The Old Patriot

As I sat in the restaurant, waiting for my glass of water and reading the menu, I heard a voice from the table behind and to the right of me. "I am an American and I’m proud of it." There were two accentuated words: "American" and "proud." The words came strong from an old, deep place in the speaker’s soul. I glanced back. I saw a man, about eighty, and his slightly younger wife. He was speaking across the aisle to a booth of four twenty-somethings, two men and two woman. I sensed them smiling at him and, from what I could tell from the momentary, silent vacuum, they were caught off guard by these strange words. I was too.

"I drive an American car."

"Good for you," one of the young men said back.

"I wouldn’t drive anything else."

"Hmm."

"Women like the foreign cars, but not me."

"They are better on gas."

That was the bait he wanted.

"Who cares?! They filled up my backside with shrapnel. I wouldn’t give them a penny of my money. I didn’t forget that. You know that? Why should I forget that?"

An uncomfortable silence.

"Sure they make the cars here. But, you know what? The money goes back there and then they come back here and buy up our hotels and send back for their spies. You didn’t know that, did you?"

"No, sir."

There was a pause, just long enough for us to think the conversation might be over.

"You watch. They’re here. And one day, they’re going to attack us. Communists."

Gulp. I sipped my water and tried not to look.

"You know who’s sending the guns and bullets over there to Iraq?"

"No, sir."

"The communists. The Russians. And the Germans."

His wife didn’t flinch as we did. Maybe she remembered the communists.

"I’m an American and I’m proud of it."