The convenience store smelled like beef jerky and urine, a scent that Bert knew all too well. As he moseyed through the sliding doors the odor permeated his nostrils, but he didn't let himself react. He nodded hello to the twenty-something burnout behind the counter and walked straight to the coffee machine. This was routine, and as a bus driver, Bert thrived on routine. He liberated some java from the percolating box and grabbed a newspaper.

"This and a pack of Camels, please." Bert murmured.

"It's a dirty habit, you know," said the twenty-something, tossing the cigarettes on the counter.

"$5.90."

Bert unfolded a five and a one from his wallet and set them down next to the coffee.

"I know." he replied, in a morose and detached voice. The twenty-something threw the dime at Bert, which he deftly caught. He examined the dime. 1969... Slipping the dime into the breast pocket of his shirt, he took his purchases and walked out to his bus. The bus sat, parked in the morning haze. He checked his watch. 5:30. Right on time, as usual. He was a good driver; he lived by the clock. Taking his paper, he sat down in a seat and read, alternately sipping the coffee and taking drags on a cigarette.

The headlines shouted strife at him, and he shook his head. Things hadn't changed much in all his years, and this disheartened him. Beetle Bailey wasn't even funny this morning. Bert sighed, stubbed out his cigarette and folded up the newspaper. His watch now read 5:42. He had fifteen minutes before his first stop, which was three minutes away, if you included starting the bus. The twelve minutes idly drew themselves to his attention, and he couldn't think of any good way to spend them. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the dime.

1969... it seemed so distant, but nonetheless ingrained into his memory. He was 19, and on the wrong side of the Pacific. It never quite sank in that he would be fighting until his plane touched down in the muggy jungle. There he wasn't Bert, he was Private Newman, another faceless grunt as far as Uncle Sam was concerned. The war was hideous and gory, and Bert was always scared.

1969... they were defending yet another rice paddy near some unpronounceable village against people they only knew as enemies. The sound of blasting rifles could be heard, coming from a scant few yards away. Bert heard one man on his left scream, "Take this, you VC bastards! Ha ha!" The man threw two grenades at once, the pins still protruding from his mouth as he tracked his projectiles and watched them explode.

"How many d'you think I got, Newman?" Bert said nothing, shocked into silence. Gunfire again sounded, this time closer than before. How close were they? They were hopelessly exposed to the forces on either side of them. All sides of the paddy were surrounded by undergrowth, but they were stuck in the middle with enemy faces behind the copses. Who planned this ill-gotten attack? Who planned this war?

"Newman! Get down, you fucking moron!" Bert only heard his name and turned around to find the voice. He found only crouched soldiers and rice plants.

"Idiot! They're strafing us! Get the hell down!" Bert's sergeant was frantically shouting and swearing at him; Bert did not react. There was a war around him, bleeding into oblivion. He couldn't find the words to explain this to his comrade in arms.

Coming from a pleasant suburb of Seattle, Bert had never seen the magnitude of combat; he had never seen it's power.

"Sarge, I don't want to kill them! I don't want them to die!" Bert sputtered lamely.

The sergeant was livid. "You're gonna die if you don't get down!"

Bert suddenly fell over, his shoulder erupting with pain. It felt as if a hot coal was just below his skin, burrowing into his muscle and bone. Clutching his shoulder, he coughed into the murky water, making the pain sear. He froze upon seeing his hand, covered in his own blood. Bert blinked.

"Newman! Wake up, you jackass!" The sergeant was slapping him awake from the inside of a helicopter. Two meds were poking him. Other soldiers were staring; some staring like he was an idiot, others like he was delivering a profound oratory. His bewildered thoughts raced through his head. What's happening? War. The three-letter four-letter word. Anger and fear ran high, while common sense, civilization and diplomacy were nowhere to be found. Why are we here? It's not our fight and now we could be killed, and we're supposed to take others with us? I don't understand, I want to go home, but my country said they needed me. I came because the US of A said so. Is that a good enough reason to murder? Or to be shot down myself? And who are these medics? What's going on? A sensation in his arm, a needle, causing everything to become blurry and dream-like. His thoughts became too fast for his head. Voices said words without meaning that echoed in Bert's ears. He blinked again.

*****

When he opened his eyes again, he was in a hospital. Doctors and nurses bustled around soldiers with assorted injuries. The whole atmosphere of the place reeked of a manic lightheartedness; the medical staff was determined to fix the war's maladies with style and banter. On a shelf across from Bert sat a large glass jar labeled "spoils of war" in neat lettering. Inside the jar were chunks of shrapnel, rock and bullets, each bearing a nametag. "Pvt. Herman Sheldon -- forearm," "Pvt. Gary Erlands -- left thigh," and "Corp. Ray Rollins -- lung," were the only tags Bert could read.

A friendly looking doctor approached Bert's bed and gave him a grin. He was young like Bert, radiating determination and cheerfulness.

