Riveting Rosie by Paul A. Toth

"Uh-oh," Al the bartender said. "You again."

"That's some customer service. No wonder you got no business."

"Business would screw up my tax deductions."

"Gimme a shot," Joe said.

"I know the routine. You know, we might get a little busier than normal today."

"That right?"

"The old-timers always show up today."

"What's today?"

"Veteran's Day."

"Big shit."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

Al retrieved a VFW cap from beneath the bar counter and arranged it on his head. "Now what?"

"Should I salute?"

"Show some respect, that's all."

"I made the tanks."

"Rosie the Riveter, huh? While I was overseas getting shot."

Joe finished the drink in one swallow. "Not everybody could go."

"What do you want," Al said, "a blue ribbon? The boys come here not to talk about it. This ain't the History Channel."

Joe grabbed the remote from the bar and switched on the television.

"Bob Barker will never die," Al said.

"Just keep my glass filled."

Joe stared at his drink. He pushed the glass to the side. The door swung open and the sunlight briefly revealed the bar was better left in the dark, a place of ancient history.

"Hey there, Shorty," Al said.

Shorty sat beside Joe. With his plaid jacket, he looked like Andy Capp's twin brother. He took off his VFW cap and set it on the bar.

Joe said, "I know, I know: It's Veteran's Day."

"Where's your hat?"

"He didn't serve," Al said. "Leave him be."

A beer arrived in Shorty's hand. "It's all luck. We can't all be heroes."

"What are you getting at?" Joe said.

"Let's not start anything," Al said.

"Fine with me," Shorty said. "I just wondered what he's all about, that's all."

"I spent half my life feeling bad about that goddamn war," Joe said. "I'm pretty damn sick of it. Not my fault I got stuck with a bad knee."

"Call Hitler," Shorty said. "We didn't start it."

"Yeah, but I've had enough. Enough with the plaudits. It's done, over."

Shorty took a drink of beer. "Over, my ass."

"Greatest generation, my ass."

"Now listen here," Al said.

"Maybe you should leave," said Shorty.

"Shorty's right," Al said, taking Joe's glass and setting it in the sink.

Outside, Joe thought about his time with his coworker at the factory, Rosie (actual name: Jean). She was tough and nobody's pinup girl. Some poor bastard must have been ducking in a trench while Jean was busy on more pleasurable duty. Maybe it was Shorty under a European moon or Al under an Indonesian sun. Whoever it was never even received a "Dear John" letter because Joe and Jean called it quits on Independence Day, feeling guilty as the fireworks hit the sky. Joe headed back inside the bar. When the light fell on Al and Shorty, he felt like an envelope containing a Dear John letter.

"When you boys came back from the war," Joe said, " were your girls still waiting?"

They both nodded.

"That's good. I hope you never asked what they were doing while you were gone. It didn't mean a thing."

"It didn't mean a thing to you," Shorty said, "but it meant something to somebody. Don't forget it."

Joe looked at Shorty. "I'm done trying to forget," he said, pushing away the fresh shot Al had poured. "You guys won the world war with your clean consciences."

"Well, mine's pretty clean," Shorty said.

"I sleep at night," said Al.

"You did your sleeping in advance," Shorty said. "That's why you're not tired now. That's why you can't sleep."

"Maybe I should get a purple heart."

"Nope," Shorty said, "just a black eye."