C was for Cat, as it always had been. The cats would not stop dancing. They pirouetted, paired off and salsa danced the night away. The rumba was a never-ending mosaic of fur and flash.
A has been for Apple ever since Adam and Eve feasted on the forbidden. B is for Boy. One American boy, abandoned by his Vietnamese captors. Maybe B was for Bamboo, the strange wood surrounding him. But C was for Cat, and still they danced.
When you leave a man in starving solitude, there is no telling the directions his mind will flow. In isolation, there isn’t an anchor. Instead, memory and fantasy ebb and flow, a Vonnegut Slaughterhouse mince of time. Bobby, now known as Sergeant Robert Parker, found himself in 1st grade. Ground zero. Day one.
So many paths lay open to a first grader. You can be anything. Astronaut, President of the United States, a British rock invader…well, maybe not British. Sgt. Parker lay on the hot, dry, dirt floor jealous of Bobby.
D was for Dog, and Bingo had been his name-o. Bingo, had only been a puppy then. They grew up together. D was also for Draft, which would turn Bobby into Private Robert Parker, and ultimately kill Bingo. Bobby got the letter in boot camp. An old dog by that time, Bingo sat at the corner of the driveway, next to the mailbox, waiting for Bobby to come home from the war, refusing to eat. That is where they found him, asleep forever. Without Bingo to chase them away, the cats would dance on. (more…)