"There's two from your shoulder in there," he said, gesturing to the jar. "But you can keep them if you like." He grinned again, with a certain eye twinkle that implied he had told that joke before.

"No, thank you." Bert said quietly. "How's my shoulder?"

The doctor's grin faltered a bit at Bert's reticent response. Apparently the audience was usually a little more receptive. "You're going home. You won't be able to lift a rifle with that arm." The doctor continued, making more jokes in between snatches of medical jargon. Bert was consumed with one thought: his country didn't need him. He would receive a purple heart, go home and make his mother proud. The war was over for Bert almost as soon as it had started. He didn't want to feel that. Bert blinked.

Ching! His fingers had been shaking so badly, he had dropped the dime. He picked it up and returned it to his pocket, putting the cigarettes with it. He threw the empty coffee cup into the small trash can next to the farebox and set the newspaper on a seat for the riders. Bert again checked his watch. 5:54. Even his daydreams were down to the minute.

He started the bus and proceeded to the first stop, where no one was waiting. No one was ever waiting at the first stop. Three people were always at the second stop. Bert's routine was infallible; when he was behind the wheel, he was an automaton, and the riders adopted the same mien.

After Tyson Street, Bert checked his watch. 11:37. His lunch break was at 11:45, and he had one more stop.

"14th and Polk street." he called out. The lilt in his voice was predictable and comfortingly familiar. Everyone who rode his bus expected Bert to be a constant. He was an anchor in their spinning worlds. To the occasional rider Bert seemed boring, but the regulars saw him as a constant. You could always depend on old Bert.

The lumbering bus pulled into the garage at 11:44, the chattering passengers were long gone. He stepped out into the parking lot and meandered into the municipal transport headquarters. He stopped briefly in the radio room to say hi and to tell them he was taking his break. They knew he was there. They knew he'd always be there. Half of the radio staff set their watches to Bert's break times. Idiosyncratic though he was, no one on the staff ever made fun of Bert's punctuality. He wasn't obsessed with time, wasting it or being on it, he was absorbed in his routine.

Bert ambled into the break room, nodding at the other drivers. They sat eating their lunches and making insipid conversation, stopping only to greet Bert, then continuing.

"Did you hear about the new tax laws?"

"Yeah. Boy, those politicos sure chafe my buns."

Bert shook his head free of the conversation and left the break room. He walked to the deli two blocks down. Little dingle bells on a string smacked against the glass door, cacophonously announcing his entrance. His normal booth was open, and as he sat down he peered over at the sign that decreed the specials of the day. Pastrami on rye sounded good, or at least edible. Bert ate in silence as the lunch rush ebbed and flowed around him.

As he chewed on his large dill pickle garnish, his thoughts were scattered. Bert didn't normally think about the war. Only on Veteran's day and Memorial day, in fact. He would don his uniform and march in the parade, but he always tried to stem the flow of Vietnam memories the uniform always brought.

Bert sat and ate, keeping one eye on his watch. He swallowed and ran a shaky hand through his short, graying hair. It's over, Bert, stop dwelling on it, he told himself. How can it be, his head screamed back. You saw hell, hell on earth! It wasn't worth ... honor your country, Dad said ... Purple heart ... only 27 days. The stream stopped there, and Bert sat still, his hand still in his hair. I spent just 27 days in Vietnam before I was sent home. Trembling fingers pulled the dime from his pocket.

1969...Bert had never seen his mother so happy to see him. The airport was alive with friends and family, with banners and balloons, cheering for good old Bert. Bert found himself hugged and kissed and welcomed, but when the excitement died down, when they expected him to speak, he said nothing. A confused, disappointed silence ensued.

"What was it like over there, Bert? Didja fight a lot?" asked his younger brother. Bert thought a moment before replying.

"I'm...I'm just glad to be back here. Back home. I never knew what was going on over there; it was chaos. I'm really, really happy to be home again." It wasn't much of a speech, but words were applauded and Bert went home.

That night, as Bert lay on his bed, he couldn't stop thinking about the hospital. After the young doctor had left him alone, he fell asleep, waking up to the same electric atmosphere that he dozed off to. He couldn't see a thing because of the sterilized curtains on either side of him, but he heard plenty from the doctors on the other side of the curtain.

"Well look at you, soldier! You look like a pasta dish I had once, or was it a blood sausage? Let's put you under and see if we can't get some of that marinara back in you. It's time to play Find the Bullet! Remember folks, we're on a tight clock!"

Several minutes passed, and Bert heard another voice.

"Doc, I think I'm a winner!"

"Are you sure? It's pretty ugly and -- well, hey! Whaddaya know? You got it, Jim! It's not nearly as bad as it looks. You win, Jimmy. An all expenses paid cruise to the latrine."

"I think I can take it from here. Just gotta sew him up."

"Well, I should stick around, if you need any help."

"I got it. Winners like me don't need any help. I think this fellow's gonna be A-okay. Pass me the -- thanks."

