You’re My Friend

In a Veterans Affairs Medical Center (VAMC) somewhere on the East Coast of the United States, I had been staying in a facility at the VAMC for homeless veterans. The program I had to do or either be booted from the hospital grounds where I had been staying was Silver Spoons. It consisted of feeding older veterans meals. I accepted this charge only based on facing the alternative of being out in the cold.

A cherished hour of TV

A man in an electric wheelchair was watching Burn Notice. I came into his presence. With his back to me, I couldn’t make out his face or body. I moved closer.

“Mr. McKinner?” I asked with a bit of trepidation.

A left hand with only two fingers remaining operated the wheelchair. Mr. McKinner, a black man in his late seventies, turned his chair around to face me. He had sustained severe burns and other injuries from an explosion that took place after his stint in the United States Army. Patches of skin looked like tiny rivers of flesh. He had only one arm. All of these injuries resulted from a blast at a plant that killed his co-worker. He wore a hat that read, “Army Strong.” Behind him sat a portrait of his beautiful wife and adult daughters.

“Let me get a good look at you….” he said.

I moved closer. “Hi, I’m Sky. I’m here to give you your lunch.”

“Oh, okay.”

I found a table, and cleared it of a dirty cup, which I placed on an adjacent window sill.

Pizza time

I cut up his food, which consisted of a slice of pepperoni pizza. I made sure each sliver was bite sized enough to fit in his deformed mouth.

He chewed the food. I had just completed my first day as a Silver Spoons veteran. As I departed the Community Living Center, a sort of nursing home for vets, I got a text message asking if I was done. I responded yes, and then I learned more about Mr. McKinner. He had been awarded a million dollars for his injuries. The catch? He’d had to go through multiple expensive surgeries that ate up most if not all of that money.

Serving up a burger

I returned to his room the next day. This time he had ordered a cheeseburger. I cut up the meat and removed the pieces of bread. Again, Burn Notice was playing on the television suspended to the ceiling. He turned around and saw me with the plate of food already chopped up. I offered him some soda to wash down the victuals. We repeated the ritual of my prior visits. This time I sat down and watched the ex-spy action show with him. I watched him finish his meal, and I left.

On the occasion of our third meeting, I arrived to find him sleeping, and the TV off. I walked up to a nurse.

“Is Mr. McKinner eating today?” I asked her.

The pretty little thing answered with a smile.

“Not right now, but you can come back during dinner. He’ll probably be hungry by then,” she said.

“Okay. Thank you.”

A few hours passed and I returned to Mr. McKinner. I turned the corner in the nursing home and found him awake and watching his favorite TV show. His meal this evening: baked chicken.

The retired sergeant major still commands respect

I chopped up the pieces of cooked poultry, and carefully placed them in the fellow veteran’s mouth. He chewed with the few teeth that remained. As he’s done during my prior visits, he spoke to me only to tell me if the food was too hot. We did not converse. The only time he told me something was to say if the food was too hot. I waited a few moments and then resumed feeding the retired Army sergeant major. I watched the show once more. As I stood there, I noticed he was always rapt with this show.

Enough room for chicken

“You know I used to watch this back in Delaware?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Oh, yes?”

“That’s right. I’ve got to go, now.”

And then he stunned me. He said, “You’re my friend.”

“You’re my friend, too,” I said.

There I was, a retired Marine veteran, essentially being forced by the Veterans Affairs to do this program or I’d be homeless and I picked up a buddy who was in the Army? It just felt weird. With Mr. McKinner in the condition he was in, making the most of life, ordering whatever food he wanted and watching the show he loved, and me being rationally selfish, I still found the arrangement satisfying. I saw it as a trade. I reaped the spiritual benefits of helping an honest man who had caught a truly bad break in life. I walked past his wife and three daughters. All of them had smiles on their faces when they saw Mr. McKinner. I didn’t say a word to them. I kept it moving.

What happened still stirs me, as I think about the might of the human condition, and how friendship can arise from curious circumstances.