Heroes

I grew up a mile and a half from Graceland in a subdivision next to I-55 and what is now Federal Express Headquarters. Our house was new in 1968, and our neighborhood was a perfect place to grow up. School was a short walk or ride down the street. I learned to ride my bike by coasting down the hill in front of my house. After that, I sported a green Spyder bike with sissy bars, a banana seat, and a 3 speed stick shift until I graduated to a Free Spirit ten speed when I was twelve. There was baseball in summer, football in fall and winter, and basketball anytime you wanted to walk outside to the driveway. We had a playground, a swimming pool, tree houses, friends and pretty girls. 

People in our neighborhood valued order and appearance. Fathers got angry when vehicles sped down the street. Neighbors waved at each other. Mothers made sure their kids had rain boots in the rain, jackets in the fall, and snacks whenever they were hungry. It was a place where families lived, brothers and sisters went to the same schools, and families went to church on Sundays.

Every spring, my dad dug up the wild onions in the yard, spread fertilizer, and moved the sprinkler around to water grass and concrete alike. The neighbors did like wise. By June, the Bermuda was deep and green, making mowing a constant necessity and a viable job opportunity. Mowing lawns was my primary source of income. I pushed my mower through the neighborhood from yard to yard.

On my way home from mowing, I often saw Victor mowing his parent’s yard. Their house was across the street and five houses down from mine. Their yard was the most beautiful one in the neighborhood. Across the front were azaleas and irises, and the sidewalks and driveway had a two inch edge around it. Vic mowed the yard at a perfect 45 degree angle. It looked look like a golf course. Vic was in his 20s, and despite the weather, always wore bell bottoms and a button down shirt with the tail untucked. On his feet were sandals, the kind with tire treads as soles. He had a beard, wore tear drop glasses, and had a distinct way of walking with a long stride, dipping up and down like a piston. I saw him every week in his yard, but he never spoke or even looked up. According to neighborhood lore, he fought in Vietnam and came home shell shocked. The older boys said he was a war hero.

In Tennessee in the 70s, you couldn’t get a driver’s license until you were 16 years old, but you could get a motorcycle license when you were 14. It was a great opportunity, but my dad hated motorcycles, I talked to him one day and told him I could throw a paper route if I had a motorcycle. I never thought he would do it, but I stumbled on the one thing he respected: hard work. He went to the bank and withdrew four hundred dollars to buy me a Honda 125 Enduro. A week later, I passed my driving test and filled out an application to throw a paper route for The Commercial Appeal.

On June 1st, I got up at 2 am to pick up my papers at the Stop and Go at Boeingshire and Shelby Drive. When I got there, I found the route manager, Mr. Wilson (not his real name), inside the store impressing the night shift clerk. He had a crew cut and military bearing. He liked me because I was young and showed up early. He was destined for big things. 

I went outside when the van arrived with the papers. I had three bundles, but Wilson told me to unload the van while he and the driver talked baseball. Rather than help unload the van, the other route drivers got their bundles and started folding their papers. When I got the last bundle out of the van, the driver walked up and asked what I was doing. Two-thirds of the papers went to other drop off locations, but no one told me, so I unloaded the whole van. Without apology, Wilson made me reload the van. By the time I finished, all the route drivers were gone to throw their papers. I wiped sweat from my forehead and started folding my papers, 156 of them.

I was in front of the store sitting on a stack of pallets. The van driver left, and Wilson was inside, behind the counter with the clerk. I finished filling my first bag of papers when I heard laughing in the distance. A man with a beard and distinct walk came around the corner from the bar. He was wearing sandals, bell bottoms, and a button down shirt. It was Victor.

I didn’t think Vic knew who I was, but he called me by name. It was the first time he ever spoke to me. He was funny and engaging, and when he got closer, I found out why: he was drunk. When the bar closed, they ushered their patrons out. Victor was on foot due to a recent DWI. I was all alone in front of a convenience store at three in the morning. It was good to see a familiar face. Victor and I became friends that morning. 

Vic told jokes and acted out stories while I folded papers. For a few minutes, I was no longer a paper boy with a route ahead of me, I was a spectator with a front row seat at the comedy club. My sides hurt from laughing. He told a joke about a priest and a lawyer and said a word that started with S and rhymed with pit. A shadow flew past me and became a barrage of punches that knocked Victor to the ground. It was Wilson. He yelled, “Somebody call the police! This man is using foul language in the presence of women and children!”

I was well beyond childhood, and the only woman around was inside the store out of hearing. The offending word was the same word I heard everyday at school and in the neighborhood, and besides that, Wilson said it several times earlier when he was trying to impress the clerk.

Victor lay on the ground, bleeding from his mouth. 

“Vic...you alright?”

He stared blankly at the fluorescent light above me.

Wilson stepped between us and backed me away to protect me from further danger. Minutes later, a police car pulled up, and a cop jumped out. He handcuffed Vic, jerked him up by his shoulders, and put him in his back seat. “Damn drunk!”

I threw my paper route wondering how a seemingly reasonable man could attack a defenseless man and think he was a hero. Wilson was clean cut and talked big, but he had never been through what Vic had gone through. Victor was a real hero, scarred by the things he experienced in battle. He needed help not violence.

From that day on, I waited until 4:30 to pick up my papers, so I wouldn’t see Wilson. A month later, he took a job elsewhere. Forty five years later, he remains the epitome of cowardice.

A week after the attack, I saw Victor mowing his yard. He wore the same bell bottoms and button down shirt, and he had the remains of a black eye. 

“Hey Vic!” I waved.

He never looked up.