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When I first met Forrest Gump, I guess you could say I was surprised. When I got word I had some new boys-- fresh out-- being settled with me, I was irritated. I wondered why I had to get all the green kids fresh out of God-knows-where, but I had hopes for a guy one of my old, distant buddies kept bragging on.
"Damn smart, this kid!" The drill sergeant had told me once, "Can assemble, disassemble, and reassemble a rifle faster than I've seen some old-timers do! He's one-track minded too, gonna make those higher-ranked boys fear for their positions. I'm gonna see to it that you get him."
So when I saw Forrest and his friend Bubba, their drawls slow and thick, I found myself plum-shocked (as my Aunt Millie used to say) when they answered their states of birth in kind. Here I was, on my way to the shitter, and I was given two boys attached at the hip. Seeming to be, in obvious ways, the same. When I asked if they were twins, it had been a jab at the two but had been taken innocently enough by Forrest Gump. It threw me off in a way I couldn't readily admit. Frankly, it made me feel like a real asshole.
I think it took a week before I started noticing he wrote letters practically every night. He was so careful to keep his letters to Jenny out of the rain. At the time, I thought he was writing to his mother or some aunt somewhere, still a child in his dedication to writing letters that could easily ruin during the Vietnam monsoon season. A month later, when he and Bubba were behind me at camp, the sky clearing for the briefest of moments- I overheard them talk about it.
"Is that letter to Jenny too?" Bubba asked sleepily, eyes trying to avoid the small light Forrest used to give him the ability to see to write.
"Yes, Bubba," he answered, smiling. "My letters are always for Jenny."
That night, hearing him saying Jenny's name made it very clear that he adored her. I envied that, having someone so dedicated to the person they care for. I, myself, had never been one to take the time out of my day to think about anyone else but myself. Sure, I thought of my men, but only in the context of keeping them alive. I never bothered to remember names or where they came from. I was more concerned with my inevitable death and going out with a bang.
I had no girl waiting for me back home, my family more consumed with their own lives than mine, and I had no real schooling or job to fall back on if I were to ever make it out of the war alive. Therefore, I was fully prepared to bite whatever bullet came my way and die at the first honorable instance. I had accepted that.
Then Forrest Gump, in all his so-called "genius", plucked my dandy ass up and ran me out from my rightful deathbed as if I weighed a-buck-ten. My anger was not unfounded. To this very day, I justify my anger toward him for saving me. However, him taking charge and saving all of us was a hero's move, regardless of his reasons behind it. His saving me, though, happened more times than I care to count.
Of course, within those damned jungles of Vietnam was the first time. The second came when he wasn't even around. That would be long after the day I was told I was being sent home.
I had about a half hour to be assisted in wiping my own ass after taking one final trip to their sub-par bathrooms, to gather my things, to say my goodbyes (which went solely to the bumpy bed that had given me sores and to my side table that housed the few possessions I had during my stay), and be put in a car that would take me to several other places and eventually get me home in America. I gathered what little I had and was gone before Forrest would even know I'd left. I didn't want to hear his promises to visit or write, the thought of his voice unsettled me lying next to him for as long as I had.
It wasn't until I stepped on American soil that the panic set in. (I say stepped, but I really mean unceremoniously wheeled onto American soil.) It occurred to me that as I had known all along, no one waited for me to get back. The families crying, hugging, and kissing their wounded relatives turned me into The Invisible Cripple, eyes only noticing me if I had gotten myself too close behind their backs. Those who spared a glance, looked away in shame so they didn't have to stumble through pitying me. I wished again, for the millionth time, that I had died by that phone in Vietnam.
The looks they gave at the army hospital in Vietnam were cold, they were not pitying or sympathetic, but systematic. They focused solely on attending to everyone, those wounded were no longer people, they were broken and ruined toys that needed mending; a single item on a very long to-do list. All of the pity, or the worst being the avoidance of gaze entirely, made me wish to be just another Joe Schmuck in an army hospital again.
I was picked up on a public bus and was taken to a place where I could live off my pension. On this bus ride, it occurred to me that even Forrest-freaking-Gump had plans beyond the army. If a guy like Forrest had plans, as unrealistic as they may have been, that meant an invalid could too. I began planning on doing something with my life, maybe even getting a half-decent desk job if I could manage it. Unfortunately, this hope was short-lived.
