Copyright PsychopeteÓ 2003
Salt air filled his senses as he stepped from the plane.
San Francisco has been a fading memory of late. He doubted that rest was possible. Walking through the terminal he felt preying eyes looking through him.
Unaware of the innate return to sanity, he found himself somehow lacking the reality of the truth that awaited him. He had only been gone for a year but America looked so different.
"Where to?" queried the taxi as he threw his bag on the seat. "Downtown", he replied. The taxi moved forward, the clicking meter kept his attention. Sounds taken for granted when last home now took on a much different dimension. Sounds echoed in his mind.
Click ‑ click ‑ click ‑, a picture formed in his mind. Click ‑ click ‑ click, a continuous chatter of misplaced persons pressed his mind. The simple sound of the meter put him in a trance, his mind faded to a scene centuries away in his remembering.
The taxi left him on a sidewalk and pulled away.
The elevator stopped on the twelfth floor. 1201 the key said. The room was spacious with a view of the freeway from the lanai. Room service brought a bottle of scotch.
Dusk fell too swiftly for him.
He had waited so long for this time and now it seemed to escape him. Silence engulfed the room with a deep loneliness. Just hours ago he was surrounded by close friends, a family born in fear. Now, they were memories. Sweat trickled from his brow.
Culture shock began to filter his mind. He had been gone so long and seen so very much, yet felt so very little of this life that he head left behind.
The bottle slipped from his hand and broke with a crash. He dove to the floor. Picking himself up he felt foolish. The reaction was inborn, instinct. It scared him to feel so vulnerable.
A crowd had gathered in the street. He saw a banner. Putting on his uniform he went to the street. Crowds of jeering people were gathered at the curb. It was dark except for the streetlight. The crowd carried candles.
He walked to the side of the hotel trying to make himself more comfortable, invisible. His mind traveled back to Asia.
Crowds of people choking the streets. Vehicles traveling fiercely in disconcern for those on foot. Soldiers shuffling to the bars. Children begging. A continuous chatter of misplaced persons pressed his mind.
"INCOMING!", someone yelled. His mind flew back to where he was standing ‑ a loud blast made the crowd flinch ‑ then came the sound of rapid fire. He dove to the ground.
People gathered around him. One man asked if he was O.K.
He looked up and saw himself lying in a pool of rainwater in the street dirt. At first he was unable to correlate where he was. Half of his mind in Asia ‑ half here, in the mud.
Burning heat flushed his face, he heard a snicker, than a laugh. "They were just firecrackers man", someone said.
Covered in matted filth, the scene turned to his dress uniform, his black beret. He turned in shame.
He slipped back into the hotel and tried to make his way to the stairs. The man from the street had followed him inside.
"You just got home didn't you man?", the man asked.
"Yes, and it won't let me go".
They left together for his room.
"I've been home for about a month", said the man from the street.
