Barbeque and Fireworks

Salty steam that was somehow prompt of its greenly-textured source, scenting of a slight foul, was the smell of boiled chicken. The sterile but a little hot vapor was the smell coming from a different pot where rice was being cooked. And innocent, watery was the smell of the vegetables Ronald had washed and prepared for his meal.

Yes, those soft smells, filling his entire kitchen, were in no way threatening. They were pretty much complacent with the peaceful mood that Ronald tried to maintain with his life. Ronald tried to strictly stick to those foods and cook them only this, certain way. This, though, wasn’t some form of diet; wasn’t motivated by a want for specific physique.

As he proceeded to eat what he had just fixed, the food’s taste, one would argue, was the same as their smell—sterile and tasteless, lacking a little twist to them. But Ronald was satisfied… as long as he could avoid that other scent… the stench it should be called; the stench he had gotten very accustomed to not that long ago, but a stench he couldn’t get out of his memories.

Three years before, Ronald was in Vietnam. Fighting with the Viet Cong guerrillas through the jungles, Ronald saw a lot of things one ought not to see to maintain a healthy sanity. But one thing in particular made itself into his mind especially aggressive. He couldn’t erase it from him no matter how much he tried. It was the crippling stench of burning human flesh.

When in Vietnam, Ronald would carry out many roles, most of the time being a regular rifleman and providing support fire with his platoon. But other times he would be tasked with a role of a fierce flamethrower when the enemy would get too entrenched in their improvised positions. Armed with a powerful M2 man-portable, he would rain napalm above unsuspecting guerrillas hiding in the firing positions.

It wasn’t that difficult—pulling the trigger any time you were ordered, not even having to aim as with a regular gun, and seeing all those positions instantly catching in flames. But each time he sprayed the enemy with his flaming gun, there would be this particular stink, very unlike anything one could have in life.

There was of course this mix of ashing wood and burning green, which that place always seemed to be abundant of. However,  there was also this other smell, the type one can breathe when plastic is set on fire and when a hair is burnt in a toaster. For a time, Ronald wouldn’t think of it too deeply, burning those huts and cave-systems, seeing all those Viet Cong run out in the distance.

Yet, on one of such occasions, a man ran out straight on him, covered entirely in flames from toes to face. With a horrified expression of insufferable pain, he ran towards Ron but would lose the responsiveness of his limbs to that fire, and eventually collapsed to the ground right in front of Ronald. Before finally passing to the heat, that vietnamese man stretched his hand to the perpetrator of this burning, identifying that figure with a long cylindered backpack, which was Ronald.

Their faces met. This poor Viet Cong soldier, whose entire body was being fried… His entire face was so burnt to black, the pain could not be imagined by those alive. He was screaming, perhaps trying to curse Ronald who had set him for that torture. But he couldn’t as his glands were producing such a high-pitched scream, it seemed impossible to Ronald how the vocals of a grown man could even make a sound so sharp and deafening. It was like his entire face filled Ronald’s entire scope of vision. And in this horrible sight Ronald saw how the eye of this eastern-asian man was oozing out onto and across the entire left cheek.

It was that moment when Ronald realized that the stink of burnt plastic and bad Barbeque—that traced him this whole time—was the smell of napalmed human flesh. Being at such proximity from that burning meat of a body, the stink ate itself into Ronald’s nose and ever since that day refused to go, torturing him in his sleep and in daily life.

It’s been two years that he was decommissioned. But the memory of it, no matter how much he tried, stuck with him. He could for some reason smell it in his clothes, from cafes wherever he took a stroll—everywhere. He had even fallen out with his girlfriend he had been dating before the war because they couldn’t go dine at other places and because he would scream at her whenever she cooked. But this obsessive evasion of crisped food was the minimum he had to do to even hope to get rid of this stench… or so he thought.

This life of isolation, with food that tasted little different from antiseptic, gave him some pace where could at least attempt to not process his experience in the war.

Recently, Ronald had been invited to his great-uncle Bert’s 60th birthday. Everyone from his remote family was coming. And Ronald would too… if not for the fact they were planning to celebrate it outside, doing Barbeque. All that seasoned smoke and roasted meat rising in the air—Ronald wouldn’t bear it. So Ronald invented an excuse and had told he would be required at his work that day.

But a bell rang at his door. Ronald wasn’t expecting anyone, and at that time of day it couldn’t be mailing or any other service for that matter. Not finishing his meal, Ronald approached the door and peered through its eyelet. It was none other than his great uncle Bert. Afraid this was going to turn into a nuance, Ronald took some seconds before opening it, mentally preparing himself.

“Hey, Ronnie! It’s been ages, kid!” cheerfully greeted Bert.

