So here I am, making my way out to Virginia by train via Mobile. Louisa, Virginia. There is no found record as to the origin of the town’s name, but it had an infamous ordinary, which in the late 1700’s stood for a housing of just about everything; tavern, circuit court, trading post, rooming house, mail service etc. all in one building. What is recorded, among quite a bit outside its naming, is that the Marquis de Rochambeau, on his way to Monticello, termed it the worst lodging he’d found in all America. Further investigation into the to-be-town’s immovable landlord and good-for-nothing wife serves to prove the Marquis’s calling it such.
Louisa is where a group of Vietnam War re-enactors gather to well, in my opinion, engage in the scrupulously unthinkable. None of these people are veterans of any foreign war, though there may be others like myself, but I have doubts. I can’t see a vfw outside of my position wanting anything to do with such a boondoggle. The slap-shod organizers don’t know I belong to the 1-9 Cav and if I have it my way they’ll never find out. I won’t be crawling through a pine forest to prove a point. I’ll be there to connect in some psychotic way to someone I recently proclaimed as just that.
I believed wrongly that my control had been as lost as it ever would during contact and clearance over jungle and brown water. Every element of life since return was under the strictest top, with a little room for air, or error, until he decided to join up. Now there’s a second Funk in the 1-9, charged with improving quality of life for Iraqi civilians. His unit is much of the time dismounted in urban terrain, and control, for the little in hindsight it’s worth, laughs back from the fake world I made for it.
Clues, other than the fact he was mine, existed. Through school, and I can only imagine where else, he was the one who ended any skirmish. He was strong and smart, which made him ripe for picking idiots off of one another and holding them stateless. I stood paralyzed following a fight in which his cousin attacked him; the only time I ever saw him engaged. Some men, when pulled off of another, slink under wiser arms. Some yell out but muster little strength. My son, as he was dragged off, held a concentrated and wild gaze to his foe, his hands outstretched as if a toy had been unwittingly yanked from their grasp.
Eighty-one gods of war now sway mercy over him as they strive to show none. There shouldn’t be so many. How does a man keep his child from what he’s made of? Maybe I’ll turn around in Louisa. Maybe I just needed to move a bit. No use in going to find what I’ve already got. No use in pretending. He won’t be there. He’s right here and we can head back together.