The Reunion
Short story by Michael Braswell | May 2025

Sammy’s Rib Shack and Resort—that’s what the dented flickering red neon sign said next to the graveled dirt road in front of Sammy’s barbeque joint. The building was a mixed bag, the original part an old town shanty and the new edition, a log cabin of sorts. On Saturday nights the parking lot was full. Ford, Chevy and Dodge pick-ups that had seen better days found their perch next to a Mercedes here and a BMW there, along with a mix of Lexus and Cadillac sedans and SUVs. Ever since the Rib Shack had made the Garden and Gun’s top five southern barbeque eateries, the weekend clientele had moved up a notch or two. The well-heeled Charlotte, Raleigh and Asheville crowd traveled the interstate and backroads to get a taste of Sammy’s legendary smoked ribs, sauced or dry-rubbed. That and taking selfies in front of Sammy’s bigger-than-life telltale sign.

Inside, a sawdust floor and a pantheon of aromas greeted customers. Along with baby back and beef ribs, smoked pulled pork, beef brisket, chicken, and thick-cut skillet fried potatoes the menu also included vinegar-based coleslaw, slow-cooked pinto and black beans and Brunswick stew. The unlikely star on the chalkboard was M.L.’s hushpuppies, a mix of cornmeal, chopped onions, peppers, and sweet pickles deep-fried into a greasy, golden brown crunch the size of a cat’s head biscuit. Some of the regulars were known to order a basket or two to munch on while they downed their happy hour dollar PBRs. Mutt LeDoux, the manager, kept a Louisville Slugger next to the cash register for the late-night brouhahas though rare, that did occur from time to time between locals who had imbibed too much beer and whiskey, and took offense at real or imagined insults from city folks.

Out back near the smokehouse, four middle-aged men sat around a fire pit. A well-seasoned boom box belted out cassette tape classics of their time together—“Fortunate Son” by Creedence Clearwater, The Animal’s “We Gotta Get Out of this Place” along with some Otis Redding, Aretha and Smokey Robinson. And to keep Wiley and Big Bob happy, Bobby Bare’s “Detroit City” and Porter Waggoner singing “The Green, Green Grass of Home” rounded out the playlist.

Wiley Longfellow stretched his legs from the log he was sitting on, warming his feet near the flaming embers. Wiley was short and wiry, a long-haul truck driver out of Atlanta or “Hotlanta” as he liked to call it. Divorced twice, he no longer drank whiskey, instead sticking to sweet tea. He liked to say, “Me and whisky’s mighty risky.” One or two drinks and he was up for a fight, usually with someone twice his size that never ended well.

Tall and tan, Townsend Pickens—Towns to his friends, sat in a camp chair and sipped single malt scotch. A lawyer like his father before him, he didn’t practice much these days, preferring to oversee the businesses his family had acquired in Charleston. After an overextended courtship, Eleanor “Ellie” Ratliff finally read him the riot act. Six months later they were married on her mother’s close friend’s plantation.

An aluminum chair creaked under the shifting weight of “Big Bob” Purvis as he leaned over to pull another PBR from the ice chest. Bob was his God-given name, but he had been “Big Bob” since he was twelve, towering two heads above all the other boys. Folks in Funston still talked about the time when two-hundred-pound Big Bob played midget league football. He was quite a sight, plodding toward the opponent’s goal line with the football and four or five of the other team’s players hanging on him like flies on potato salad at a covered dish church picnic. Big Bob was easy going unless someone pushed him too far. His metal roofing business had kept him, Myrtle and their three kids in good stead.

Finally, there was the host, Sam Brown, creator and owner of Sammy’s Rib Shack and Resort, the youngest of Midi Lee’s twelve children. Hard working, and a natural salesman, he was also good with figures. An ordained minister, he filled the pulpit from time to time at the Ebenezer Baptist Church. After the war, he took care of his Momma and her three youngest, baptizing two of them in Tallahatchee Creek. Sam was fond of saying on occasion, “Corinne and Esther are now members of the “heavenly choir,” but Ezra’s still playing in the Devil’s band.” Twice engaged, he had never married.

Four middle-aged men from different walks of life sat around the fire pit—three white and one black-- brothers of a sort, born and raised together in one mother of a war in a corner of southeast Asia.

Each year since the war ended, they met and reminisced, ever mindful of their brother who was not there, represented by an empty metal folding chair spray painted with the letters JT.

Big Bob raised his bottle of beer. “To J.T.”

The other three raised their glasses and echoed, “To J.T.”

The men sat in silence for a spell, watching the fire pop and crackle the language of remembering.

Wiley poked at an ember with a stick. “J.T. saved my ass more than once. One time when we were on patrol in the Quang Tri province and again during the Tet offensive. A Viet Cong sniper caught me in the side. More blood than real damage. Next thing I knew, there was J.T. flipping me over his shoulder—hell, I was bigger than he was—and carrying me out of harm’s way. Then he made his way back to the firefight and took out the sniper for good measure.”

