“I’ve had a wonderful
life,” Andy told me over the phone as I stood hours after our encounter in
front of a CVS several days ago. The circumstances that led to this meeting and
its afterglow is the magic movies produce about two unlikely travelers: George Bailey
and an angel named Clarence.
A strip mall featuring
a drug store with cars whizzing by is not the picturesque setting of a Frank
Capra film, but on this December day, it will have to do. I was taking my long
walk for exercise in my little town of Encinitas—just north of San Diego. I
mention this because my truck was left at home, a good 30 minutes away by foot,
as I briskly passed the front door of the local drugstore.
I spotted an elderly
man leaning against a brick column. He was holding a small bag in his hand and
keeping an eagle eye on the maze that was the parking lot. What made him stand
out to me was his cap. It was a dark blue U.S. Army hat with gold letters that
spelled out WWII, and beneath those poignant letters was a series of colors that
seemed to indicate to me that this man was highly decorated. I walked right
past him—keeping my pace and then suddenly I stopped. Could I walk past a man
like this when it was apparent that he was looking for someone?
I did an about-face and
asked him if I could be of help.
“Well, I’m waiting for
my Lyft,” he said with a
confused look shadowing his face.
“Oh. I see. Well, um,
what kinda car are you looking for, Sir?”
He turned towards me
and said, “Well, I’m not sure.” He wore an oversized winter coat—the puffy type
that seemed to blanket him. Underneath the unzipped coat was his white
tee-shirt tucked into his blue jeans. The ensemble was connected with
suspenders that gripped the pants and seemed to hold this gentleman together.
He remarked, “They should be here by now. So, I am getting concerned,” he said
as he gazed back at the sea of cars.
“Ah, well, do you have
your phone?” I asked.
He smiled and replied, “What
does a 95 year old man need a phone for?” he said with a twinkle in his
eye—really, I am not making this up.
“Well…how did you
call….”
He interrupted me, as
he fished for a yellow card. “Well, see, I call this number here on this card,
and a Lyft driver is
supposed to come and pick me up—that’s the plan, anyway.”
“Oh, okay, well, I can
call the number again if you think they are not coming,” as I take the card
from his hand.
“Oh, that would be
great. Just tell the lady who answers that ‘Andy is still waiting to be picked
up’ okay?”
I dial the number and
the receptionist says something about a retirement home, but it is hard to hear
since a giant delivery truck roars by at that instant. I hit the ‘speaker icon’
so my newfound pal Andy can hear her, too. He speaks into the phone: “Hello.
Hello. Is this Bea? It’s
Andy. They haven’t come yet … my Lyft
person … No … I am at the CVS.”
Confusion ensues and
the woman apologizes and explains that the driver is waiting for us.
“Where?” Andy asks
patiently and politely.
“At the CVS…he is
looking for you. He is in a silver Montero,” she explains. We gaze over the
horizon of jammed cars, but no silver
Montero do we spy. Andy counters, “Well,
we’ll keep lookin.”
I thank the woman and
decide I need to wait with Andy until he is picked up. So, we start a
conversation that would stick with me—a dialogue that would take me back in
time.
“Well, Andy, I see you
were in the Army—your hat says 1941-1945.”
“Yes, yes. I am sure
glad I wore this cap today, that might be why you stopped to help me, I bet.”
“Well, I guess that’s
probably true. I’m a retired teacher and I spent a good amount of time dealing
with WWII.”
“Oh, you heard about the 34th
Infantry Division? We were the group that walked up the boot of Italy from the south of the Anzio beachhead
up to the Alps of Switzerland.”
“No, I didn’t ….”
Andy points to my cell phone.
“Look it up on your computer, you’ll see what I mean.”
I input the information
in a Google search while Andy explains,
“See, I enlisted at 18 and they sent me
to Northern Africa and then we crossed the sea to Italy….” He looked down at my
phone. “Yep, that is it. That was our insignia—the Red Bull…I was a part of
“The March of the Red Bulls.”
“Andy, that is amazing.
My Uncle Pete Buscemi was in the Anzio campaign, too. Did you know him?”
“Hmm. Nope. Doesn’t
ring a bell, but—hey, do you think that this Lyft fella is at the wrong CVS?”
