After war, comfort is in little things

This night, on the outside, was like any other in Chapel Hill. This would be a celebration for one soldier.

His name is Billy. For the past six months, the 25-year-old Naval Academy grad had been in Iraq. He had landed in the United States the day before.

He and his friends settled in at Spanky’s, downing one drink after another.

Among the jeans and baseball hats, there was no telling who was the political science major and who was the Iraq war veteran.

The students, however, would get to sleep until noon, and Billy had to report to Camp Lejeune the next morning.

For the time, they were happily drunk together in a bar, some celebrating getting through the week without failing a test, some celebrating getting through a deployment without getting killed, and no one on the outside knowing the difference.

When a group of undergraduates ask us how long we’re going to be using the table, one of Billy’s buddies points his finger in their faces, playing the ultimate trump card.

“Hey, this guy just came back from Iraq. Leave him alone.”

They do. Though the word does get around that a returned soldier is around, and girls start to come forward and sincerely, yet flirtatiously, say, “Thanks, for, like, defending our country.”

The music got loud and the patrons got louder while Billy got more and more drunk.

Around 2:30 a.m., the buzz that had once made him invincible brought him crashing down into a stupor.

My roommate went to get the car and I helped Billy to the curb of our fourth bar of the evening. He leaned heavily on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry I’ve been a jerk,” he said.

“You haven’t been a jerk,” I assured him as I lowered him to the concrete. “I think I’d be in the same state as you if I’d just come home from Iraq.”

We sat in silence for awhile, watching the cabs crawl for students heading back to their dorms and apartments.

“I can’t believe this day is here. I have looked forward to this for six months,” he said.

“How does it feel to be home?” I asked.

He was quiet for a long time. He stopped staring at me and looked up at the lights beaming down from streetlight. In the clearest voice he had possessed all evening, he said, “It’s like a newspaper on the front porch.”

I waited for him to continue.

“A newspaper is there. Every day. It’s a normal, everyday thing. I don’t think you’ll understand, but it feels good to be among the normal, everyday things. It feels good. Being home feels good.”

He looked at me and I smiled, a smile in the fight for normal everydays and the lovely things that fill them.

“Welcome home,” I said.

Our ride pulled up and we drove down Franklin Street, the glittering lights and neon signs a poor substitute for ticker tape parades.

Jessica Fuller is asSecond-year journalism graduate student from Greensboro. Email her at jvfuller@gmail.com