The War at Recess

by:  Ian Sands

On a terribly hot Wednesday afternoon at Jackie Robinson Elementary in northern California, there is a boy about to pitch a fit about how another boy stole the ball from him during a game of basketball. The defender doesn't foul; he simply gets in the other boy’s space and strips him of the ball. After it happens, the offended party runs over to where I’m standing under a decent-sized oak that’s not doing a terribly good job of cooling me off. 

"He just took the ball out of my hands without asking," the boy says, tears in his eyes. He has very dark brown hair, and it’s slicked back. I tell him to take a couple deep breaths. He stands next to me and tries to calm down.

It’s my third day on the job as a recess aide, a position the school’s principal Gary Rhinehart described to me a week before as a combination of handing out Band-Aids and refereeing sports games.  
 
“You wanna get some water? It’s hot as holy hell out here." 

I say this after his breaths are no longer audible, a sign I take to mean that he’s feeling better.

His blue eyes get big in his head, and they take me in.

“Nah, I’ll be okay. Are you gonna do something about what that kid did?”

"Can’t do anything about that. That's just good old basketball.”

The boy shoots me a look of pure hatred.

“Okay, okay. Let me explain it this way,” I say, my hands going to my hips. 

“Basketball’s a little like fighting a war. There’s a different set of rules you’ve got to abide by. And often, stuff like fairness and politeness goes out the window. You see what I'm getting at here?" 

He looks at me and blinks hard. "My dad doesn't believe in the war."

I am used to this sort of talk by now. Ever since Gerry Ford took office three years ago, it seems to be the popular sentiment.  

"That’s understandable. He probably wouldn’t like me then ‘cause I fought in one."

"For real?"

"For real."
 
"You see dead people?" the boy wants to know.

"I saw many."

"I'm not sure you're supposed to tell me that."

I shrug. 

"Sorry. I guess I got my postwar brain in these days."

"What's that?"

"When you come back from war, you start seeing things and saying things differently. Some guys call it a ‘postwar brain.’"

He considers what I’ve just told him. Then, without another word, he runs back into the middle of the basketball game.

****

The next day the kid again loses the ball after another boy steals it from him on his way up for a layup. Again, he sprints over to me, sulking.

This time he simply stands at my side and remains there. When he is done being upset, he asks me if I have ever been shot. 

"Well yeah, everyone got shot in ‘nam."

He wants to know if he can see where it went in.

I show him my right bicep with the scar. It’s about the size of a half dollar, and the skin looks pushed down into a small valley of flesh. 

The boy begins tracing the outline of it with his index finger, and I can feel the familiar soreness. 

"Did that hurt?" 

"A little."

"Do you have the bullet still?"

"I do. They gave it to me as a souvenir," I say, laughing.

***

I am hunched over one of my guys, so close I can feel his hot breath on my face. He is flat on his back and behind us is a pristine, blue sky. It’s just the two of us in the jungle, but the enemy is close – maybe a mile out and heading our way. There is an open wound the size of a tennis ball on the leg before me. The blood is running away from it and down my guy’s leg. I towel some of it away before wrapping a tourniquet around the gash. 

"You're okay, my man. Chicks dig scars, remember," I say. 

I am not lying to him. I do believe he will make it.

Then another voice from somewhere else: "John, pizza guy’s here!"

There's a full 30 seconds of shooting that comes next. 

"John for Christ's sake, pizza's...Oh shit, sorry. I didn't realize you were napping."

My eyes are open now, and I see my wife, Olivia, in the room.

"It's okay, Liv. I was having the dream where I’m trying to save that guy again."

"That’s like three times in the last month."

"Yeah, this time he got shot in the leg."

"Make sure you mention it to Dr. Friedlander next time you see him.”

She picks up her wallet off of the nightstand so she can pay the pizza guy downstairs. After she’s gone, I put my hand deep into my sock drawer. I find the small brown box with the sharp edges and then open it to examine the scuffed, silver object.

“John! You coming?” my wife calls out from downstairs.

I return the brown box back where I found it, and then I go eat.

***

I see a psychiatrist once every other week. My wife makes me go. 

Dr. Friedlander, a middle-aged man with a voice that resembles that of a game show host, is convinced my dreams are my subconscious telling me I’ve still got some unfinished business to work through.