Big Bob finished his beer and reached for another PBR. “That boy had some kind of sixth sense when it came to snipers. It was like he had Xray vision. None of the rest of us could see anything, but he could.”

“Sixth sense is about right,” Towns replied, pouring himself another Scotch. “When it came to war and combat, J.T. had a sixth sense about everything.”

Wiley refilled his glass of tea. “He was like a mother hen and we were his chicks.”

Sam opened a bottle of bourbon and poured two fingers of whiskey into his coffee cup.

“Sammy, I figured you were done with whiskey, you being a Reverend and all,” Wiley grinned.

Taking a sip, Sam smacked his lips. “Wiley, old buddy, I only drink whiskey once a year when we get together. We drank a lot of it in ‘Nam . . . and we smoked a lot of weed. I don’t smoke weed, but I will drink a bit of bourbon in remembrance. Also, because when our reunion time is over and we go our separate ways, I tend to get a bad case of the night sweats.”

Wiley nodded and gave his friend a salute of understanding.

Towns got up and threw another log on the fire. He looked at his brothers in arms.

“J.T. saved us, but he couldn’t save himself.”

“Even worse, he couldn’t save himself from himself,” Sam interjected, shaking his head.

“I remember how he began to change. Most of us did what we had to do, but we also tried to stay alive. After Tet, J.T. started volunteering to be point on patrols, putting himself in the line of fire when he didn’t have to.”

Big Bob shifted in his chair. “We were always tired and on edge. I don’t think I ever had a good night’s sleep the whole time I was there. I can remember waking up one night after a bad dream and there was J.T. sitting by the fire cleaning his weapon and sharpening the hunting knife he carried. He looked at me and winked.”

Towns reached for his bottle of Scotch. “I remember the change. We would all be sweating patrol and J.T. would be in the lead, calm as a cucumber . . . sometimes even smiling or at least, it looked like he was to me.”

Sam lit his pipe. “Fellas, after the war, I’ve prayed for J.T and the rest of you bozos as well. Even though I don’t clearly understand it, Brother J.T. crossed some sort of line. He seemed to me to have a kind of gleam in his eye . . . like he was going hunting . . . like he was keeping score of his kills.”

The men grew quiet again.

Wiley folded his hands and stared at the fire. “When we shipped out from Danang, he reupped. It didn’t make sense. It was toward the end of our tour and the writing was on the wall. Most folks were trying to keep their head down and survive. Hell, those boys in Troop B—the entire company refused to carry out the operation they were ordered to do.”

“Search and destroy became search and avoid,” Big Bob mumbled.

Towns looked out toward the woods. “Lots of drugs—weed and heroin . . . and booze were going down. You could smell defeat behind all Westmoreland’s and McNamara’s lying bullshit about casualties and how we were winning. And those poor spit and polish lieutenants fresh out of ROTC and West Point . . . if they didn’t have a good sergeant or if they didn’t listen to him, they weren’t long for this world.”

Popping the top off another beer, Big Bob took a long draw. “Yep. For awhile near the end, there seemed to be a “fragging” almost every week or else a lieutenant missing in action. The smart ones listened and learned.”

“And lived,” Wiley replied.

Towns lit a cigar. “In spite all of that. In spite of everything going to hell in a handbasket. When we said our goodbyes, no matter what we said or promised or how hard we tried to talk him out of it, J.T. still reupped.”

“I hate to say it, but maybe it was for the best,” Sam said. “After our brother went through the change, I’ve thought more than once that he wouldn’t have made it in the world we returned to.”

“A lot of folks don’t,” Towns replied. “I’ve been doing some pro bono work down at the prison for veterans. There’s a dozen or more doing time for something that was okay to do in ‘Nam. Everybody was smoking weed or hashish. No problem there, but here first-time offenders are getting a year for each joint they are caught with. The prison counselor and Warden say they don’t belong in prison, but the local battle axe of a judge and the politicians running for re-election don’t agree.”

Big Bob finished off his fourth PBR and spit into the fire. “Welcome home soldiers and thank you for your service.”

“That’s right. Welcome, home,” Sam echoed. “Course I doubt J.T. would have fit in prison either. Bad enough the reception we got from some folks when we returned home.”

Wiley stared at the fire. “Yeah, the world we returned to was something else. I still remember being called “Baby Killer.” When I walked off the plane some long-haired hippy of a girl with flowers in her hair, holding a peace sign, spit in my face. You may be right, Sammy, about J.T. not being able to fit in. Can you imagine what he would have done to her?”

Sam chuckled at the thought of it. “She’d a been wearing that sign in a place where the sun don’t shine. Then again, maybe that makes my point. How in the world would J.T. have been able to adjust to what we came back to?”

Big Bob leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees. “I know you’re probably right, but I sure do miss him. And I wish he had come with us.”

 Sam looked at the night sky. “Amen to that, Big Bob.”

 And they all said together, “Amen to that.”