Black Coffee

         "This war in Iraq is freakin' stupid."

         "Yeah, Bush is a moron." The voices drifted across the mostly deserted cafe and snuck into Vince's ears. He looked up to see two teenage girls in a corner booth.

         One was dark blonde with fair skin and looked to be of German origin, with perhaps a bit of Mexican thrown in for flavor. The other had the same complexion one of Vince's sergeants had borne, the color of diluted cappuccino. Her hair was short and wiry, her eyes barely slitted; perhaps her father had been part Chinese.

         "I mean, what the hell do we care what goes on in Iraq? He should be spending all the money here, fixing America's problems," said the blonde.

         "Yeah, I know what you mean. This country is so screwed up, and Bush is worrying about the Middle East."

         Vince took a sip of the coffee cooling before him. It was black, no sugar, no cream. It was how he'd learned to drink it when he was twenty one, and how he'd drunk it ever since. Vince had never bought a Starbucks coffee in his life, and he planned to keep it that way.

         Vince closed his eyes and thought of Vietnam. Two years of his life. He also thought of coming home without a scratch on his body, and then hearing that his cousin Phil had stepped on a mine the day before. He remembered listening, back then, to people who said the same things these girls said now. The waitress stepped over to him, looking at his coffee cup. "Want me to freshen that up for you?"

         "No, this'll do me. Thanks though."

         "No problem." The waitress wasn't so young anymore, but still cute. Vince liked to watch the way she walked, with all the self-assurance of someone who was never lost, just taking the scenic route. Once again, he heard the girls.

         "I mean, come on. Our economy's in a recession, and Bush wants to spend millions of our tax-dollars somewhere else. Why can't we just leave the Iraqis alone? Let them sort it all out. It's not like they're going to attack us again, we scared them good enough," the dark haired girl gestured with her hand for emphasis. Vince noticed that her clothes were designer label and probably cost at least as much as his whole month's groceries.

         "And our troops just keep dying, I saw on the news how that helicopter crashed and killed all those people. How stupid."

         Vince thought of Tony, a man he'd met in basic training. They'd slept in the same barracks, trained in the same camp, eaten in the same mess hall. They'd become close friends, and had so much in common. Their major difference was that on their first mission it was Tony who had gotten shot in the forehead by a sniper. Tony had died because he was walking one man ahead. Vince had been spattered with bits of Tony's brain.

         The coffee he held was lukewarm now, and too bitter for him to drink. Vince laid a bill on the table and stood.

         "My dad said that this is just Bush's excuse to play war, and that-"

         "Excuse me, miss," Vince interrupted the blonde girl, "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help but hear how you're opposed to the country's involvement in Iraq."

         "Well, of course."

         "Do you vote?"

         "No."

         They never did, Vince thought. He nodded, then turned to leave. Half way to the door, the waitress touched him on the shoulder.

         "My grandpa fought both world wars, career military." She nodded in the direction of the girls. "They're just too young to understand it."

         Vince smiled at her, weakly, "I just hope my son never hears what they're saying."

         "Is he there, in Iraq?" Vince nodded. "Then he's my hero." The waitress handed him the bill he'd laid on the table. "This one's on the house."