Neatness in chaos

Rows of veteran gravestones.

I never knew why my parents named me Cleveland. We weren’t even from Ohio. Hell, maybe that’s where I was conceived, but I never asked. Never wanted to.

Much like the city whose name I bear, my life has been constant motion. Kinetic forces crashing into one another. Resting here in neat lines and rows that all look the same from every angle is the most peace I’ve had. And it’s driving me fucking insane. I miss the noise, the motion, the push and pull.

I remember when the draft notice came in the mail. My mother wept. My father sat me down at the table, giving me a speech about duty, sacrifice, and patriotism. I was still a kid. What the hell did I know about those things? I was just trying to score dates and make out under the bleachers. I thought I had more time to grow up. That draft notice was the beginning of the end of quiet for me. It was the start of chaos that gripped my life since being sent into combat when I was barely learning who I was.

Nothing like crawling through tunnels to turn you into a man. I was hoping I would get taller, but I never did. Kids would call me shrimp and short stack. Even in Vietnam, my height and frame put me in a perfect position to serve as a Tunnel Rat. I was short yet had some muscle but more importantly for this mission, I had brains. I needed to be fast thinking and skilled in hand-to-hand combat. The latter was tough, given every time I tried to punch a bully I ended up basically bouncing off. That made the situation worse. Which is why I was sure I would never be drafted. I was too small. Too wiry. Too little. Too late.

Once I came home, I never liked talking about my experiences underground. Hell, I never talked much about the experiences I had over there above ground. I made sure to travel each year to the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. when it opened. I would run my hand along the names of my fallen brothers. We grew up together even if we never got to grow old together.

My life back stateside changed. I met and married Matilda, who gave me four beautiful children. Beautiful children who wrought chaos wherever we went. One was always running around. Another would be screaming as if we hadn’t fed her in months. Another would sit blissfully coloring watching the madness ensue. A fourth was usually a combination of whatever brother or sister caught their attention. Matilda and I were grossly outnumbered. Sometimes I yearned for the tunnels. At least I was trained for that combat. Parenting is a whole other level of battle. I still have physical scars from it.

We also never lived in Cleveland. I settled in Florida, preferring as much open space as I could find. We lived in Cape Canaveral, as I took a job with NASA upon my return home. I wasn’t an engineer, but I did play a hand in many space shuttle missions doing public affairs work. I contacted reporters. I told the astronauts’ stories. I mourned as Challenger blew up. Chaos reigned during my NASA career, but at least Matilda and I could escape to the beach to find some grounding.

My place of rest allows me to hear the ocean if it’s quiet. I am here surrounded by other veterans in these neat rows and columns and lines. Sometimes I wish I had been an engineer so I could figure out how the math of our headstones works. But other times, I don’t need to figure out the chaos. I realized much too late that sometimes it is okay to let things be calm and orderly without needing to know why.

I still regret never getting to see Cleveland. I can picture the Rust Belt city ebbing and flowing like my life. Incredible highs and indelible lows. I would have liked to traverse the city’s sidewalks to see if I could make sense of myself as Cleveland the man in Cleveland the place. Seeking order among the chaos. Here, buried among others who like me sacrificed for our country, I realize Cleveland the man is once again below ground not under my own volition.

At least this time, I don’t have to worry about being killed. The chaos has already done me in.