There he is, standing next to his comrades, arms behind each other’s backs and faces smiling.  There are four of them, all linked together and dressed identically: big combat boots dusted with sand, thick heavy vests with hues matching the tones of the surrounding desert, and metal dog-tags—printed with a name and a number, one’s entire identity—draped around their necks.  He’s standing there on the far left, grinning with a bottle of Coke in his right hand and a rifle on his back.  If you look close enough, you’ll see dark circles beneath his sad eyes, a low hang to his shoulders, and a slight gauntness to his stature. His smile is a little too stretched.

It is June, my sister’s birthday.  There is a round single-layer vanilla cake in the center of a wooden picnic table, where one bench sits on an incline and the other has a nail sticking out from the plank. My sister attempts to blow out all of her six candles, wax already dripping onto the white frosting, as everyone gathers around the table—everyone but him.  He is in the dark of the corner, where the edge has been folded down, standing there on the phone.  His brow is furrowed, and his hand massages his temple. Two minutes later, he’ll hang up—unemployed. 

The ’70 El Camino sits in the drive way, paint faded and bumper rusted.  There’s a dent on the left side of the bed, where he threw the wrench the last time the engine went out.  He’s bent over, head under the hood, tinkering.  There are early signs of wrinkles on his forehead, slivers of grey in his hair, and swelling around his eyes.  He never looks at the camera, always focused on some other thing as he drifts farther away.  His gaze never nears the lens, as if he’s afraid of what it might see.  His shoulders hang down as if burdened by some tremendous weight, and his back bends forward.  He’ll end up slamming the hood shut in frustration, and he’ll sigh, “What’s the point anymore?”  The old El Camino will rust in the driveway.

In this photograph, the television is turned on.  Some football game is playing. He sits lounging in that old recliner.  The leather is worn, and on the bottom corner, there is a tear from where the dog got into a tug-of-war match.  In his hand, he grasps a bottle of Budweiser—identical to the three already empty ones sitting on the table beside him.  His eyes are glazed over, and there is a trail of drool at the corner of his mouth.  In between gulps and belches, he’ll end up shouting at the television during each play—carrying on as if his words would actually have an impact on the outcome.  A week later, my mother will come in the door and find him in this same sad state of drunkenness.  She’ll declare how she “can’t take this anymore,” but he’ll just look through her and watch as the quarterback’s pass is intercepted.  She’ll throw a large stack of papers on the table and demand his signature.  This will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Of course, I didn’t notice these things back then. Now, the screen stops rolling, and I stand looking at him.  His face is calm and peaceful, almost as if he’s asleep.  His suit is crisp and tailored well, but if you look closely, there are bruises underneath the edge of his collar that wrap around his neck.  I look around and see everyone—even my mother—with tears in their eyes, all clad in black.