The Story of Albert Hobbs
He lies on his
back, in the mud. Overhead, the overcast
sky looks down on him as he slowly inhales, taking one more breath. Each time he fills his lungs, and then lets
it out, he wonders if it will be the last.
The explosions
are deafening. It matters little. He is on the brink of moving beyond all of
this, this war that is not a war.
He has come to
these jungles, because it is what his father would have done, and his
grandfather. The men in his family fought
for their country. He is no
different. God, family, country, apple
pie, and of course Chevrolet pickup trucks.
He thinks of his
family. He won’t leave a wife and a
child or two behind. That is a good
thing. His mother will cry, like when
she lost a brother in Korea.
There is no more
pain. The sensation of bullets
puncturing his flesh has been brief. He
wonders if it is always like that, the impact of hot metal, tearing through
limb and organs, followed by calmness.
Some wounds bring death with them instantly. That’s not the case with him. So be it.
He takes another
breath.
“Albert!” He
hears his name called out by one of his platoon mates. He recalls the moment of ambush as if it
happened years ago. But only moments
have passed. The Vietcong took them by
surprise. In the first wave soldiers
from both sides fell into the mud, some face first. He was hit, twice, as the reinforcements came
through like the Calvary, just a little late.
“Albert!” He
hears his name again. He sees fatigues
above him. Johnny Perkins had been right
beside him when he went down. He is glad
to see that Johnny is alive.
“Medic’s
coming.”
Albert doesn’t
really care. There is nothing a medic
can do. Any moment now, he expects to be
greeted by the white purity of winged angels.
He closes his eyes. Death is
close.
A touch. Someone is probing his body. He opens his eyes. Still in the jungle. Still in Vietnam. He wants to curse.
“I’ve got to
slow the bleeding,” a voice says, not to Albert, but to Johnny, or some other
concerned comrade who believes no body should be left behind in the mud. An unnecessary tradition, since his spirit
will have vacated the abode.
“Got that,” the
voice says, probably a medic, a down home boy based on the southern accent,
which quickly flows from spoken language to the hummed melody of ‘Amazing
Grace’.
Then it
happens. The medic leans in close. Tells his patient he’s going to make it. Albert wants to pull away. He wants to scream out, but every word he
wants to bellow seems to be lodged in his throat. The only sound uttered from his mouth is a
word he’s used many times when showing the thick stripe that runs down his
back, a word he favors when sitting on the back of his truck with good friends,
good white friends, and a beer.
Albert Hobbs hates
anyone with skin darker than his.
~
“You’re lucky to
be alive,” the doctor says.
He’s accompanied
by a nurse. Albert takes note. She’s pretty, blonde hair, eyes that sparkle
like a blue sky and lips that should never be tainted by lipstick.
“You took two
bullets,” the doctor continues. “One was awfully close to a major artery. Corporal Curt Johnson, a medic, you owe him
your life.”
Anything the
doctor may have said after that went unheard.
That moment in the mud flashes through his mind like a horror film. He should have died, and as the doctor and
the pretty nurse leave, he wishes he had.
Deep South,
where the Appalachian Mountains become foothills. That’s where Albert Hobbs came from. His values are his parent's. Their values are his grandparent's. He’d never been challenged about his use of
derogatory terms until his family moved north, to Connecticut. His father welded things. There were jobs. His father would work on Submarines.
The high school
was bigger than what he expected. He
made a few friends, ran sprints with the track team, gave football a try, and
was told certain terms he favored, especially when talking about others, was
unacceptable.
He was surprised
by this. But he should have known. The two, so-called, friends, who chastised
him didn’t put much thought to the company they kept. There was a Jewish girl, a gimpy blonde, and
a girl named Karen who wouldn’t give him the time of day. They were all the type who would move on to
college. None would ever carry a gun
through rice patties, or call a spade a spade.
~
It is a few
years since Albert nearly died in the jungles of Vietnam. He makes his home in South Carolina now. He drives a truck for a local food
distributor. His days are hard. When he comes home, he pops a frozen dinner
in the oven, opens a beer, and turns on the television. He has a favorite show. It runs in syndication. He has watched most of these episodes
multiple times. Tonight another voyage
begins. He knows the episode as soon as the
program takes over from the commercial break.
Frank Gorshin is a guest star. Gorshin
has always been one of his mother’s favorites.
Albert knows of Gorshin from his role as the Riddler in the Batman
series and from his many appearances on the Ed Sullivan show.
But of
everything Frank Gorshin has done on television, this one show, this one
episode is Albert’s favorite. ‘Let That Be Your Last Battlefield’, Albert knows
the name of this episode. Frank Gorshin
will be donned with black makeup on the right side of his face, white on his
left. Albert sits back in his chair and
listens intently as William Shatner speaks those iconic words, ‘To go where no
man has gone before’.
Albert is
riveted, as he is every time he watches Star Trek. In the end Commissioner Bele, played by Frank
Gorshin, sets out on a chase after a political refugee named Lokai, through the
corridors of the star ship. They reach
the transporter room and beam down to their home world, a planet completely
destroyed by the hatred of their differences.
