Spitball Army

“One medium hot tea,” said I. “Our medium’s large.” She showed me a paper jug. “OK, small.” Eight ounces later, I ordered another.

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Where did you serve? I asked. Fort Dix, Fort Bragg in North Carolina, he replied. Mm, I hmmed. He paused. And 476 days in Vietnam.

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Father never spoke of the War, except to show off his appendix scar to impressionable kids, like me, as “where that Jap got me.”

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The crown of the city felt big on his head, but when he examined its fit in the mirror, he saw possibilities for growth. (detail from front cover of Birmingham Weekly, November 5-12, 2009)

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Orange and yellow burst violently from branch tips, with the same fervor as a yank on the bed covers before a long night of sleep.

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Hip-shaking soul was his favorite music for exercising, but it created some odd problems on the treadmill. So he switched to Bach.

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Each time someone swam near it, the rusty bobby pin moved an inch, adding another imprint to the auburn cluster on the tile floor.

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The body pump instructor screamed “Over! Over! Over!” while, through the wall, sweaty men in the weight room panted and grunted.

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The day began with a fruit smoothie and some decaf tea. Halfway into his morning workout, he tasted a curious banana-mint mélange.

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The homeless guy began his solicitation in this way: “Yes, I’m a black man.” I wanted to also point out his very nice wristwatch.

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