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This memoir is unpublished. It tells the story of how my curiosity about a homeless man led me to friendship but also mystery.
POTENTIAL BOOK JACKET TEASER
Lee peels open a humidity-warped paperback written by a former Navy SEAL named Miller. He points to the last photo, a grainy, black-and-white insert, and says, “That’s the picture I was telling you about. Me, in ambush position.”
We’re parked on a bench along Cortez Road, and I edge closer. Finally, some proof of Lee’s military exploits. The picture is a small close-up of a young man with a headband and camouflage face paint. I squint at Lee, then at the picture. It’s possible, but hard to tell. Then I read the caption: “Me, in ambush position, during SEAL training at Niland, California, April 1968.”
Me. In ambush position.
I turn again to Lee, his thin gray beard stretched over round, scorched cheeks. Flies circle and touch down on his face. He doesn’t bother to swat them away.
“But Lee,” I start gingerly, “when it says, ‘me,’ doesn’t that mean ‘me,’ as in the author? Isn’t that Miller?”
He reaches over and stabs the picture with his long, nicotine-yellow fingernail. In a voice suddenly more forceful, a crystalline scream piercing the roar of traffic, he says, “That’s me!”
POTENTIAL BOOK JACKET TEASER
Lee peels open a humidity-warped paperback written by a former Navy SEAL named Miller. He points to the last photo, a grainy, black-and-white insert, and says, “That’s the picture I was telling you about. Me, in ambush position.”
We’re parked on a bench along Cortez Road, and I edge closer. Finally, some proof of Lee’s military exploits. The picture is a small close-up of a young man with a headband and camouflage face paint. I squint at Lee, then at the picture. It’s possible, but hard to tell. Then I read the caption: “Me, in ambush position, during SEAL training at Niland, California, April 1968.”
Me. In ambush position.
I turn again to Lee, his thin gray beard stretched over round, scorched cheeks. Flies circle and touch down on his face. He doesn’t bother to swat them away.
“But Lee,” I start gingerly, “when it says, ‘me,’ doesn’t that mean ‘me,’ as in the author? Isn’t that Miller?”
He reaches over and stabs the picture with his long, nicotine-yellow fingernail. In a voice suddenly more forceful, a crystalline scream piercing the roar of traffic, he says, “That’s me!”
