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Damn! Where did she think she was going?I rushed back to the street. I looked for her but could not find her anywhere. Doubts about my mental sanity began to arise, but then I heard someone calling from above. I looked up. The Indian girl waved at me from a small balcony. She was eating some grapes and was spitting the pits at the flower bed her neighbor so devotedly tended to."Come on up. The door's open."In fact, next to the store entrance there was a door. I turned its knob and made my way in. I didn't even stop to think what I was doing. Going to someone's apartment without a more or less formal introduction was not on my list of bad habits.She was waiting for me at her doorway, smiling a twisted smile, her hand holding a couple of grapes, which were still waiting for doom's day at the hands of a merciless Indian squaw. She said, "So beautiful... for a woman."I looked at her, probably showing my very obvious puzzlement. She invited me in once more, enjoying herself with my. I lost the weight that I had stored up over the winter months when I was basically immobile and hibernated like one of the thick-haired bears that took deep cover and concealment in their hidden lairs.For some strange reason, I was also plagued by random visions from my other time period and I thought I could hear the sounds of napalm-dropping air strikes close enough to singe my whiskers from lingering memories of long forgotten Southeast Asia. I had managed to hide my PTSD issue not wanting to be labeled with the mark of a bruised or broken mind. I knew how the wheels of justice worked in the military establishment and enlisted men could quickly go from honored veteran to distrusted mental case in the flick of a pen on the file. My experiences in Vietnam served me well in the chaotic confusion of the American Civil War and I guess war in any period of time was similar enough to enhance skills hidden below the surface.Late at night, I imagined I heard the sound of a far-off train.
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