It took a week to start drinking away my minuscule pension, a month to be kicked out of the apartment suggested for me, and a few days after that to start drowning myself in booze and hookers to the point of numbness. My destiny, it seemed, was to be a poster child of the after-effects of Vietnam on war veterans. Occasionally, I even panhandled in hopes of getting a bit of spare change so I could afford a decent sandwich to go with my liquor. Living in a seedy hotel did not feel beneath me as it may have when I'd still been in the war, or before that. The war over or not, I fought that war every time I fell asleep or didn't have a drink in my hand.
Sometimes the dreams were everyday activities, like the long walks on the dirt roads by villages or a sudden sound and my muffled voice telling everyone to take cover. Other times, I saw the dirt and leaves sticking to my arms as the ability to stand suddenly left my body. The fear arose every time as if it was the first time-- slowly, then all at once. Occasionally, Forrest would pick me up and save me again in these dreams, but sometimes he'd skip over me and save Bubba and I'd be left there just like I wanted him to. Sometimes, after those dreams, I'd wake in a cold sweat with tears in my eyes.
Almost nightly, I relived the night I sobbed into Forrest's chest, remembering admitting how useless I felt and how cheated I felt. Yet, Forrest still saw me the same as he always did, with eyes clear and shining with respect. He did not pity me, I don't think he fully understood pity, he felt upset because he could not understand why I was so devastated. Then again, he may have just hid that from me, maybe he knew it was the last thing I needed.
The moment I said before, when he was not beside me and yet saved me a second time, was in the moment I saw Forrest accepting the medal on television, it had infuriated me. A lot of my day was spent watching television or listening to the radio back then. Seeing Forrest burned me up. They had been my men! So what if he had saved us, I was in charge and when I was hurt and no longer able to give orders, it should've been everyone's clue to fend for themselves rather than Forrest making himself the de-facto leader.
He showed his ass to the public viewers of television, both in the metaphorical and literal sense. Despite getting the medal, he was viewed as a fool, and my men were not fools. Especially not Forrest Gump.
With a newfound need to leave the shithole I called my home, I propelled myself as fast as I could in my wheelchair. My months spent in the damn chair did have their saving graces. My arms were in the best shape they'd ever been, from essentially walking on my arms, transporting myself quickly to the network studio's rear entrance. I waited for him.
The knobs that would have been my knees (were they still attached) chilled with a phantom sensation similar to the stroke of a paintbrush going back and forth in a steady rhythm. I itched my left stump irritably, face scrunching in distaste as my body got steadily colder.
I am not sure how long I waited, it felt like hours, but when he came outside he hadn't changed a bit. Even the look in his eyes had the same innocent glow they had back then. I was indignant when he smiled at me-- to him, it was as if he hadn't ruined my life's plan in Vietnam, as if nothing had changed.
"Now that's Lieutenant Dan," he said to himself, then louder to me. "Lieutenant Dan!"
After a few moments of one-sided yelling, cruel things were said to him, which he did not refute in any way. At some point, during my bitter retreat, I slipped in the wheelchair down the ramp in the icy slush. Forrest merely watched, dumb, as I hollered and yelled until I hit the brick wall at the end of the ramp. I was left with no significant mark aside from wounded pride as he pushed me down the streets of New York. I drank from that bottle until it held absolutely nothing left, to fight my memories, to fight my pride, and to fight the blistering cold.
I did not need a job anymore, living on government support, and I felt useless every day. Every day I considered death, even without the pleasant New York threats that I should be killed or die at my own hand; that I was a waste of space, another worm in the heart of the Big Apple.
I would be lying if I said some part of me didn't enjoy Forrest's company in my run-down hotel room, a small light in a dark room. However, I would also be lying if I said I didn't give him hell for every moment he breathed in my presence.
After a particular program, a choral broadcast of Silent Night, I asked "Have you found Jesus yet, Gump?"
"I didn't know I was supposed to be lookin' for him, sir," Gump answered honestly, looking at me with confusion.
I laughed, what else could I do? It seemed like he hit some nerve in me, "It's all these guys at the V.A. ever seem to talk about-- Jesus this, Jesus that. Have I found Him? They sent me a priest and said God is listening but I must help myself first. If I accept Jesus in my heart, I can walk again with Jesus in Heaven... Walk beside him? What a crock of shit." I threw things, my only feeble attempt I could ever do anymore to show my anger besides yelling.
"I'm going to Heaven, Lieutenant Dan," Forrest said clearly, no arrogance, a mere statement of fact.
I envied that but merely asked him in a quip to go get more liquor.
On New Year's Eve, he told me of his plans for the shrimp boat, and of his desire to keep that promise to Bubba despite his death. This struck me as odd, and pointless, who cares about a promise made when the other side cannot hold you to your end of the bargain? Forrest of all people, a shrimp boat captain? The same man who upon meeting him I wasn't quite sure he could tell his own asshole from a hole in the ground.
