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Saturday, October 28, 2006

The Corvette Guy



When I first ambled in to this Westside Residence Hall we homeless vets lovingly call “Backside”, I saw a balding, well-groomed vet sitting on the outside benches and he looked different from the usual raggedy-pants, disheveled, scruffy vets I was seeing everywhere else at the dorm, so I decided he might be a good person to give me the straight scoop on this new place that I was trying to fit in to.

I asked him a few simple questions and he growled, “Whaddya, writing a fuckin’ book?”


Okay, I thought as I slunk away, must be one of those PTSD guys I’ve been hearing about.


Over the next few months, the only information I could gather on him was that he was “The Corvette Guy.” He owned an immaculate Corvette with a spotless engine. You could eat breakfast off his manifolds. I mean spotless.


It wasn’t until I moved up to G.P. that Wayne would finally talk to me. He has a point. Most V.I.P.s aren’t worth the effort of getting to know, not in the V.I.P. larvae stage anyway.


Wayne is a Vietnam vet who stepped on a land mine and lost his leg. I never knew he was missing a leg until I overheard a conversation he was having with another old timer here, Uncle Miltie. Wayne’s prosthetic leg must fit well. It’s seamless.


Wayne was a private investigator for 20 years after his service and then used his ten point preference to get an F.B.I. job, even though he only has a nineth grade education.

Wayne’s heart attack ended his F.B.I. career and now Wayne is an 80% veteran, soon to be 100%. If he gets bumped up to a 100% disability rating, that’ll be worth about $150,000.00 in back pay and about $2500.00 a month.


It’s WAY past time for me to get up off my duff and hire an attorney to sue the V.A. I need my 10% bumped up to 50%. Wayne is clueing me in on where to get the attorney.

Damn! I’ll STILL have to work another 16 years til retirement. I don’t know if I can make it. I’m tired of working. Sixteen more years of guarding couches. Lord, Lord, lift this burden from me.

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