It’s been 10 minutes
since the last call so I redial, get transferred and then get disconnected. By
now, poor Andy has been standing for 20 minutes leaning, stooped over, against
the same column. There are no chairs. “Andy, I’m gonna call again, but let me
find you something to sit on.” I can tell he is fatiguing. I look all around
and enter the store, but not a chair is to be found. When I step back outside,
a woman, dressed as an elf comes down the walkway with an iron chair that she
grabbed from the bakery up the way.
“I saw you two and
thought that this would help,” she says as merrily as any elf would. We thank
her profusely, and I finally reconnect with the receptionist and explain our
predicament.
“The driver is at the
CVS on 456 Encinitas…” I cut her off when I look behind me and realize this
store’s address is 129.
Andy looks at me with
that I told you so attitude. And we respectfully
ask for another driver to come pick Andy up. Now it will be a person in a black
car—that’s all we could make out with all the noise around us.
As we wait…and wait,
another woman named Jenn asks about us because it is apparent something is
wrong and we explain the situation. She hopes our ride comes soon. While we
wait, I introduce myself to Andy and explain that I am Italian. “Do you speak
it?” he asks me. I don’t but Andy does. He also speaks Romanian—and other
romance languages, too. “It was important because I could speak to the people
as we travelled past cities that the Nazis had abandoned. Oh, I could tell you
stories….”
By now Jenn is done
shopping, and we are still out there. She asks where Andy lives, but he is far
from her destination. Apologetically, she explains that she has to get home or
she would drive him. Andy asks if she has a pen, and after fishing through a
purse that held two pens that didn’t work, she finally finds a Sharpie. Andy asks me to write
down my phone number on his yellow card. Jenn exits and I again call Andy’s service.
“Okay, Sir, I am so sorry. The other
driver cancelled so I am calling now for another one. Hold the line, okay.”
It’s been at least 30 minutes, and in all this, time Andy has never once lost
his charm or patience. “The
new driver is 7 minutes away, his name is Pedro and he has a Silverado truck.”
Finally, Pedro pulls
up. I help Andy into the truck which sits high. Andy and I embrace and I look
at Pedro, a strapping young man, and say to him, “Andy is a veteran of WWII. We
sure appreciate the lift.” Pedro nods
and shakes Andy’s hand and looks at me and says, “I’m in the service, too.
You’re in good hands, Sir.” And as they drive off, I feel both relieved and euphoric.
I realize those forty minutes I spent with Andy is what the spirit of the
holidays is all about. But it wasn’t over.
When my phone rang as I
was walking with my wife into Barnes and Noble, I noticed the caller was unknown. I had a feeling…yes, it was Andy.
“Hello, is this Bob?”
And thus began another
long chat with Andy. In the time it took for my wife to investigate the new
books she wished to tackle for the holiday season, Andy told me many stories that
were as fresh to him today as they were 70 years ago. His division was
liberating Rome. He explored the city and came upon the Museum of Romanian
History – the Accademia di
Romania. When
he got there, in the basement of the building hiding in a cluster of forty or
so refugees, he discovered men and women of Romanian descent. When they saw a fully armed soldier, they were frightened.
He quelled their fear by speaking their language. Immediate relief crossed
their faces, and one of the elders turned to him and asked, “Do all Americans
speak Romanian?”
Andy chuckled as he
told the story to me. Of course, he told them no; however, he assured them that the Americans had chased what was
left of the pro-Nazi army out of Rome; they were free to come out from hiding.
Joy spread across their faces, and I could not contain the smile on mine as I
stood next to the section labeled historical
fiction. Here I was listening to a man who made history. I knew at that moment that Andy’s story would be
circling my mind, just waiting for a time when I could land it on my laptop and
send it out to the world.
Andy had other tales to
tell, but he sensed I need to go. I assured him that I would reach out to him
before too long. That’s when he told me that he was grateful for my help and
that he felt he lived a charmed life.
I chimed in that I felt
the same way. I’ve been married to the love of my life for 34 years and taught
high school for 32 years. My adult children make me burst with pride—however,
on a day like today, when I met a living American hero, I felt so proud to be
an American myself.
Andy said one more
thing before we ended our talk: “You know, Bob, I never told you my birthday,
did I? …it’s Christmas Day.”
Of course
it was. It will be his 95th.
And somewhere in the
bookstore, I thought I heard the bells that ring each time angels earn their wings.
Robert Pacilio
Encinitas,
California
Mr.
Pacilio was the San Diego County “Teacher of the Year for 1998 and the author
of several novels.
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