He says after he got fired from a job for the first time he went through the same thing. 

“After 10 years, I was still dreaming about that day. The HR guy hovering over my shoulder as I collected my things, the terrible walk past all of my coworkers. And then it went away altogether.”

“What happened?”

“My father died, and my dreams switched course.” 

“You started dreaming about your dad?”

“Yes. At least once a week.”

“Maybe dreams come in chapters,” I wonder aloud.

He smiles.

“How do you feel when you wake up from your war dreams, John?”

“A little disappointed. In many of them, I’m trying to save this guy, and the dream ends before I can finish. It’s sort of a recurring motif.”

“Do you miss war?”

“I miss parts of it. Other parts I could do without.”

“It seems like somewhere down deep war suited you. You had purpose. I’ve seen it many times before. Military returning to find that they are not suited to civilian life.”

I don’t say anything. Then I look out the window at nothing in particular and wait for him to continue. 

***

Two weeks after I first speak to the boy, I show him the bullet. He rolls it around in his hand. 

The California sun is brutal today. We’re both seated on the only bench that gets any shade. The basketball game is going on in front of us; it’s a little smaller than usual on account of the heat.

"Somebody shot this into you." 
 
"Yep." 

He brings it up to his right eye as if it is evidence in a murder, and he is the chief investigator.

"Is the guy still alive who shot you?"  

"Well, we never got him, so I have to assume, yes."

His eyebrows jump. I nod.

"You ever want to get him back?"

"I don't know, man. Not really. It was war, you know? Everything goes."

"I would have hunted him down, and at least, whooped his butt."

"You think so?" 

"Hey Brandon, we need your help, man," a diminutive boy with a good jump shot calls 
out, interrupting our conversation. "Can you play?"

The boy’s eyes meet mine, and I nod without really knowing why I am nodding. He drops the bullet back into my hand and scampers away to rejoin the game.  

I watch as the boy receives a pass halfway down the court. He fakes a pass and takes a three pointer instead. The ball goes in, and his hands remain outstretched for a few seconds in celebration. Next he looks back to me where I sit on the bench -- as if I have done something to make the ball go through the hoop. 

***

The next day, I find myself in the principal's office beside the boy and his father. The man wears his blonde hair short and looks shockingly young, maybe ten years younger than me. 

"Brandon told me there was this recess aide who fought in Vietnam and that he killed people," the boy’s father says to Principal Rhinehart, an ample-bellied man with a full head of silver hair.

"I didn't tell him I killed people. I said I saw bodies."

"Can you tell me why this guy thinks it's okay to tell my son about dead bodies?" the man says to the principal, avoiding my gaze.

"He's got his postwar brain in," Brandon suddenly adds.

"What did you say?" asks the boy's father, more curious than threatening.

"John told me he’s in his postwar brain, that men come back from the war thinking and saying thing differently than other people." 

"Still no excuse," says the boy's dad, taking a more even tone now.

"I agree. It will be handled," says Principal Rhinehart authoritatively. 

"Mr. Patterson, I don’t think John over here meant to scare your boy. But at Jackie Robinson, that sort of talk doesn't fly."
 
"You folks step out for a moment. Let me chat with John."

Once they leave, the principal takes a deep breath and stares out the window.

"John, I have to let you go. I'm sorry. It's an elementary school, and you just can't talk like that around here, you know?"

"Yeah I can understand that.”

“There are limits to what you can say around kids. They’re impressionable.”

“I messed up. I get it.”
"Okay, I'm gonna need back your things."

I hand him my yellow vest and my whistle. It feels like I am forgetting something, so I check my pockets, brushing my middle finger up against something sharp. I know exactly what it is when it happens. It’s the small box where I store my bullet. I am wearing the same pair of shorts I wore the day previous, and it occurs to me that I forgot to put the box back. 

“You gonna be okay out there?” Principal Rhinehart says, when he realizes I have nothing more to give him.

“Oh yeah, I’ll pick something else up.”

On my way out, I pass by the small waiting area where the boy and his father are sitting. The boy looks up and when he sees me, he puts on an apologetic face and waves. I wave back and walk out the front office door into the parking lot.