Albert finishes
the last remaining sip of his beer. The
thought strikes him hard. Something
triggered by a statement made by Bele. One
he has heard many times before. “Can’t you see,” Bele said, “I am black on the
right side. He is white on the right.”
Albert watches
the credits roll by. He thinks of the
guys from high school who told him certain words were disgusting when used,
especially when the only purpose was to humiliate. He thought of the Jewish girl and her curly
black hair, the handicapped girl, the one who limped. He’d called her ‘Gimp’ a few times in the
hallways, and he thought of his life and the mud of Vietnam.
He lowers his
face to the open palms of his hands and begins to sob. Gene Roddenberry’s science fiction commentary
on prejudice has bore a hole in his heart.
He has gone from the agony of a wound to his mortal body to the anguish
of the soul.
It took a while,
almost a year, but Albert searched every way he could imagine, for Curt Johnson,
Corporal Curt Johnson, a medic with the United States Army. Eventually he discovered that Curt,
officially Curtis, had not made it back to the states alive. He left a widow, and an infant he had never
seen.
The widow’s name
was Grace. The last known address was a
small unincorporated town in central Alabama.
Albert cashed in every hour of vacation he’d earned. He pointed his four year old Chevy pickup in
the proper direction.
~
On a warm
Wednesday morning, Albert pulls up in front of a white house with a porch on
the front. The house needs a fresh coat
of paint, and maybe a new roof, but the flowers planted around the parameter
are well cared for.
He stops his
truck, hesitates, then slowly opens the door and gets out. He made a call, last night, from the motel
where he is staying. There are a few
families named Johnson in the area. He
got the right one on the first try.
As soon as he
starts up the cracked sidewalk, the front door opens. A young woman steps out onto the porch. She wears a flowered dress. She is not white on the left side or the
right. He knows she is Grace
Johnson. Nothing more matters.
“You must be
Albert, the man I spoke with last night,” she says.
Without reason
Albert wonders if she, like her deceased husband, is prone to humming ‘Amazing
Grace’.
“I found your
place without an issue.”
Behind the woman,
appears an eight or nine year old girl.
Based on the time since his military service Albert figures he is
witnessing the daughter Curtis never saw.
“Would you like
somethin’ t’ drink?” Grace asks as he moves closer. When he doesn’t immediately respond, Grace adds,
“It’s fresh lemonade made ‘specially by Martha.” Grace places her arm around
the young girl beside her. No further
introduction is needed.
“That would be
nice,” he replies. “The day is awfully hot.”
“The weathermen
say tomorrow will be even hotter,” Grace replies with a beaming smile.
As if on cue,
the daughter turns back into the house and vanishes into a deep shadow.
“I was surprised
to hear from one of Curtis’ buddies from the war,” Grace says as she sits in a
wicker chair and motions for Albert to do the same. “None of the others have
come by. All I got was a telegram…
explainin’ their regrets.”
Albert takes a
seat. “I really didn’t know him… Curtis.
We served in the same platoon and all, but I didn’t really know him.”
“Not surprised,”
Grace says, as Martha comes out of the house with the lemonade and three
glasses on a tray.
“Here, let me
help you,” Albert says, taking the tray from the girl and setting it on a table
with a plywood top, replacing what might have once been glass.
Martha goes
about pouring a glass for each. Grace
continues where she left off. “My Curtis was like that. He never had himself lot of friends. He liked books and things like that, more
than people. He cared mind you. He didn’t seem to have any hate in him. He wanted to be a nurse. I guess that’s why they made him a medic.”
“He saved my
life,” Albert says. “I’m only here today because Corporal Curtis Johnson of the
United States Army was good at what he did.”
Grace smiles.
“When was that?” She asks.
Albert gives her
the date of his near death and watches her eyes lose their glow for a moment.
“That is the
same day my Curtis died.”
“He saved my
life.” Albert’s voice is little more than a whisper.
“And then a
sniper… took his… a short time later.”
Albert watches
as Grace’s eyes fill to the brim. Heavy
tears roll down her cheeks. He reaches a
hand toward hers, and places his white fingers over her black ones.
“Curtis is a
hero.” Grace’s voice manages to push back the tears for a moment. “I am a
nurse, in Curtis’ memory.
“That’s
beautiful,” Albert responds, wondering if he has ever called anything beautiful
before.
“Mister.”
Albert is pulled
from his thoughts by a tiny voice beside him.
Martha, the
daughter Curtis Johnson never held, never saw, and never heard, has finally
spoken.
“My poppa was a
hero,” Martha says. “He saved a lot of men.
It didn’t matter none, who they were.
He saved them, if he could. And
you know somethin’, my poppa is lookin’ down on us right now… from heaven.”
Albert’s hand goes from mother to daughter. His heart, melted by Commissioner Bele and his half black, half white face. “You know what, Martha,” he replies. “I can almost see your poppa smilin’ down on us… and I know that a man as good as he is… he’s dancin’ with those angels.”
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