1942

   He jauntily tossed the date book around in his soft, youthful hands; the gold lettering of the cover, reflecting the first rays of a Rising sun, shimmered, giving the date /1942” an almost glorious and revered look. He was the only one awake. Sitting there, in his second-class seat, he mused at the jumbled world which flickered before the eyes, the passing world which seemed, this day, this single day, to have such surreal connotations. The Local Thirty-Eight was a commuter line which carried the day’s Suits to and from their mindless Temples of brick and mortar, alters of stately mahogany and pews of the purest pulled leather. This New Year’s Day, however, it was stocked to the brim with perspective soldiers, adolescents who were doing their part, fighting for the ambiguous and politically-soiled /life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” Unable to sleep he tirelessly massaged his datebook, the only connection between himself and the life he should have been living. Flipping anxiously through the crisp, tender pages his amazement was lured by the fact that the future lay right before his eyes; bland and pocket-sized. /Ahh, Identification” he sighed to himself, reading over the tedious sections. Name: /John Bailey Jr.” Address: /Huh, wish I knew. Goin’ on deployment without a clue as to where, They won’t tell us, They’ll never tell us.” Number of Telephone: /What telephone? The one my mother will wait at, anticipating that dreadful call, that horrific call and the phone will slip from her hands and ! her first born ! her only son !” Social Security Number: /What separates the men from the apes, guess I’m just a number now, everything seems to be numbers, numbers floating in the air, numbers sitin’ next to me, numbers bein’ reality, the only thing one has to hold on to. Mmn the Easy to Forget Section,” there to help the perfect gentlemen in a jam; size of collar, size of shoe, yadah yadah, yadah, /why bother to remember?, the Army does that for me now.” John slinked back into the enveloping folds of the chair, they almost reminded him of his mother, her skin pulled taught but criss-crossed with smooth, definite lines. It was all too hard; they would be in Philly soon. He grudgingly let the Datebook fall from his longing grasp, he was a Soldier now.
   … John’s body almost seemed to levitate off the hot, moist soil. Was he really alive, was this really happening? The hot enemy fire draped him, blanketing him like the thick smell of Ma’s hot apple pie baking in the oven. Blood spattered on his face, the blood of the Fallen. Lying low he bailed out; slithering across the ground as naturally as a garden snake navigates the weeds, he was accustomed to The Life. Anxiously reaching into his swollen pocket he whipped out his Datebook, the /1942” insignia shone in the dim firelight of the incoming bombardment. He tried desperately to hang on to his sanity, stroking the only element which connected him with Placid Normality.
   A gun was fired. A bullet pierced the air. The datebook fell.

- Claire Gray