What Happened to Wyatt

01 ｅｎｃｏｕｎｔｅｒ

I remember the first time I saw former Sergeant Gabriel Barnett. I had just come out of the back door of the Walmart where I worked. I was taking my break and I had spotted him kneeling beside one of the bulky green dumpsters out back. I remember wondering how he could stand the smell.

He had a pair of dog tags around his neck and a sad crumpled up camo cap by his side. You could tell he had served in the Army. He wore the typical dark green shirt and camo trousers, although they looked like they hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in years. He also looked like he hadn't had a decent shave in the longest time, his graying stubble covering the better half of his face. His dark mop of hair was a mess, disheveled and greasy-looking. His icy blue eyes were bleak and they had a lonely, resigned look to them, but it was his leg that got me.

Or his lack of one, per say. It was merely a stump. It was bandaged heavily, resting beside his other leg, which luckily was still intact. A crutch was propped up against the wall at his side, clad with duct tape and worn with age. His hat, I had noticed, was filled with loose change. I took him in slowly and my heart sank. I fished inside my pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled bills and made my way towards him. He looked up as I got closer, a questioning look in his eyes. I stopped in front of the hat, bent down, and tucked my handful of bills inside of it. I looked back towards him and he gave me a quick, crisp nod, his eyes, I'd like to say, flickered with some sort of regard.

At the time, I thought that this would be the last I'd see of him, that maybe he would be inspired by my small act of kindness to better his life, or to at least start down that path. When I went out the next day he was gone, and I figured maybe he had done just what I'd hoped he'd do. It brought me a sense of comfort and happiness, and a sense of pride in myself I guess. But I could only hope it had done him some good.

 It was maybe two weeks after that day that I pulled into a gas station on my way to work. I filled my small Honda Civic with gas and pulled into the gas station's sorry excuse for a parking lot so I could grab a coffee from inside. There was something wrong with the coffee machine that day so I grudgingly headed to the back of the store where the coolers were with all of the drinks. I figured a Gatorade would have to do. I was about to head back to the front of the store to buy my drink when I noticed something familiar about the man to my right.

He was further down, standing in front of a cooler stocked to the brim with alcohol. He was leaning up against the cooler, it seemed to be supporting him, it along with a battered crutch. One of his legs were planted on the ground, and the other, nothing more than a bandaged stump. It was him. I couldn't help but feel a sense of disbelief. I just couldn't fathom how he could choose to spend money that was given to him on alcohol when it was clearly the last thing he needed. I watched as he hauled a six-pack of beer out of one of the coolers and hobbled towards the checkout counter. He pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket and pushed it towards the cashier. They exchanged a few words, and then the man started towards the door. I couldn't let him leave like that. I don't know what came over me, but I rushed to the counter, setting down my Gatorade, foot tapping a mile a minute. Once the exchange with the cashier was handled, I burst out of the store, looking around frantically, but the man was gone.

I couldn't stop thinking about what had transpired between the veteran and I. I was stocking shelves with rolls of paper towels in aisle two the next day and I couldn't get that man out of my head. I had no idea what I would have said to him if I had caught him on his way out of the gas station, all I knew for sure was that the whole encounter bothered me. I replayed it over and over again in my head, trying desperately to understand why a situation that I had nothing to do with seemed to be having such an effect on me. I tried to push all thoughts of the encounter out of my head, but I couldn't get the images of the beer and the man and his missing leg to stop dancing around my brain. I had my job to worry about, so I knew I'd have to let it go, and I did. At least for a little while.