The Cynic Express(ed) 2.10: Member of a Meaningless Majority

     My fiancee and I stood and sat in the cool, dim, and slightly archival bar of the Maplewood VFW Hall. We were looking for a hall for our upcoming nuptuals and the VFW Hall had one such hall across the corridor. While we awaited the arrival of the veteran with the power to lease the hall, I mused on the members of the hall, the thinning ranks of Americans who would gather in dim places like these to drink a sevety-five cent tap of beer and trade tales of harrowing experiences grown tedious by the monotony of fear, of long walks and immeasurable moonless nights. I never earn the right to sit among the chain smokers with scars and tattoos on dappling arms, to be a part of the brotherhood of those who would have died to protect the freedoms in which I revel. I was saddened.

     But just last week I received a letter from Thomas A. Pouliot, the Commander-in-Chief of the Veterans of Foreign Wars of the United States, in which he revealed that after an exhaustive, nationwide search,, he had determined that I was eligible to join the Veterans of Foreign Wars. As someone who served on foreign soil during the last fifty years during a period of conflict such as World War II, Korea, Vietnam, or Desert Storm, if I sent a specified amount of money, I would be able to join those worthy ranks of American veterans.

     I thought back to my service in the Vietnam era, entrenched in playpens and cribs under the strange subtropical sky of Wisconsin. I raked the back of my hand over my forehead as I thought of my tour in the desert sands of Marquette University when Desert Shield thunderclapped into Desert Storm. Although Wisconsin might be strange and foreign to some, it really is a portion of the United States. And though some young mothers may care to differ, I should hardly term the terrible twos or the long-haired rebelliousness of the university a war.

     Actually, Thomas Pouliot did not send the letter himself. Someone acting on his behalf caught my name on a mailing list that had many earmarks of a potential member of the VFW--something like Harper’s, perhaps, where the average age and income rises beyond mine. And so I got the letter, and many others like it. Heck’s pecks, the AARP sent me a membership card emblazoned with my name.

     Somewhere beyond the little tavern rooms that smell of old smoke, old beer, and old bloodshed, the VFW and other similar organizations came to life of their own accord. No longer does the VFW exist exclusively for those hearty veterans who want to congregate with brothers. The VFW also exists as a national organization, with executives and support staff to pay, and anyone who wants to help float their boat is welcome.

     But perhaps I am just cynical.