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Join the Server“Don’t ask what your country has done for you; ask what you have done for your country!”
“Don’t ask what we have done for the world; ask what we have done for the democracy and freedom of mankind!”
“Go-oo-ood morning, Vietnam!”
That song, it came calling again.
“Hey. This is not a test. This is rock and roll”
Some folks are born made to wave the flag,
ooh, they’re red, white and blue.
And when the band plays “Hail To The Chief”,
oh, they point the cannon at you, Lord,
It ain’t me, it ain’t me,
I ain’t no senator’s son,
It ain’t me, it ain’t me,
A white dove crossed the ashen sky. A feather worked itself loose from its wing without warning and dropped.
It rode the wind in a slow drift, descended toward the pavement, then a passing car’s slipstream whipped it up and threw it upward again.
The feather drifted through the crowded streets and the alleyways where hippie laughter still echoed.
Like some nimble dancer, it swept across the skyline, past parks and plazas, before slowing down over a hospital’s back courtyard.
It hung in the cool, still air, and at last it came to rest beside a pair of clean white canvas sneakers.
The girl wore a plain white dress. Pale gold hair spilled loose across her shoulders. She looked nearly saintly.
She was Ash Begonia. Once she had been a bright and easygoing boy; now she was Ash Griffin, a girl whose story had been hard on her.
Ash sat on the bench and slowly lowered her gaze to this feather that had appeared from nowhere.
She bent forward and picked it up.
She looked at it. Just looked at it.
Then, without warning, the feather in her hand became the shattered metal fragment of a “bird.” The quiet courtyard was drowned out by a thundering roar, a violent wind beat against her face, and firelight painted the mangled bodies. Those people, those severed limbs…
“Ah… ah!”
Ash cried out and clutched her chest, gasping.
Around her, patients on a stroll, nurses with wheelchairs, all turned at the sudden sound, aware that something was wrong with the girl.
But they took it as nothing more than grief over some misfortune in her family or her own life.
After a brief pause, they went about their business.
Ash kept trembling for a while before she gradually steadied herself. She looked at the “bird” fragment in her palm, and it had turned back into a feather.
“… I…”
She seemed on the verge of speaking, but hesitated. Then she slipped the feather into the pocket of her dress.
After that, she went back to staring at the iron-colored sky.
A while later, the bench shuddered faintly under new weight. Ash turned her head in a wary glance.
It was only a middle-aged Black woman, not overly heavy, sitting down with a newspaper.
She read in silence.
The headline covered an interview that had run a few days ago, following a football game.
The man named Forrest, who had driven the Pittsburgh Steelers to a comeback win over the Philadelphia Eagles, had given a mouthful of feel-good cliches, all printed in huge black type:
“Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”
A one-state football game, and it had owned the front pages for days.
And us?
We got shunned. We got forgotten. We got chewed up by those things.
A thought sent Ash’s right hand clenching at the edge of her skirt.
It was a long while before she settled down and let her fingers loosen.
‘…I’m probably really sick by now, aren’t I? Let’s call it bipolar disorder… mania and depression… plus the pills. The doctors are all full of shit.’
The woman noticed the girl’s stare and looked over at her.
Ash’s gaze snapped to the ground, as if she’d been shocked.
It felt as if something, somewhere, had set the stage. Given this scene, this mood, the girl had to speak.
“Your high heels look nice… Are they comfortable?”
No answer. The woman turned back to her paper.
“I… couldn’t last half an hour in a pair of those.”
“…”
“You probably… have no trouble, right? Comfortable?”
This time the woman turned, and in a slow, classic southern accent said:
“My feet hurt.”
“… Oh.”
The girl paused, offered a low reply, then looked at the sky again.
For no reason she could pin down, another voice started muttering in her mind:
“Mama always said you can learn a whole lot about a person from their shoes:
where they’re headed.
where they’ve been.”
‘Am I losing my mind… or is the paranoia just not bad enough to get a diagnosis?’
Ash thought, then said it half out loud to no one:
“Ash, since when did you get so good at making conversation…”
“… I feel so off. I want…”
“… but I promised him…”
“Damn.”
She pinched her skirt again, and at that moment, a voice came from behind.
“Hey, Ash. What’re you doing out here? Didn’t I tell you to wait inside?”
“…It’s too close in there. Out here feels… better.”
“You not scared of those trees anymore?”
He pointed to the tall, green, straight trees in the yard.
“They… haven’t talked yet, haven’t moved. Not scared.”
“Okay, all set. I picked up your prescriptions and test results. Let’s go home.”
“…Mm. Chris, I… my legs are asleep.”
“Want a hand up?”
“Mm.”
He grinned, stretched out a hand and pulled her up gently, supporting her weight.
“Let’s go.”
“Mm.”
Ash nodded and glanced at the man holding her. Chris Griffin.
He was still the same sunny, carefree soul. Hearing him, nothing about him had changed in five years.
But her…
“They gave you all the meds. Take them on time, follow the dose… Ash, you’re lucky. You’ll get better…”
“Oh… I hope so.”
Ash murmured.
“Ash, you promised me you’d get better. I know what you’re thinking, and I’ll stay with you the whole way.”
“…”
“Besides, not being able to have a kid isn’t the end of the world. Neither of us is some holy-rolling churchgoer or old Southern conservative. The hippies are all proud to stay child-free, aren’t they? Worst case, when you’re better, we adopt one.”
“I’m not a hippie…”
Ash cut off his rambling.
“And… who told you I cared about that in the first place?”
She whipped a hand and slapped his back, hard.
It was a strong smack, but to Chris, nothing.
“Isn’t not having kids a good thing? At least I never have to worry about menstruating every month. Just keep up with basic hygiene, so no vaginitis, no cervical problems… not even this body has to worry about those.”
“Mm, right, a good thing… Ash, I’m just glad you’re taking it so well. Don’t do anything stupid anymore.”
“…”
Ash stayed quiet.
Chris didn’t push it.
He kept an arm around her until they reached his Ford.
When Chris settled into the driver’s seat, Ash’s gentle voice drifted from the back.
“Sorry… Chris. You’ve spent so much money on me.”
“Don’t worry about it. What are brothers for?”
Chris turned the ignition.
“Want a song?”
“…Not rock. Too loud.”
“Sure.”
He spun the knob, stopped on a country station.
Laid-back tunes filled the car.
Chris checked the rearview mirror. Ash sat with one hand propping up her forehead, looking out the window.
Her mind looked steady enough.
‘We’re brothers. I’ll back you up until you’re completely yourself again.’
But what Chris didn’t know was…
Even with her calm face, what Ash heard in her ears was still that song.
It ain’t me, it ain’t me,
I ain’t no military son, SON, NO
It ain’t me, it ain’t me,
I ain’t no fortunate one, NO NO
It ain’t me, it ain’t me.
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