The Day the VFW Filled the Showroom

They came across the lot in ones and twos from their pickups, in dark VFW jackets with the post number on the back, ball caps with a unit crest or a ship’s name, and their good boots. Vern walked up with his cap in his hand and stood beside me.

Albert Mayhew came last, in the wheelchair, pushed by his great-grandson Easton, a big senior in a Braddock Bobcats letter jacket.

Vern put on his cap. “Ready?”

“No,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “Neither was I the first time.”

We walked through the front door together. The little electronic chime went off again and again as the door swung behind us, and the young salesman, who had been halfway through a doughnut, set his coffee down very slowly. “We’ll just sit a while, son, if that’s all right,” Vern told him.

The showroom has a polished floor, three new trucks parked on the carpet under the lights, and two long rows of waiting chairs along the front window. The veterans took the chairs by the window. Easton wheeled Albert up beside the flag stand in the corner, and I took a chair in the second row with my purse on my lap.

Hank Reisner took the seat facing Stan’s glass office and folded his arms. Nobody spoke. They sat.

Stan Kessler came out of his office at ten twenty, in his good navy blazer, wearing the broad smile of a man who sells a hundred and fifty trucks a year. The smile lasted about as long as it took him to count heads.

“Well. Look at this. Vern. Hank. Melvin. To what do I owe the honor?”

“Morning, Stan,” Vern said. He did not stand. “We’re here to see about Specialist Tuttle’s truck.”

“I’ve spoken with Mrs. Tuttle. It’s a private matter between Ryan and my dealership, and there was a signed storage agreement. I’ll be glad to talk it through with Ryan when he gets home. In the meantime I’ll have to ask you folks to move along. I have customers.”

“We won’t block your door,” said Vern. “We’ll only sit.”

“This is private property.”

“This is a showroom, Stan,” Vern said gently. “You put a sign out front that says the public is welcome.”

His neck went red above his collar, but he has made his living by never losing his temper in front of a customer, and he held it. He went back into his office, and through the glass I watched him pick up his phone.

Deputy Roper came in twenty minutes later. He took his hat off in the doorway, which I noticed, and looked at Albert in his wheelchair with his Korea cap.

“Gary,” Stan said. “I want these people removed.”

“Is anybody yelling, Stan? Has anybody touched anything?” The deputy looked around the quiet rows. “They’re sitting in your chairs. I don’t have a thing to write up. Morning, Vern. Mr. Mayhew.” He put his hat back on and left.