I made him a deal, soused beyond belief, "You be a captain, Private Gump, I'll be your first mate. The day you do, I'll be an astronaut!"
As the cheers rang out for the new year, I simply felt another year of my life slip through my fingers.
As I readied myself for a familiar touch back in the room, the girls made the mistake of calling Forrest stupid when he pushed the blonde off of him. Despite my anger and distaste for the boy, calling him stupid was entirely uncalled for. I threw the girl's clothes and her face and sent her and the friend away. In my anger, I flung myself out of my wheelchair and landed face-first on a disgusting floral rug stained with years of abuse. The women laughed at us and said choice words on the way out.
Forrest, with no hesitation, tried to help me up. I refused the help and through the gasps and groans of pain and exertion got myself into the chair alone, as I had already grown so accustomed to.
"I'm sorry I ruined your New Year's Eve party, Lt. Dan... She tasted like cigarettes." Gump said like a child found with a broken vase in his hand. Made me sick to hear. It was cruel to call him that. They didn't know anything about Forrest, or all the good he'd done, not that they would have cared. I guess part of me just really hated hearing those things said about him, since in a way we were the same. Forrest Gump saved my life in that jungle, and I could never see him lesser after that.
I told him the only thing I could think of, I wished him a happy new year, and in the morning he was gone. I was glad, it saved me the embarrassment of asking him to leave. The room felt emptier after that.
I quit drinking as much after that, still smoked like a chimney though, feeling it was fair enough to at least keep one vice of my own.
On the day I received his letter about the shrimp boat, I felt something almost like hope. Hope for myself, mainly. I had cleaned up but still didn't have any direction, maybe this was my calling, in one way or another, to be in satellite with one Forrest Gump of Bubba-Gump Shrimping Co.
When I saw Forrest's unreserved happiness when he saw me at the dock from the boat, his laugh seemed to infect me with happiness the smallest bit. I had never been so excited to see someone in my entire life. It was nice to be missed. He waved with the buzzing excitement of a little kid and I felt myself smile. Then he lept from the boat and swam to the dock, the boat floating away in the meantime (though not likely to get far).
When he asked me why I was there, I tried to be casual, "Well, I thought I'd try out my sea legs."
"But you ain't got no legs, Lieutenant Dan," he said, looking at my thighs.
I could have laughed, he really had no damn clue sometimes, "Yes, I know that. You wrote me a letter, you idiot. Came to see it for myself: Captain Forrest Gump. Plus, I am a man of my word. Don't you go thinking I will be calling you 'sir'."
"No sir," he said, the abandoned boat crashing into the nearby dock, Forrest pointed to it. "That's my boat."
I learned the ropes quickly enough, literally and figuratively, I spent most of my time at the top of the mast. I once wondered about the small investment of a crow's nest but figured it better suited a pirate ship than a shrimping boat. We did, however, generally find no luck-- or shrimp, for that matter.
My drinking began to take hold again as Gump began frequenting church more and more I prayed for the bottom of each bottle. God found us in an unlikely place, in the middle of Hurricane Carmen.
I was invigorated by the threat of consumption to the bottom of the ocean to never be found, I screamed at the sky to do its worst. Forrest, on the other hand, tried to keep us from sinking with all focus at the helm. Our boat was the only one to survive the storm, thus we had a corner on the shrimping market. We even made the cover of some magazines.
I only thanked him once for saving my life. I had finally felt no guilt for being alive, I was finally happy to be free of the burden of the family legacy-- I did not have to die a martyr. It was a wonderful feeling.
When Forrest left to take care of his mother, I made no fuss about it. I merely took care of it. He was my business partner, after all, brother in arms, my friend.
We didn't correspond much after that, though I was invited to his wedding. He would finally be able to marry Jenny, the girl he never shut up about. I was really happy for him. I had changed too.
I had a limp, but I walked with pride. I kept my face shaved, got regular haircuts, stayed off the booze, and was able to come to terms with myself. I had found a woman I loved, I found a way to walk again, I was successful, and I was truly happy for once in my life. I can't help feeling Forrest Gump was a big part of that. Some would have left me to die, but not Forrest. He didn't leave me in that jungle, he didn't leave me the year I wanted to die, and he was there for me to help me find my purpose-- myself-- again.
I owe him so much. Hell, I owe him everything. I owe everything to some lovable nut from Greenbow, Alabama. Such is life I guess, sorta like monkeys at the zoo, sometimes they throw shit at you, other times you just can't help but smile at whatever shenanigans they're gettin' up to.