In 1992 I commuted back and forth to Denver for seven months, leaving early every Monday morning and returning every Friday afternoon. One Friday the cabbie was a loquacious guy who had fought in Vietnam. Native Chicagoan. He told me about coming home. He said there were two things he had been dreaming about, both of which he did the first day back. The first was having two Chicago style hot dogs with everything. The second was going to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. Apparently not aware of the antiwar movement at home, he wore his uniform to the game with pride. Some guy walked up to him and spit on him. He said he flipped out and went straight back into combat mode. He had a gun on him and out of instinct was ready to use it on the guy. He told me had been shot at, killed a lot of "gooks," but no one ever spit on him. There was a Chicago cop outside the park who turned out to have been an officer in Vietnam. “Soldier!” he shouted. “Give me that gun!” And he did. He wasn’t even arrested, the cop just said get the hell out of here. The cabbie said that was 20 years ago and I’ve been as straight as an arrow ever since.

Thanks, vets.