Thank God it doesn't snow here, but it gets pretty cold. When it rains, however, only the most brave, or most foolish, of us show up. I don't know exactly why we come here every day. We sit, talk a little, and watch all the activity in the town square—especially at noon.
We have a nice vantage point. The square is large and open, and we set up our chairs in front of the fire station. The fire chief had complained that we would hold up the fire engines. They have to be fast, always barreling through the garage doors openings. We may be slow, because of our age and various infirmities, but have never slowed them down. We move out of the way.
The same guys sit in the same places every time. Most of us are veterans who tell war stories to each other that cannot be shared with civilians who wouldn't understand.
This one guy, Lars, just sits there seemingly alert, listening, and observing but never says anything. If this was a Hollywood movie about war, he would be the big strong, silent farm boy who never talks, then performs a fantastic act of heroism that saves the day. Irving, another regular who was old, fat, and barely mobile, didn't say much either. When he did, it was a wry comment that showed he was aware, even though it looked like he was out of it.
Everyone has stories to tell, over and over, but mostly we just sit. Some stories are difficult to believe. Not that impossible deeds are described, but if the fear and desperation felt in those awful situations isn't recalled, the story is probably a lie. Nevertheless, lying company is welcome. Maybe the camaraderie we once experienced in military units carries over to this group. Maybe it isn't tolerance we feel, but a bond.
Most of the time, we people-watch. The front of the fire station is shaded in the morning, but warms up in the sun noon time and later. On the square and side streets are restaurants and coffee shops that generate a lot of foot traffic. And in front of the shops to our left a hot dog vendor sets up for lunch. His little stand does a lot of business.
Every day, like clockwork, this lady buys a hot dog, then crosses the square on a diagonal. Where she's going, nobody knows, although it's been discussed many times. (If we knew where, we couldn't talk about it any more.) In warm weather, she's usually dressed in a blouse and skirt, and wears conservative flat shoes. She must work at one of the nearby businesses and probably has an apartment on the other side of the square. That's where she might eat the dog. Her pace is steady—maybe placid, like waves against a shore.
One of the guys who comes everyday wearing military fatigues is called Anthony. His last name ended in elli or something. If necessary, I'll ask him. In a Hollywood movie, he'd be the flippant wise guy with an accent from someplace like the Bronx. His stories are hard to believe. They seem to be saying: “Look at me.” “Look at me.”
One day, somebody noticed that Anthony's chair was empty. “Where is Anthony?” I asked. Irving pointed toward the hot dog vendor and there he was. He seemed to be hiding behind the lady. Sure enough, when she walked across the square, Anthony walked close behind her—too close. She didn't notice him at first, but then obviously became aware. You could see that from the way her movements suddenly became stiff. She, at first, maintained a steady pace, then sped up. So did Anthony. You could see by the increased rigidity of her body that she heard the threat behind her. Before they disappeared from view, where she might be more vulnerable, she stopped, turned around and faced the threat.
You could see from Anthony's doubled up posture that he was laughing, and from her aggressive posture that she was angry at his joke. Then she faced away and marched along her usual route out of sight..
Anthony was still laughing when he returned to his chair. “Did you see that? Did you see that? he said. “That was so funny!”
“Not to her,” Irving commented.
This is why we suspect that Anthony's stories of personal heroism are false. He doesn't seem to care about other people's feelings.
***
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