So I read Mr. Bonds my second letter, and because I am a pretty kick-ass corresponder and I skipped over all of the really personal parts about my dad and whatnot, Mr. Bonds said my letter was well-written and appropriate and worthy of a postage stamp, which he applied to a Childress Public High School envelope and then stuffed my words in that white rectangle.
When we got to the mailbox outside of the school, I asked if I could put the envelope into the box, because I love mailing things, which was a lie I made up, and he said, “Sure.”
I glanced at the address just before I dropped the letter into the mailbox, and when Mr. Bonds went back into the school, I walked to Private Jackson’s home.
Private Jackson lives in a very small barn-red rancher at the edge of town, near the ghetto, as I mentioned before. There is nothing particularly interesting about his house—he has some bushes out front and a young maple tree. He drives a regular car. You’d pass right by without even thinking twice if you were walking down the sidewalk and trying to guess which house belonged to a Vietnam veteran. I was sorta expecting there to be one of those black POW flags flying outside, but no dice.
So I had to look for the right number, the regular old address-finding way, and, when I found the 618, I went right up to the door and knocked.
No one answered, so I knocked again, and then again.
I was just about to leave, thinking, Duh, the guy is probably at work, when the door swung inward and this very normal-looking almost elderly man wearing a yellow button-down shirt, silver glasses, and tan slacks appeared. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Did you get a letter from some crazy high school girl named Amber Appleton?” I asked him.
“Yes. Why?”
“What did you think of her letter-writing abilities?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s why you didn’t write her back?”
“Are you Amber?”
“We learned about your war in school and I met some of your friends.”
“My friends?”
“Guys who fought in Vietnam like you—they came to our class and told us all sorts of things.” I didn’t want to mention his friends being killed, or people spitting on him, so I brought up the part that most seemed to unite the dudes who came to speak to our class. “Like about that bitch, Jane Fonda.”
He just looked at me like I was crazy.
“You know Hanoi Jane?”
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to apologize for writing you that crappy form letter. My teacher made me write it—but that was before your friends came and told us about what it was like to fight in the jungle. Had I known what it was really like, I would never have written you such a lousy form letter. I wrote you a better letter today—more interesting and personable. But my teacher made me mail it, so you won’t get that letter for like—three days or so, I would guess.”
Private Jackson just looked at me for a second, and then said, “Is this some sort of joke?”
“Hell, no! Seriously. I just thought that maybe you’d want to—like—get to know me?”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“I’m not going to tell you war stories, if that’s what you’re after. I don’t talk about the war anymore. I’ve let go.”
“No. I’m totally not after Vietnam stories at all. I couldn’t believe all of the things your friends told us when they visited our classroom, and it was really hard to listen to them, especially since they all cried at least once, and it’s really hard to watch grown men cry. I’ve heard enough. True. Do you have any kids?”
“No.”
“Can I come in?”
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”
“Do you want to—like—maybe take a walk with me?” I asked him.
“Why would I want to take a walk with you?”
“I don’t know—I’m interested in learning more about the you of today.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like writing strangers, so since I was forced to write to you, I figure I should at least know something about you, so we can keep writing letters and maybe even hang out from time to time.”
“I’m sorry,” Private Jackson told me, and then shut the door in my face, which made me feel really sad—and like a peon.
So I pounded on his door with my fists and yelled, “That was mean!” even though he wouldn’t open the door a second time. “You’ll regret slamming the door in my face when you read my next letter, especially since it took me hours to write and is therefore very moving! And if you hadn’t fought for our country in Vietnam, if you hadn’t been in the jungle for a year or whatever, I’d call you a bad name right now! Goodbye!”
About a week or so later, when I had all but forgotten about Private Jackson, at the end of Mr. Bonds’ class, when all of the kids were lined up at the door, my history teacher said, “Ms. Appleton. You got mail.”
He handed me this envelope that was addressed to me C/O Mr. Bonds via Childress Public High School.
I opened the envelope and the sheet of paper inside had eleven handwritten words on it:
WALKING MS. JENNY
FIVE O’CLOCK P.M. TODAY
SHE RUNS THE DIAMOND
—JACKSON
I instantly recognized that Private Jackson had written me a haiku—which is a form of Japanese poetry that has three lines and seventeen syllables. I learned all about haikus in—like—third grade, back in the day. But I had no idea why Private Jackson had written me a haiku, nor what the hell his haiku meant. But I did know that I’d be going to his house later that day.
