A thank you goes a long way

It’s not everyday that you meet a guy in a bar with bullet holes in him. We were there to shoot pool, sip lemon drops and forget the bad day my friend had at work. He was there to try to forget the people he shot at and killed.

He looked like a typical guy at the bar, sitting alone staring down at his beer. When he commented on how pretty my friend and I were, it would have been easy to dismiss him as the guy with that typical come-on line. But something in his eyes was atypical.

We were polite and said thank you, my friend looking over the check and me standing there with a stupid, awkward smile. My gut was telling me to say something else to him – those eyes looked like he could use some kindness. His next comment confirmed my feeling.

“Sorry if I embarrassed you or it seemed like I was coming onto you – I’m honestly not,” he said, holding up his ring finger. “You two just struck me as having beautiful smiles, so I wanted to tell you. I haven’t seen smiles like that in awhile. I just got back.”

As we paid the check, my friend gave me that familiar nudge that girlfriends do, as if to say, “Let’s get out of here – now!” But I had to respond. He had a story, and he wanted to tell it. Maybe something in my eyes reassured him that I’d understand. “So where’d you just get back from?”

“Iraq.”

By this time my friend was outside, but I was inside his story.

“Welcome back,” I said. “I am glad you made it back.”

I nearly asked how it was, but I couldn’t find the words for such a loaded question.

“I almost didn’t – got shot twice. They gave me the Purple Heart.”

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t say that. I didn’t do anything special, and I’m hardly proud. Besides, I made it back. My buddy didn’t make it. His body did, but not him.”

I didn’t know what to say. Congratulations came first to mind, knowing he had won an award and was recognized for his bravery. Won an award? It sounds more stupid in writing than it did thinking it. But what do you respond to something you know nothing about? All I see of the war is edited on TV, yet here was reality sitting in front of me – a wounded man who I am not sure made it back.

“I only got it because of these,” he said, lifting up his shirt, showing me two bullet holes on his side that looked like something between a healing wound and a scar. “My family thinks I was the lucky one.”

He told me about his best friend, Tim, who he often played pool with in this same bar on Sundays, after getting off weekend duty with the National Guard. I turned around to look at the pool table, fittingly with no players. Today was Sunday.

There was a lot more to the story, but my friend, not having any idea what we were talking about, was pacing rapidly outside, giving me the eye through the glass doorway. I only had time to say a little, so I chose my words carefully.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Scott.”

“Nice to meet you, Scott. I am sorry that I said congratulations. It was the wrong thing to say, so please excuse my ignorance. So I will just say thank you.”

He lit up and smiled the way someone does when they feel validated and maybe even a bit restored. I told him that I was sorry that I had to go, but I appreciated his time. He thanked me for my smile and my compassion.

My friend teased me as I walked out about how I always talk to strangers. I smiled and said, “It’s the best way to meet people and find out something you never would if you didn’t reach out.”