoid. My young colleague and I stand — as we were — as if their exchange had not been overheard.
I think of what passed for choices in our youth, and the lack of choices for both of us back then. Just as his young circles pushed him to fight, my circles would have thought me a traitor if I had fought. I think of my cousin, Joe, born within a month of me in the same town. He flunked a grade and could barely do high school, but he became a Marine corporal and died in Vietnam.
On floor 3, the short vet leaves the elevator. Once the departing veteran is a dozen or so steps away, the vested man calls out loudly, “THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE!”
My young colleague turns to the vested man and says, “Yes, thank you both for your service.” I imagine the old veteran’s shout-out is a protest mostly for my contemporary ears. My mind had been elsewhere — from research with dogs to my dead veteran cousin, Joe. And I prefer not to be pushed.
I think then of my high school classmate who served as a medic in Vietnam and who saved his own life when his leg was hit by shrapnel. He put a tourniquet on his leg which he did lose above the knee. A sweet-faced young man who served and made it through.
I remain eyes front until my floor, thanking the tall veteran for his service as I leave.
Lynn Kozlowski has published in The Citron Review, Molecule, The Zodiac Review, 50-Word Stories, Every Day Fiction, The Dribble Drabble Review, Bright Flash Literary Review, Friday Flash Fiction, The Quarterly, The Malahat Review, and failbetter. He has a volume of short pieces, Historical Markers (Ravenna Press). He is based in New York State, USA, but spends a great deal of time in Ontario, Canada.
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