“Hey, Uncle Bert. How has it been?” replied Ronald, “oh, you want to come in?”

“Sure! Could use some sitting.” He walked in and sat himself at the table where Ronald was eating his breakfast just some minutes ago. “Yeah, sorry for disturbing you in your comfy den over here.” as he said that, he tucked a cigarette out of his pack.

“Oh, I don’t smoke here…” hastily notified Ronald, “in fact, I don’t smoke at all…”

“Oh, excuse my old habits,” “I come from a generation where everyone smoked, hehe.”

“Yeah, sorry, Uncle Bert. I think I won’t be able to attend your birthday.”

“Work, right?” Bert confirmed, to which Ronald nodded. “Yep. I’ve come exactly concerning that,” he shared with an unconcealed smirk, “I’ve come by your office and had a talk with your head.” Anxiety struck Ronald when he heard that.

“Mr Lehman?”

“Yeah, him! I ‘told him about my special day and how much I and the rest would’ve loved seeing two stars in one place.” Right, Ronald now remembered that his Great Uncle Bert was, like him, a veteran. But he was too old for Vietnam. Bert served in Europe in The Second World War, fighting Germans and liberating French. “So he told me you could take a day off then and not worry about having it subtracted from your annual vacation period. Your Great Uncle took care of that, hmph…” he grinned more openly and even handed a notice from Ronald’s boss, saying he was free of attending the work that day. Ronald took some time to draw a visible reaction. Still, he managed to force a smile.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to come then.”

“I guess you will,” replied the great uncle. He then stood up from the table and headed towards the exit. On his way out, they exchanged farewells.

The rest of the day, Ronald spent angry. That he would have to leave his comfort zone and go out there and breathe in this toxic smoke of barbeque, of burning flesh—that made him knock the tiled wall in his bathroom. He was inflamed with frustration that the world couldn’t just leave him alone… Still, he now had to go.

Uncle Bert, having made some middle class affluence post war, had an extensive backyard where all guests could fit and have a pleasant chat. Ronald appeared there, dressed somewhat awkwardly and legs and arms to himself—very unlike how he used to be before Vietnam. Others remarked how pleasant it was seeing him there after a long while. But Ronald was only half-present in those conversations, having to distract his other half of his mind from the rising funk of barbeque grilled in the corners.

“Ah, Ronnie!” greeted his great uncle. “That boy here is no less of a man than what I was back in Germany!” he announced happily to other guests.

“Hey there, uncle…” he greeted.

“Wow! Two prides of the family, in one place!” hailed a voice of one of Ronald’s brothers, approaching the two to stir into the conversation. The noises seemed to rise up, all amongst this drenching smell of burning.

“Ahm, I have to use the bathroom, uncle. Sorry,” Ronald excused himself and promptly zipped inside the house before any conversation got too deep. Accepting other guests, Bert nonetheless trailed his nephew with a concerned glare.

Locking himself in the bathroom, Ronald violently squeezed the tube of toothpaste onto his finger and began to rub it into his nostrils, forcing himself not to invoke the memories provoked by the smell of grill. As he was violently rubbing it, he was getting more frustrated and angry that he couldn’t attend gatherings like that; that he wasn’t normal. All those family members being so cheerful, and here he was—a dysfunctional weirdo who couldn’t remain a  functional part of them, having to attend to this stupid abnormality of his character. 

He became a cripple. And it was this smell that made him like that, that stripped him of all the colors that life could offer. He wanted to pluck off his nose… His eyes were about to release tears.

He spent some extensive time in that bathtub, thinking how he could hide himself into spending more time here, away from those grilling stinks. He would look too suspicious, having to constantly visit the bathroom. But all was worth it to just not go there and inhale this stupid smoke.

Someone knocked on the door, “hey Ronnie. Are you there?” It was Bert.

“Yeah. I am…” he tried to suppress the sobbiness in his voice, “I’m in the middle of something here.”

But his uncle didn’t wait. Bert grabbed something flat that was small enough to act as a key, rammed it into the key cylinder of the door. Twisting it, he welcomed himself into the bathroom, invading what little space his nephew found.

“What the… Hey! I’m-”

“Shush, soldier.” ordered the great uncle at the sight of exposed nephew, his face soaked entirely. He locked the door again.

“Y-y-you can’t just!-”

“Oh, I can. It’s my home, after all. Sit.” he pointed his nephew at the rim of the bathtub, he himself sitting on the closed toilet. “You think I’m not noticing?” he asked rhetorically, after which his face changed from frowned to a more perplexed one. “Boy, I have been through the same thing. You do know that?”

“I guess…” silently agreed Ronald, clueless as to what he was supposed to say.

“So what is it?”

“What do you mean?” Ronald asked, wiping his tears.

