Sweet Resistance

Chapter One

Sometimes when I'm laying in my bed at night unable to fall asleep I think about The Before. The one with unpaid maternity leave and war in other countries. Back when I used to play Robin Hood. The Before that I so desperately wanted to change.  Thousands of miles from home, without the city to sing me to bed each night, I'm restless.

-

"When I was 19 the war was raging and wild." The worn smile on my Grandfathers face turned wistful at the chance to tell a war story. 

We sat in our dumpy, two bed-room apartment like we did most mornings, except today was different. The sun still hidden in the remnants of night and the sky was a pale blanket draped over the city for as far as the wall of skyscrapers would allow. 

He continued "They always said that war is nothing like the movies, but I swear they're wrong. It's just like the movies." Grandpa took a sip of his coffee and turned back towards me, clearing his throat then setting the cup back down on its spot on the kitchen counter.  

His voice was always the same when he told stories, as a kid I pictured him working for a radio station or as a news anchor where his deep and captivating voice could be appreciated, not reading fairy tales to me and my brother. I was disappointed to learn he was a clock-maker. 

From the 5th story we cold now see the sun peaking from behind the buildings that muddled the skyline. Balcony dogs barked and the whine of traffic seemed to egg them on. The morning news played on the box television in the corner of the living room, a clothes pile sat on top of it collecting dust but I was in no position to sort them. The stool I was sitting on creaked loudly when I shifted my weight to press the off button on the coffee maker that was humming dimly.

That seemed to be a theme around here. Most of our appliances and furniture were bought the same year I was born, now worn, barely functioning and dumpy. It fit well in the small apartment with stained tan carpets and fist sized holes littering the walls of the kitchen and living room that were interconnected in the limited space.  We'd lived in this complex for 9 years now.

From where I was sitting at the counter I could see our calendar hanging from the pantry door. Little tick marks with initials next to each one littered the door frame; they belonged to my brother, cousin and I.  A scribble of red marker was sprawled across the paint from when Nicky was 4, I only remember because when mom got home from work that night, she made me scrub at it for an hour before learning the meaning of permanent. 

Grandpa's loud voice cut through my train of thought. "Well I'll tell you about the day I turned 19. It was March 4th, 1968. I was in Vietnam. I had been deployed 6 months prior and I had 6 to go. I thought we were toast when we started receiving fire from the rear but we held up for about a half an hour until the tanks arrived." He looked to be lost in the memory. No, I decided moments later after a closer inspection, his expression was 

I think about this all the time. How one day I might tell my grandchildren about life back when I was young and they'd just wonder--never fully grasping.

He started up again "But by this time, we had taken 2 casualties, including our Sargent who was shot through the neck close to the collarbone. He refused to leave and insisted on running around yelling orders, his neck all patched up. I swear to god he thought he was John Wayne."

My grandpa moved to the U.S from Russia when he was 10. His thick Russian accent over the years has 

I laughed genuinely at his story but I could see right through his thoughtful efforts to cheer me up on my birthday. I've never minded being the poor kid who couldn't have birthday parties