Humor by John Christmann
The Last Laugh
Behind the dimly lit bar situated toward the rear of the Veteran’s Hall in Santa Cruz, California are some old photographs. They are hidden behind corked whiskey bottles and stacked pyramids of empty beer mugs.
Most are graying pictures of gray battleships plying gray waters in the Pacific. Some are washed out color photos of uniformed men with dated haircuts who left their families and never returned.
This is, after all, a VFW Hall.
Resting on the bar, in front of an empty stool, is an open beer. Next to the beer, by a burning candle, is a shot of Jägermeister and a TV remote and a newspaper folded neatly to the sports page. The television suspended behind the bar has been set jokingly by the barkeep to the cooking channel until the remote in front of the empty bar stool is re-claimed.
Through the barroom door to the restroom is a cavernous meeting hall. It is being set up with folding tables and chairs for a large function. The floor is clean, but well-worn from the Veterans of Foreign Parties who have come before: guests of weddings and Quinceañeras and wakes and birthday celebrations and holiday parties and gatherings for any and no good reason.
There are old photographs on the paneled walls here too.
On a wide podium between two American flags several young women are arranging mementos on a folding table. There are framed photographs, a Giants baseball cap, a fishing pole, a worn pair of flip flops and some other stuff I can’t make out. I can hear them artfully planning the table and giggling at the pictures being pulled from the boxes.
They leave space on the makeshift display table for some flowers to be delivered later on.
Tomorrow the hall will be filled with guests. Lot’s of guests. It is an important occasion; a compelling reason for people who haven’t seen each other for a long time—and others who have—to be together. They will be laughing and embracing each other. Some will be crying, but their tears won’t last too long. It will be a happy time.
My sister worries that there will not be enough food. Or enough seats. Or that the flowers will not be right. She worries about a lot of things. It keeps her mind occupied.
My niece and nephew put their arms around her in support, even though she still feels the need to comfort them instead. They are young adults now, in their early twenties, handsome and fun just like their parents.
It is a nice picture, even if it is no longer complete.
Later, after my sister straightens up some cockeyed table chairs, she takes me by the arm. She wants me to say some words at the service. “Make it light tomorrow. And funny.” she says.
Funny? Light? I don’t say it out loud but I think to myself, he just died!
She stops catatonic in midsentence as she tries to regain her composure. Her eyes are red. I put my arm around her shoulder and she buries her head deep into my chest and heaves silently. “I miss him,” she gasps.
I do too.
Abruptly she starts to chuckle and yanks her head from my breast. “Remember at the restaurant in New York City when we came to visit you?”
I remember. After dinner I went to the restroom and when I returned the waiter was holding a birthday cake with a fizzing sparkler and leading the entire restaurant to a rousing and spirited rendition of Happy Birthday. Unfortunately my birthday wasn’t for another six months and my name was not Buford.
I have never seen Dave laugh so hard.
My brother-in-law was not a Veteran; he was not even the son of a Veteran. He was too young to fight in any old wars and too old to fight in any new wars. He wasn’t even a warrior. He just liked to help people and make them laugh. And occasionally sit at the VFW bar, joke with the barkeep, and watch the Giants play.
Then, during mid-life, he was drafted to serve in World War Cancer.
By the end of the war, all he wanted was to eat a good steak and watch the Giants win the World Series. Instead, he lay in a coma with a Giant’s rally towel draped across his skeleton legs on a rented hospital bed in his living room. War is hell.
In the empty hall on Veterans Day I think about what I can possibly say at his service. And then it comes to me. A story. Two stories. Five stories. Like an avalanche of Dave.
I can’t help myself. I laugh out loud.
The guy at the empty bar stool was just that kind of guy.
© 2010 Dadinthebox.com