Ten Years After

Hawkeye: If the war is over, meet me under the clock at Grand Central in ten years, we'll go dancing.
B.J.: I lead.
Hawkeye: Then you buy.
(from "Lt. Radar O'Reilly")

--

B.J.'s face breaks out into a smile as he watches Hawkeye approach. "You were true to your word," he says, nodding his head toward the famous four-sided clock he's standing under.

"Has it been ten years already?" Hawkeye says with an impish grin. "Imagine that."

They embrace warmly, laughing, clapping one another on the back. Eventually B.J. holds Hawkeye at arm's length, looking him over. "You're looking well. Ten years older, of course, but well."

"And you don't even look ten years older, you fink. What's the secret to your youthful good looks? Did you make a pact with the devil?"

"Clean living?" B.J. offers with a tilt of his head, and Hawkeye laughs heartily.

"I don't buy that for a second!"

B.J. flings an arm around Hawkeye's shoulders and begins to lead him toward the exit. "C'mon. The deal was, I buy, and then maybe some dancing, huh? What do ya say?"

Hawkeye loops an arm around B.J.'s waist and says, "Sounds like the perfect date," as they walk out onto the streets of New York.

A taxicab blares its horn as it barrels past. B.J. jumps and quickly steps back onto the curb. He blinks a couple of times, getting his bearings. He feels like he's waking from a dream. New York City. That's right, he's on Vanderbilt Avenue in New York City, and Grand Central Station is a block behind him.

Hawkeye? His swipes his sleeve over his eyes, dabbing at a few tears that had formed there.

Hawkeye hadn't shown up after all. Of course. What had he expected?

Grand Central in ten years, that's what. Dining and dancing. That was the promise.

B.J. stares out over the sea of people, hustling and bustling their way up and down the street. All unaware of him, all uninterested in him. He means nothing to any of them. His pain doesn't matter to them.

"Oh, Hawk," he mutters, grabbing hold of a lamppost to steady himself. Suddenly he feels the slightest bit faint. The city sounds are fading and he can hear his own heart pounding. "Shit, Hawkeye. Why?"

B.J. shuts his eyes and waits for the dazed feeling to subside. He can hear people passing him by, he knows nobody's concerned about the guy standing at the curb, holding up the lamppost, looking ill. He doesn't expect any help.

After a few moments, he takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. He knows he needs to get moving. It's not good, hanging out on the street like this, looking lost and pathetic. He glances up and down the street and remembers that his hotel is north of here, so he heads in that direction. Why did he show up, he wonders? What was the point of this little escapade?

He has no answer. He'd known, of course, that Hawkeye wouldn't show. He'd known.

And still he had come here, all the way to New York City, as if he'd expected a different outcome.

He shakes his head and pulls the scrap of paper out of his pocket. The obituary is old—six years old, to be exact—and he's read it so many times he has it memorized. Six years gone by, but it's still impossible to believe. Benjamin Franklin Pierce, beloved son of Daniel Pierce, Korean War veteran…

B.J. stops right there. No point in reading it again. There's no way he can change what it says. He shoves the paper back into his pocket. Blinking back more tears, he strides up Vanderbilt Avenue, passing Grand Central Station once again. This time he doesn't even look at it.