Charlie's Chair

        The chair in back – the red leather one with large arms, and gold highlights around the wooden legs.  That was his chair. Charlie’s chair. It sat diagonal by the corner, facing the rest of the bar floor. Behind it stood a brass floor lamp that emitted a soft light – similar to the rest of the lighting in the bar. Next to it on the left hand side sat an artificial tropical plant and a decorative dark wood coffee table rested in front of the chair. Regardless of the thick atmosphere of smoke that filled the bar room, the combination of the soft lighting and dark warm colors of red, tan and grey made it have a hue of romanticism. Casino El Panádo sat proudly on the Las Vegas strip.

        Every night Charlie comes in, sinks into his chair and lights a diamond crown cigar –one of the finest.  For the next five hours, he sits and watches the crowd. Sometimes he’d attract one of the casino’s prostitutes, but they’d leave him once they realized he didn’t speak. Those nights he’d leave early. Charlie used to talk. He loved talking. Not a day would go by in the barracks that he wouldn’t be entertaining fellow soldiers with a story – or at least that’s what the other veterans that came into the bar would say. I often would wonder what he was thinking about.

         I knew I was the closest thing to a friend to him. Charlie is in his mid-sixties, and a Vietnam War veteran. I never knew much about his service, but I was told that he served in the army. He’d been overseas for over thirteen months, and not hit by a single bullet. But right before he was due to come home, Charlie was involved in an accident. The military vehicle he was driving caught on fire. Several pieces of broken glass and burning fragments of metal became lodged in his neck, and took away his voice forever.

         Charlie was a well-groomed and clean man, and truthfully looked at least ten years younger than he really was. He’d always dress with class – a nice pair of slacks, some decorative cowboy boots with a silver tip, a sport jacket and a button shirt underneath it, with the top button unfastened. On the days he’d feel depressed, he’d wear only a sweater and jeans.

         It was a few weeks ago, right after my shift ended, he looked at me from across the bar floor, and waved his hand for me to come over. “Hey, Charlie!” I pulled over a chair from another table. I knew he couldn’t answer verbally, but he didn’t have to.  His responses would always be clear by his facial expressions and body language.

“Oh, almost forgot.” I ran over and reached behind the bar for a pad of paper and pen. That’s how Charlie and I talked. We would for hours. I glanced up at him only to see that he’d looked like he hadn’t slept all night. The eyes underneath his large brows were bloodshot, and his usually perfect complexion was interrupted by dark circles around them.  Charlie’s pearl white hair was combed back with minimal effort. In fact, he wore the same white shirt from yesterday, stained in a few small places by drinks he’s had and his tan slacks were wrinkled. I handed him the pad and pen.

         “What’s goin’ on Charlie? You doin’ alright?” He scribbled something down on the pad. It was three words. Three words that hit me like a train. ‘I’m dying, Nathan.’ The look of shock on my face was matched by the solemnness in his eyes. He continued writing. ‘Gone to the doctor yesterday and I got lung cancer. I don’t have much longer.’ His grammar was never all too good, but it didn’t have to be with me. He made his point very clearly whenever we spoke.

         “I hate asking this, but how long?” He knew I was upset, I didn’t need to tell him. ‘1 week, maybe 2. I don’t go to the doc much. He says it’s big.’ Charlie reached down into a brown paper bag I hadn’t noticed he brought in. He took out several weathered books followed by a stack of steno-notebook paper about 2 or 3 inches thick, held together by a large clip. “What’s this?”

         He took the notepad from me and jotted, ‘Books are my war diaries, and the paper is a story I want you to read. I wrote it last night for you to read.’

         “You want me to have these?” He smiled warmly, something I’ve rarely seen him do and nodded.  “Thanks, Charlie. I’m not sure what to say.” He saw my gratitude and how much it meant to me. ‘Read the story.’ He scribbled. “Now?” I raised my eyebrows. He nodded. I had nothing else planned for the night, so I figured I’d stay. I didn’t want to leave anyway. I really liked Charlie, and I was still in shock of his news. “Okay, give me a few minutes.” Charlie smiled and sat back in a relaxed fashion.

         This wasn’t written with his usual lack of grammar – it was nearly perfect:



Hey Nathan,

You’re the closest thing I have to family, and there is little I call ‘treasures’ in my possession. But there is one thing – this story. I know the other guys told you I lost my voice in an accident with my military vehicle back in Vietnam. They told you that, because that’s what was on the official record. But it’s not exactly true. You’ve been so kind to me, so I wanted to tell you the truth - The real reason why I lost my voice.



         My concentration was interrupted when the casino crowd began to clap.  The entertainer had finished his performance which had meant that it had to have been 11:00 PM.  I couldn't believe I had been sitting there reading this for so long.  I looked down on the table and realized I had gone through about an inch of the pages he wrote.  Charlie looked at me and could see the exhaustion in my eyes.  He slid the notebook over to me.  'Take this home and finish it Nathan.  Here is my address. Stop over after you're done.'

         After I got home I changed into my pajamas and washed up from the long day I had. I climbed into bed but was too tired to watch television. I rolled from side-to-side for an hour until I finally gave up.  I couldn't go to sleep. I had to read the rest of the story.  After brewing some coffee I went to my recliner, and continued to read Charlie's story.  A few hours later I had reached the end.  The last sentence was: Nathan, I've always feared death not for dying but because I don't want to be forgotten.  Ever since I lost my voice, and lost her, I often felt forgotten.  Never forget me.

