War and Peace

By

Gary Dorman Wiggins

More or less like the sound of steel wool pulling at some persistent speck of grease in a pan was the noise of the bottle cap scraping the table. The peace emblem sat, hunched over the bottle cap. The emblem around his neck had been belched from an automatic lathe at the rate of 17 per minute and purchased for 75 cents (plus tax) at the beginning of his journey. A more subtle symbol loomed in the silhouette formed by his shoulder-length hair and the hint of a moustache and goatee smeared around tightly drawn lips. He methodically hacked away at the table top.

The cafeteria had been abandoned by most for the holidays. In walked bare-chest in blue bib overalls, but he promptly left. The bottle cap catapulted across the top of an adjoining table and flopped in a death-rattle spin on the floor. It was replaced by a small knife, a more suitable tool for the task. Bare-chest drifted back through the cafeteria, summoned by the peace emlem’s shrill, “Hey, man, got a dime?” Not really an interruption of his continuous struggle with the table top, this was just a momentary desire to partake of the establishment’s coffee.

April 1970