"If you're sure, then I suppose I'll check on our other friends. Strong work, James!"

Bert listened to the exchange with uncertainty. Were these guys doctors, or kids screwing around in a medical tent? Several minutes passed, and then Doc's voice came again.

"Jim, you're brilliant."

"Well, I couldn't have done it without our patient, here. I'll administer some morphine and give him the skinny when he wakes -- oh Jesus!"

"He's bleeding there, too! Get me a --"

"It was covered up by his --"

"How could we have missed it? Cal, get it here! Stat!"

Each panicked remark hit Bert's ears with increasing urgency. Just when the verbal barrage hit its peak, there was a sudden silence, except for the heart monitor.

"Jim, you did all you could. It's a mistake anyone could have made. Jim!"

A strangled sob and heavy footsteps walked towards Bert. Bert caught a glimpse of Jim, who wasn't much older than 21, his hands covered in blood. Jim sat down, crying fiercely, in the chair across from Bert's bed. The young medic dropped his head into his sanguine hands and screamed. When he looked up, tears streaked down his face, mingling obscenely with the blood of the dead soldier. Another doctor led him away, leaving Bert with chills in bed. He blinked.

On his bed at home, Bert started to cry. His entire body shook, racked with anguish. His mother, hands cupped to the door, was about to open it when Bert's father placed his hand on the doorknob.

"Ellen, let him cry."

"I can't just let him lie there -- "

"No, Ellen. No."

Swallowing her own tears, Bert's mother padded back to her room, her husband comforting her with an arm over her shoulders. In his room, Bert continued to weep. He blinked.

"Sir? Sir? Are you okay?" The cashier was tapping Bert's shoulder softly. Bert lifted his head from the table, his eyes red and wet. A few concerned citizens were peering over at him from their own booths. He shook his head slightly; he had been crying.

"I'll be fine, miss, thank you. Could I get my check, please?" The cashier nodded and left, and the small crowd of gawkers went back to their own business. Again, Bert was alone with his plate. The sandwich and pickle were gone, with only crumbs preserving their memories. The dime sat beside his fork. Bert put it into his pocket and paid for his food, regaining normal thoughts as he walked through the door. He checked his watch, which read 12:32. He had just enough time to get back to his bus and start the second half of his working day if he hurried. So Bert hurried.

The second half of the day's events proceeded. Bert drove downtown, hauling various people from various walks of life from point A to the bus stop nearest point B. He called off the intersections, parks and plazas like he usually did, and all went smoothly. Why wouldn't things go smoothly? It's a bus, a scheduled routine. Get on, get off and maybe look at the paper in between. The riders were the same. Bert, however, was fighting off nagging thoughts that poked at the back of his head.

Jim. He couldn't shake that image. His crimson hands, grief dribbling down his youthful, troubled face and making rusty droplets on the floor.

"3rd and Marbury street." He couldn't be saved. The man in the bed to his right died of bullets that sent Bert home in a sling. They bulleted him so badly he died. He died.

"3rd and Rice." Jim tried, Doc tried, playfully yet insistently. The only thing to show for their efforts was the blood on the floor and the blood on Jim's face.

"Rice and Brenner Lane." The war was beyond description -- it was mass slaughter.

"Ford Lake Park." I got out after 27 days. How many men even lived to see 27 days of combat?

At a stop light, Bert set his head on the wheel. He told himself the war was over, but the swirling mix of images and memories ignored that and continued to swirl and torment. The repression buffer had burst. Just when Bert was about to cry out, the light turned green. The bus accelerated, and Bert's reflections and remembrances were still in conflict.

They battled until Bert parked the bus in the municipal transport garage. With all of his passengers gone, he was free of their apathetic eyes. He opened the door to walk out, but couldn't quite make it. Sitting down on the step, he planted his head in his hands. Bert didn't hear the other man walk up to him until he spoke.

"Bert?"

Bert looked up slowly. A man about his age bearing the collar of a vicar was standing at the front of the bus.

"Bert, are you all right?"

"Sure, father. I'm just a little off today."

"Would you like to tell me about -- "

"Oh no, father. Just personal things. Memories. The past."

"What will it take to make you feel better, Bert? What can I do?"

"A penny, no, let's make it a dime, for your thoughts, Father O'Leary." Bert said as he withdrew the dime from his pocket.

The priest smiled, "I'm a man of God, Bert. I can't take your money for something I'm willing to give freely."

"Please, Father," a pained expression grew over Bert's face, "if not for the ten cents, but for the sake of mercy. Take it. Take it away, Father."

O'Leary took the dime and said only, "The men who were holding Jesus mocked him and beat him; they also blindfolded him and asked him, 'Prophesy! Who is it that struck you?'" The vicar lingered for a moment, then walked away after Bert's silence stretched longer. Under his breath, Bert murmured, "And he went out and wept bitterly."

Bert watched the minister walk away. He watched him until he disappeared into the fog. The thick mist slowly set in over the city, covering Bert like time covers a memory.