         Somehow I felt obligated to visit him.  I was tired, but it was already in 8:00 AM. So I threw on some jeans and a t-shirt and typed the address he gave me into my GPS device.  After traveling for fifteen minutes, I arrived at a small house.  I knocked on the front doors several times but there was no answer.  There was a TV and a lamp on. I could see the top of his head in a rocking chair through the front window.  When I tried the front door it was unlocked. 

         "Charlie? It's Nathan." I peered around the door frame slowly and I saw he was motionless in his chair. ‘My God,’ I thought to myself.  I quickly went over to him, checked for his pulse, but he was gone.  In hopes of resuscitating him I called emergency services, but when they got there they told me that there was nothing they could do.  The coroner had come and took Charlie away.  After everyone was gone I stood there in the empty house and noticed a neatly folded piece of paper next to his chair.  It was a note for me:

Nathan, I want you to take my war things. They are scattered throughout the house. Don’t forget me. I’m sorry I lied. I knew I only had a day or a few left. I didn’t want to upset you before you read the story.

         “Oh, Charlie." I said aloud after reading it, taking a deep breath. I began to roam the house. Like Charlie, it was simple. There wasn’t a lot of home décor - just the necessities he needed to live. I went down the hallway to the left, and saw where his bedroom was. Although I had no idea if his war relics were in there or not, I still felt awkward entering someone else’s room. Taking a deep breath, I entered.  The bed was made perfectly, and along the right wall was a long dresser with several picture frames and small wooden boxes.

         The first picture on the left was of…was that Charlie? I was amazed how young he looked. Next to him stood a short woman and child. I assumed the woman was Mai Ly and the boy had to have been Tuan. As described in the story, he’d met Mai Ly, a young Vietnamese woman, at a restaurant he went to with a few of his buddies.  Charlie never had an aesthetic attraction to the Vietnamese, but Mai Ly was different. She was so beautiful to him. Mai Ly’s husband, Binh, died shortly after Tuan was born, nearly three years before Charlie met her. They had fallen in love, and Charlie was completely ready to stay with her in South Vietnam, even after the war was over. However, Charlie had to be very careful. Of course the Americans were fighting for the South Vietnamese, but a lot of discrimination existed between them.  Many a time would a citizen claim to be a “lost” innocent, but would end up being a spy for the Vietcong.  Charlie didn’t know what the army would do to him if they ever found out he was having an affair with a native.  He knew however, that eventually they’d force him to return home, but he planned on running away from the military so he could marry Mai Ly.

         Next to that picture was another, of the small house that Mai Ly and her son lived in – the one Charlie wanted to eventually call his own. He always told Mai Ly that he’d build an addition and make it bigger. It was also where Charlie lost Mai Ly, the boy, and his voice.  One night, Charlie had snuck away from the base camp, and went to Mai Ly’s house to spend the night with her. The boy had been asleep. Charlie had been in his lounge wear rather than his uncomfortable military uniform, and was lying in bed with Mai Ly when terrible loud noises came from outside. When Charlie went out, he saw trucks with the Vietcong flag painted on them, transporting dozens of troops, heading towards his base camp. They’d spotted him, and immediately recognized that he wasn’t Vietnamese. They couldn’t stop long, but one Vietcong truck stayed behind the line. Charlie expected to be shot on the spot, but the enemy simply lighted torches and flung them into the house through the windows, and drove off. Charlie was faced with a dilemma – does he try to run and warn his camp, or try to save the one he loved, and her boy. He heard Mai Ly’s scream. When he rushed into the burning house, Mai Ly had already been dead.  One of the torches landed directly on her. He couldn’t help but stand there, with flames all around him, staring down at Mai Ly’s beautiful body. Coming back to his senses, he ran into the boy's room and took him outside. The boy was alive, so he ran as fast as he could towards base camp with the boy tightly in his arms. From a mile away he could already hear the explosions and screaming. When he arrived, there was nothing. When he was convinced that his entire base had been eliminated he grabbed the boy and jumped into one of the American military vans. He then realized the blood on his shirt was his own. His neck and chest had been scorched. His burned nerves began to feel again and the pain grew. There was another base camp only a few miles away, so he began to drive. The pain grew more and more intense as the minutes went by, and eventually became unbearable. Charlie had lost consciousness and his van crashed into some roadside trees. Pieces of metal and glass became lodged in his neck, and the boy had been thrown out of the vehicle. It never said what happened to him. While American relief teams headed towards the destroyed base they found his crashed vehicle. Ever since then, the official record has stated that he lost his voice due to an accident, just as all the other veterans said.

         Just yesterday, I received the final piece of the collection in the mail- an engraved gold plaque that read "In memory of Lieut. Charlie S. Daniels. You'll never be forgotten.” I hung it up right above Charlie's chair. On the right side of the chair I hung a display case that had the photo frames and the diary books arranged in a nice manner. As for the story he wrote me, I put it in a keepsake box under my bed. He trusted me with that story, and I wasn't going to tell anybody else. I will miss Charlie, but as long as I am the bartender in this bar, that will always be Charlie's chair.