Homecoming

Joey Gonzalez was nodding off, dreaming of being minded as a toddler by his great grandfather, Jose, now deceased. He dreamed of how that gentle soul fed him slices of apple carved with a pocket knife.

Someone kicked at his boot.

"Hey, Gonzo - wake up you silly Mexican."

His brown eyes opened and found Murphy, seated across from him in the transport vehicle, smiling.

"How the hell can you sleep in this bumpy-ass noise box?"

"Must be siesta time," said someone at the opposite end.

Gonzo smirked. "It's so hot."

"Hot? You wouldn't last two days in Texas."

"You wouldn't last two minutes in the Heights, blanquito."

"I do believe he'd sleep through a roadside bomb," said Johnson, who was to Murphy's right.

"Only if your sister was next to me."

There were howls and the kicking of feet from all the others, unshaven young men whose faces were stained with dirt and dust.

"He talks big for a wetback runt."

"Our gear weighs more than he does," said Murphy.

"Out here size don't matter, as I prove to you sorry-ass jokers every day. None of you can hang with me."

"All that runnin’ from the border patrol paid off," said Johnson.

Gonzo broke into mock laughter, to the delight of the others. "Not even a negrito like you or a football star like Murphy can keep up with me – fuhgeddabout the rest of you gringos."

"I wasn't a star," said Murphy, embarrassed.

"No surprise to me."

"Every outfit needs a mascot," said Johnson. "You’re ours, Gonzo. I'll have my mama send us a leash."

"I got your leash right here, moreno."

Again laughter filled the vehicle. Gonzo kicked at Murphy.

"How many times I tell you - I'm Dominican, not Mexican."

"You're right - I give you too much credit."

"Woh!" came the collective, joyous cry.

"Is that 'Dumb-inican'?" said Johnson.

"Go fry some watermelon."

Back and forth it went until the vehicle came to a halt and the young men snapped alert.

"Let's kick some Qaeda ass," said Johnson.

Somewhere along the Syrian border, the men went house to house, searching for the enemy. Murphy slinked into a dilapidated building. Gonzo waited outside, eyes scanning the area. He heard a rustling to his right. He edged along and took a peek around the corner of the structure, and saw nothing. He inched along the alley. The house across the way was largely intact. He scooted toward it and slid toward a window whose frame had been blown out. He took a brief look inside and pulled back his head, shaking it as if what he had seen was extraordinary. He looked again and saw his Aunt Maya, who'd been working at Windows on the World on September 11th, and whose remains had never been recovered.

Gonzo opened and closed his eyes several times in succession, and looked again. She was there - in her kitchen, making her famous pasteles. His mouth watered.

"Tia?" he said softly, reverently.

She flashed her million dollar smile and waved. Gonzo’s chest contracted with emotion. He tried to reach out to her. Although there was no glass to impede him, his hand was stopped in mid air. It was as if he were looking into a colorful three dimensional panel. His aunt placed her fingertips in mirror image to those he was resting against the divide. His eyes glazed. She was the sweetest lady there ever was. Everyone loved her. All she’d wanted was a better life for her family – and those creeps flew an airplane into her.

Suddenly there was an explosion to his left. Gonzo crouched instinctively.

"Murphy!" he cried, as the latter, having leaped out a window, was rolling on the ground.

Dazed, Murphy lay still a moment, blue eyes gazing at Gonzo. "Damn," he said, breathless. "That was close. That was a goddamn grenade."

"You hit?"

"I don't know." He jumped to his feet.

"Your ass's bleedin'."

"Wait'll I get my hands on the bonehead...."

A young man approached the window from inside the house, weapon at the ready. Gonzo and Murphy recoiled.

"Don't shoot - we're on your side, ass-wipe."

Miller went pale and dumb. Murphy tore into him. Miller hung his head and apologized profusely. Others came running. Murphy continued to jaw. Johnson laughed.

"Now I know what they mean by luck of the Irish."

"I’m American, bozo."

Miller, new to the outfit, kneeled, made the sign of the cross and prayed.

"Let’s go," said Johnson. "We got work to do. You’re with me, Miller."

Gonzo looked toward the window. His aunt, her kitchen, was gone. He wondered if he were dehydrated, seeing images like those the actors saw in the silly old movies his grandfather watched on Telemundo.

"You fallin’ asleep again, Gonzo? Move it."

"Try to keep up," he said, running ahead of the others.