“In the backyard… what caused you to feel this way?”

“It was the smoke. The smell of barbeque.”

Bert nodded, “ and what’d you do in the army?”

“I was a flamethrower.”

“I see…” the uncle took a few seconds, thinking into himself.

“When fighting Germans,” he continued after a small sigh, “it wasn’t like how it was for you with those Vietnamese in the jungles. Theirs was a military with actual firepower. So we would be shelled, we would be dropped bombs on our heads, shot with tanks for many days and nights. You’d be chatting with your friends and all of a sudden…” he shook his head. “When I came back home, I wasn’t the same. The fireworks, they would trigger the same thing with me.

On the fourth of July, everyone would go outside, launch those fire cascades in the sky. You know what I’d do?—I’d lock myself up in the basement and put earplugs in, not to hear it. I still could. The vibrations would still go across my skin, and then I was in the trenches again, losing my friends in that dirt… 

The following year, I’d drive off the city into a nearby hotel. This went on like that for three years, I remember. My wife and your granddad, and the rest would go off, enjoy the celebration together. But I’d be missing.

At some point, I became too isolated, and I saw that in other’s faces. I began to cause distress in others from our family. And I thought this couldn’t go on like that.”

“And what’d you do, uncle?”

“I forced myself out there. I’d just go and celebrate with fireworks any time I could. I’d even start showing initiative myself. It was so darn hard, kid!” he sighed heavily and nodded. “It was unbearable at first. But then… the memories wouldn’t go away completely, yeah. But it became easier.

Ronnie… there is no way out of this, boy. You can’t just erase those memories you have.”

“But I want, uncle. I want it badly.” he heaved through his wet face.

“You can’t erase them, boy… But you can mix them with other memories, happier ones. You can’t… ehm… if you let those thoughts be like that, they will be the only thing your mind will tie those senses to.

My point is you can’t just spend your life sheltering, Ronnie, eating that tasteless food there. You’ve got to behave like normal. Unless you start connecting your smells back to normal life, they will always associate with those monstrosities, boy…” he paused, “we’re worried.”

Ronald nodded at this remark, very bitter that there wasn’t an easier way out of this.

“Alright, kid. I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to do this. And the first step is you have to eat. So you go eat what we’ve prepared. You promise that?”

“I will,” he nodded again, tears somewhat retreating.

“I promise, it’ll get easier. Alright, take your time.” Bert stood up and left, allowing Ronald to get on with his thoughts.

When Ronald rejoined with his family outside, everything seemed a little more peaceful even if everyone was seen animated doing the same stuff. Those almost visual memories of the battlefield had left him. He seated himself at one of these tables where a freshly-steamed barbeque was being served. The memories were back.

Nonetheless, he tried to withstand those mental intrusions of the war and took a bite. He took another one. And soon, he was eating the entire plate at a steadfast pace. The thoughts were still there, lingering at the edge of his mind. But there was also this hunger, a hunger one feels when provoked with a well-seasoned food—a hunger he had not felt since very long.

His brother Michael sat himself beside Ronald, “hey, Ron. How has it been?” he tried to probe the ground, aware how fragile his brother had been acting.

“Oh, not much.” He replied. Soon the conversation took a full swing, starting from casual talks about job, then proceeding to other affairs, and then even jokes would start popping up.

“I catch you, Uncle RON!” screamed Katy, his little niece, violently jumping at his back. Michael was about to yell at Katy to not disturb people eating and that she should instead continue playing with other kids.

“Alright, ranger. Now you’ve got me!” but Ronald took up the initiative and started playing tag and wrestling with his niece.

The thoughts were still there, but it suddenly became much easier pushing them behind, and this time Ronald didn’t need to restrain himself to a special diet. Seeing that, Bert and Michael, and some other closer relatives became glad for Ronald as he lost this former burdened look, even if not entirely.

Later, when it had gotten dark, the center of the backyard was cleaned of space, and a set of tightly-arranged fireworks was deployed. Bert and his youngest grandkid (who was only four) came up to it and, in a  comically hurried way, lit up the wick. They then rushed back, also comically, to Bert’s wife and their other grandkids.

The aerial fireworks went off, launching a beautiful cascade of lights with a loud blow above everyone’s heads. “Wow,” thought Ronald when looking at this retired veteran, peacefully contemplating those explosions, while holding his dear ones close to him. This scarred and also traumatized man who had seen action… and so free from those pains…

As everyone was watching with heads raised up, Bert turned his silent smile to Ronald, wanting to check on his troubled kid he knew from diapers age. And Ronald was likewise smiling in return, a tear dropping across his cheek. It was a tear, beaming with hope and at long last knowledge that he wasn’t alone.