By evening, the regulars at the Riverside Tavern were discussing Bert’s arrival. The tavern sat on the corner of Main and Fifth, and it was where the same group of men had congregated for years, nursing drinks and nursing grudges, talking about the world and how little of it they understood.
There was Jack Reeves, who had been passed over for a promotion at the plant. There was Tom Richardson, who had never left Riverside and seemed bitter about it. And there was Kevin Mahoney—or as everyone called him, Big Kev—who had apparently learned everything he needed to know about military service from watching action movies and cable television documentaries.
“So Bert Morrison’s back,” Jack said, taking a long pull from his beer. “Doesn’t look like much of a soldier to me.”
“That’s because he’s not,” Big Kev said with absolute certainty. “Look at him. No medals. No fancy uniform. If he was really Special Forces like everyone said he was going to be, he’d come back looking like something.”
“He looks like he got kicked out,” Tom added, his voice carrying the satisfaction of someone who enjoyed imagining the failures of others. “Or like he went soft. Can’t handle the real military.”
“I heard the Captain’s son came back from deployment two years ago,” Big Kev continued, building on the narrative they were constructing, “and he had a chest full of decorations. He was at the VFW post in dress blues, and everyone stood up and clapped for him. But Bert? He looks like he came back from a bar fight, not from serving his country.”
They laughed. The kind of laughter that doesn’t come from humor but from the satisfaction of finding someone to feel superior to.
The next day, Bert went to the convenience store on Main Street to buy cigarettes. He had to walk past the tavern. And when he did, Big Kev was outside smoking on the sidewalk.
“Berting!” Big Kev called out, using a nickname that was meant to be diminishing. “Welcome back, hero!” The sarcasm was thick enough to cut.
Bert stopped walking. He turned to look at Big Kev, and for a moment, there was something in his eyes that might have been recognition of what was happening, or it might have been something else entirely. Something darker.
“What happened to your face, man?” Big Kev continued, not knowing when to stop, not understanding that sometimes it was better to leave things alone. “Did you trip from fear? Or did somebody finally catch up to you in hand-to-hand combat?”
“Where were you assigned?” another voice called from inside the tavern. “The mess hall? The motor pool? Nowhere near actual combat, I’m guessing.”
Bert said nothing. He stood there for a moment, looking at Big Kev, and then he simply turned and continued walking into the store. His shoulders were slightly hunched, as if he was trying to make himself smaller, trying to take up less space in the world.
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