As they made camp, Gonzo’s thoughts were far away. He quashed the urge to divulge what he’d seen, lest the others think he was bucking for a psycho discharge. He’d just begun his second tour. He did not want to leave until Iraq was secure. He believed he owed it not only to his aunt but to all who died on 9/11.

"What’re you so glum about?" said Murphy, lying on his side. "Ten less dirt bags in the world, two prisoners, not one of our own lost – it was a great day. I’m the one who got bit. My ass’s killin’ me."

"Why should that be different than any other day, cracker?" said Johnson.

Everyone but Gonzo and Murphy, whose pale face flushed crimson, roared.
Murphy refused to be put up for a Purple Heart, claiming he didn’t deserve one, as he’d been able to walk away under his own power. He knew too many soldiers who had really earned one.

"Hardcore," said everyone in the outfit admiringly.

Gonzo’s sleep was restless. He’d consumed so much water he had to get up in the middle of the night to relieve himself. As he was buckling up, he caught a glimpse of light in the blackness. He approached it with trepidation. There was a playground ahead, and there, beneath a street lamp, was Ricky Rodz, his best friend, who’d been cut down at 16 by a drive-by shooter aiming at a rival drug dealer. Ricky was hoisting jumpers on a court just like the one in upper Manhattan on which they’d played so many games of one on one, getting into arguments that now seemed ridiculous.

"Ricky?" said Gonzo softly, disbelievingly, eyes glazing. He’d never gotten over the feeling of guilt aroused by not having been there for his friend at the time of his death, although he would not have been able to do a thing about it. He’d been chasing Rosa Colon. In the ensuing years, he had to fight back tears each time he passed that court. Eventually, he avoided its path. Ricky was the straightest kid in the world – and he’d been cut down as if he were a criminal. Gonzo was still infuriated by the unfairness of it. When the war was over he planned to join the police force and help rid the Heights of drugs.

Ricky smiled and waved, then did one of his crazy spin moves to the basket. The loose rim rattled just like the one on their old court. To his frustration, Gonzo was unable to enter the light. He was dying to shoot some baskets. He pressed a hand against the panel, and Ricky dribbled over and followed suit, smiling silently.

"Awright, saddle up!" someone shouted. "On your feet, ladies!"

Gonzo responded immediately, turning from the panel and hurrying away. He stopped abruptly and looked back. Ricky and the court were gone. Gonzo choked back a sob.

"You want a special invitation, Mex?"

"I’m Dominican, goddammit." He froze, regretting the disrespect he’d shown. "Sir."

"Qaeda doesn’t give a rat’s ass what you are. Move!"

Soon they were in the transport vehicle. Gonzo was staring into space.

"He’s gone from sleepin’ to stupor," said Murphy. "He looks like he just got hit by a pro linebacker."

"Hey, Murph," said Johnson, "they still play without helmets in Texas? That’d explain a lot."

"Nothin’ could explain your candy-hoosier-hoops-playin’-sorry-ass."

The laughter was interrupted by an explosion ahead. The vehicle stopped abruptly, throwing the men against each other.

"Everybody out!"

They came under small arms fire, and took cover, the cries of the wounded in their ears. Angered, Gonzo jumped to his feet and ran toward the gunfire.

"I’m with ya, Gonzo," said Murphy, following.

The exchange was brief. The enemy all were dead. Murphy kneeled beside Gonzo, who was on the ground. The others found him crying. Several made the sign of the cross. Eyes glazed. Gonzo, looking up, assumed someone had bought it. Soon the others huddled in a circle, holding hands, heads bowed in prayer. Gonzo rose to join them.

"Who was it?" he said.

No one responded. It was as if they hadn’t heard him. He gazed about, searching for his fallen comrade. In the east, the sun had broken the horizon. He saw his great grandfather seated on a milk box, and his Aunt Maya and Ricky, smiling, beckoning from the front of their building in Washington Heights. His comrades were walking away, heads hung. Suddenly he understood. He was stunned and quaked with fear. His legs buckled as he stepped toward the light. Now he was able to enter.

"Querido," said his great grandfather with gruff affection.

His aunt slung an arm around him and kissed his cheek. "Bienvenido."

"Welcome home," said Ricky, tossing him the basketball. "Let’s see what you got."

"Soldiers kill for love and nobody admits it…." James Osterberg, AKA Iggy Pop - "Cry For Love"

Thanks to Janet and Ben for their help with the Spanish.

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