I realized that this was highly irregular activity—receiving haikus from a strange man—but I chalked it up to Jackson’s being in Vietnam. A lot of men didn’t come back right, but they’re still our men, damn it! I felt it was my civic duty to check out what the hell Private Jackson’s haiku was all about. As a citizen of the free world, I owed him this much.
So at five PM I stood outside of Private Jackson’s house and waited to see what would happen.
Private Jackson emerged on schedule wearing a brown coat and one of those Irish hats that old people wear forwards and black people wear backwards. PJ wore his the old-man way.
But the coolest detail about this moment was that PJ had this tiny little funny-looking gray dog on a leash. When I saw the dog, I ran over to it—all girly of me, I know—and I bent down to give the pup a big kiss and a pat on the head.
As you know, I go frickin’ nuts for dogs.
“You pass the test,” Private Jackson said to me from above. “She likes you. And she’s a very hard judge of character.”
“So this is Ms. Jenny?” I said, rubbing the crap out the little dog’s head.
“Yes.”
“What breed is she?”
“Italian greyhound.”
“What did you mean by writing she runs the diamond?”
“You’ll see if you take a walk with me.”
We started walking down his street, following Ms. Jenny.
“So you dig haikus?” I asked him.
“Yes.”
“Kind of interesting for a dude your age to be writing haikus.”
“Why?”
“Aren’t they for children?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Elementary kids write haikus when they study Japan. I had to read one while wearing a homemade bedsheet kimono at the Cultures of the World Festival, back in the day, when I was only a wee one.”
“Do you remember the haiku you read?”
“No.”
Private Jackson didn’t say anything in response.
“Why did you write me back this time?” I asked him. “Why did you send me a haiku?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to. If we’re going to be honest, I now wish I hadn’t.”
“Why?”
“I don’t really like people.”
“Why?”
“Dogs are better than people. I have a dog. That’s all I need. Dogs are easy. People are complicated.”
“Tell me about it. Dogs are way better than people.”
“It was rude of me to slam the door in your face. My actions troubled me for days. It was rude. Unkind. I feel as though I have accrued bad karma.”
“No worries. People are rude to me all the time. I’m totally used to it. My mom’s boyfriend slams the door in my face all the time. At least you didn’t call me a bitch, right? Oliver’s a grade-A a-hole.”
PJ didn’t laugh at that joke but said, “You looked like the type of person who likes dogs.”
“How can you tell?”
“You have a kind dog-loving look about you.”
“Thanks.”
“I wasn’t complimenting you. I was just stating a fact.”
“Un-thanks.”
He laughed slightly at that one, covering his mouth, as if he had burped, and then said, “I thought maybe if I sent you a haiku, and you understood what it meant, that would prove that you’d like to see my dog run, and then—after you saw Ms. Jenny run the bases—we’d be even.”
“That’s a pretty elaborate plan, Jackson.”
“Please don’t make fun of me.”
“I wasn’t making fun of you. I was just stating a fact,” I said, because I love a running joke.
“I’m not going to write you any more letters. This is a one-shot deal. I want to be upfront about that. I’m not looking to make a friend. I just wanted to erase the bad karma I created when I slammed the door in your face. I didn’t ask you to come to my door, but the universe sent you and I acted poorly, so I have to reverse that before I go back into my house where I can be alone with Ms. Jenny.”
“Cool. Letters suck,” I said, even though I really dig letters. I was sorta figuring out that PJ was a little nuts by this point, but I still dug him. He didn’t seem mean, and he was trying to make up for slamming the door in my face. People don’t often make stuff up to me. “So why did you write me a haiku?”
“I write haikus all day long. That’s what I do. All I do.”
“What do you mean that’s what you do?”
“I mean, I get up in the morning, walk and feed Ms. Jenny, write haikus until five PM—keeping my thoughts concentrated and pure—walk and feed Ms. Jenny, read the haikus of other more talented poetry masters at night—keeping my thoughts pure and concentrated—and then I go to bed at eight PM.”
“Every day?”
“Yes.”
“No bull?”
“It’s what I do. Not very interesting, I’m afraid.”
“Are you kidding me? That’s the most interesting hooey I’ve heard in—like weeks.”
PJ smiled at that one, but in a confused sorta way—like he maybe had to pass gas. “You’re teasing me.”
“No way. I really dig haikus. Five. Seven. Five. Seventeen syllables. That’s the bomb.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
