I'm dead, but no one notices. Life goes on as usual. Taxis still drive by my corner, taking busy people through their busy days. Life didn't used to be this way; it used to be slower, simpler. I'm dead, and the only one who knows is the man who killed me for half a Philly Cheese. It's not until the Park Ranger, Dan his nametag says, finds me in the tunnel. Hours go by until anyone else comes back. They see me clinging to my pack and I can see it in their faces; the disgust and pity all at once. I'm put in a bag, but separated from the only bag I needed. I watch as they throw my pack on a desk waiting to be processed in the evidence den. The woman processing the pack started to read my letters.

"How dare she?!" I thought to myself, "Those are personal!"

But she kept on reading. She read them all. I could see tears, anger, and pain welled up in her eyes as she followed my story.

"Jim dear, be a doll and wear your suit tonight"
"Anything for you darling." I responded.

The year is 1940 in Ainsworth, Iowa and I'm headed off to my engagement party. I was going to marry the sweetest, most beautiful girl in town. All them other guys either hated me or wanted to be me. How I caught this one no one knew, but she chose me. Lucy was the finest in every crowd, the kindest in every situation, and had the most adorable laugh. She was head cheerleader and prom queen in high school, the kind everyone expects to date and marry the captain of the football team. But, she chose the band geek who played sax.

Clink, clink, clink.
"May I have everyone's attention? Here's a toast to the best looking couple in tow--"

"WAR!"

My brother Jeremy couldn't even get a full sentence in before every eye turned to the back of the room.

"WAR! We're going to war."

From that moment on, everything changed. The wedding was postponed, in fact, it never happened. All us good ole boys signed up to defend the U S of A over in the Pacific.

We wrote all the time, Lucy and I. It was easy to be apart at first. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, right? She sent photos and mementos for me to keep in battle. While the rest of the squadron was out canoodling with the island girls, I stayed at camp reading, and rereading all of Lucy's letters. I tried to censor the gory details of war and only focus on what we would do when I came back home. She was my rock you see. She was the reason I kept on fighting day after day.

But then, I stopped getting letters. I assumed she had fallen ill and couldn't write so I kept on sending mine; updating her on the happenings and telling her how much I missed her. On the day I was discharged I received a letter that was being held for me as I made the transition. Tearing open the letter I could feel that something was wrong. When I read it, I knew. Lucy gave up. She eloped with some foreigner and they were travelling the world. This broke me. All the things of war had been hell, but she was the only thing keeping me sane. And now, she was gone. All the memories of the dead bodies, burning villages, it all came flooding in. There was no more Lucy for me to focus my thoughts on anymore. The wall I built to keep the war out fell. I started to get nightmares, PTSD they call it now. The war between my emotions and memories was worse than the one I had fought in Nam.

When I finally got off the boat back home there were no rallies or family members waiting to greet me. I was met with riots, not rallies; angry protestors, not happy family and friends. No one came, and no one came for weeks or years after that.  I heard about the Veteran's aid offices in New York City and decided to catch a train. When I went to register they said I needed a permanent address for the letters and money to be sent to, but I didn't have one. I worked for weeks on arranging ways to get help, but none came. I spent my time in the bars, making friends with the bartenders and local drunks. Liquor was the only way of numbing the pain inside.  

The nightmares still raged inside my head. My heart was broken from losing the love of my life. I had no way of contacting my family or friends. A hit on the head over in Nam left me unable to recall certain facts or memories like phone numbers and old addresses. From then on the only friends I had were my old army buddies that I saw in the bars. I found odd jobs here and there, but no one wanted a veteran. We had too many mental problems you see. I served my country dutifully, but they didn't see that. To them I was a mental case who needed a good shower. So I spent the next thirty five years doing the only thing I could; pan handling.

At least there, on my corner of Adams Street and Fulton, I could find pity from my fellow men. Through the years I've scrounged up different cardboard pieces, but they've all said the same thing; "I served so you could be free. Help." Sometimes it worked, but over time people stopped giving and eventually I barely made ten dollars a week. Central Park became my home. I found a nice corner near a grove where almost no one ever ran through so I wouldn't bother anyone.

I could smell the mix of cheese and meat from the local food carts every day, but never one this close to my grove. I walked along the path to the center of the park until I found the source of my salvation. Half of a Philly Cheese Steak sandwich was resting atop a jumble of mangled trash and old water bottles. I hadn't eaten for days and this was my saving grace. I bit into it, the cheese still mildly warm. "Lord bless the fool who threw away this beautiful creation." I thought to myself.

Just then I felt a whack over the head. As I fell to my knees I saw a man, torn clothes and skinny just like me, grab the bread from my hands and run. I recognized him as he sprinted away. I'd seen him in the park before; he was homeless too. My vision blurred, but I made my way back to the grove somehow. I found my pack and clung to it, hoping that when I woke up I would be able to see again. I never woke up.

She was crying now, it was obvious. She held Lucy's letters, the notice from the Veteran's Aid office, an old beer bottle, and the wrapper of that damned sandwich. The life of that old man on Adams Street and Fulton had finally been told.