I'll get blown up by a terrorist bomb over there. If Momever knew how Terry and I made our dreams happen inthe past sheTd understand my urgent persistance.Urgently persistant " thatTs how I feel hearing thisnews correspondent reporting from Weisbaden, WestGermany. According to this factual explanation there wasa mild malfunction during a routine training mission orfield exercise or whatever. Anyhow, itTs nothing big ornuclear. The engine exploded. There is nothing seriousThree dead, three dead thenewsman so matter-of factly said.Terry S there,about it except the loss of American lives. Three soldiersare dead. Three dead, three dead the newsman so matter-of-factly said. TerryTs there. WhoTs dead? I havenTt seenTerry for eight months. The names, mister newsman, giveme the names. Who are the dead or dying? But theynever reveal the names.The newsmen keep the names locked in closets so wewon't feel so bad, so it wonTt matter, or so those closestto the deceased won't find out by accident, but should betold in the proper manner by an old, wise man in a drab,spotless suit of black. When he comes to the door, hetakes off his hat, and thatTs that. Such false formality. Sothose news reporters, thinking theyTre merely stating thefacts, take such pride in their informative words, whenthey're actually leaving out the most important part, whatreally matters. The name and identity of the dead are keptanonymously, ritualistically secret.he radio spits and crackles and | hiss back at it. |mash down the small rectangular button atop thenews-sputtering box and the newsman is gone. Ifonly I hadnTt set that dumb alarm clock. Then | mightnever have thought of Terry P. being over there withthose Pershing IlTs that blew. | would have never known.But I must know the names. So what if the missilesweren't fully loaded and it was a come-with-the-territorykind of mishap. Three men are dead. Young men? Bravemen? Happy men? Stupid men? Who are they and why dothey die unknown or unrecognized? Why does it matter?Because of Terry? Not just him, it could be anyone andyou probably wonTt care, but | wish you would.I grab my faded Levi's from the floor where ITd leftthem the night before. Hopping on one foot, | manage todance my way into one pant leg. Then | sit on the edge ofthe bed and slide the other leg in. | pull on my lavenderE.C.d. sweatshirt, disregarding the spaghetti sauce stainthat blots out the C. Nobody | know is going to see me. |force my feet into my Etonic running shoes withoutuntying the laces. | pick up one glove from beside thebowl with the empty grapefruit shell in it. | search for itTspartner which has somehow crawled underneath the desk.On the way to the door | snatch my tattered hat whichmatches the gloves.As I wait for the elevator, I pace in front of the mirrorwhich is appropriately located so you can make a lastminute self-inspection before confronting the outside world.I push the elevator button for the fourth time as if eachpush will give the machine a little extra burst of energyon which it will hurry itself to the fifth floor. There is ahowling wind in the elevator shaft. I hear it as I wait,repeating to myself over and over, ~~There are thousandsof soldiers in Weisbaden.TT Reassurance is so false.The dull metal door finally thuds open and | scuffle intothe square box that smells of cigarettes and beer. 4, 3, 2,1. | watch the circles impatiently as they light upsignalling the systematic descent.I finally reach ground level, the door slides back, and |leave the elevator. | push open the dorm-front glass doorand the winter wind whistles its greeting. | praise myselffor remembering my hat and gloves (Grandma can resteasy that I won't catch cold).Once outside I look through the dirty plastic-glass of thearmy-green metal newspaper box to see if todays DailyReflector is there yet. The newspaper machine thatswallows quarters and opens its wide mouth to stick out ablack and white tongue that spouts the dayTs fate is of nouse this day. The paper in the little window hasyesterdayTs date. The stories probably arenTt muchdifferent, but the names are. News is full of changingnames.erry is over there in Germany where death isdeployed. Three dead. Three is usually such a nicenumber. ITve always liked threes. Father, Son, andHoly Ghost and all. My best friend in fourth grade, Susan,her favorite number was three. My favorite was luckyseven. | hope you're that lucky, Terry.I begin to walk, not really knowing where " aparatactical walk. As I walk, | notice all the details,thinking real life could very well be a story full of piecesof glory. The sun shines bright and clear, casting shadowsfrom signs of bars like Pantana BobTs on the red brickbuilding of the East Carolina School of Bartending as |journey downtown. Shattered glass crunches under myfoot and I look down at the gritty gray asphalt. The baseof a wine or sherry glass, with its unbroken stem curvingbeautifully, gleaming as a ray of sunlight shoots throughits circular core, catches my eye. How fragile parts canremain intact amidst the crushing blows of an obliviousworld is beyond me. Metal cans canTt withstand thepounding pressure, but become flattened slabs ofabandoned names " Budweiser, in patriotic red, whiteand blue, or the bright red of an aluminum Coca-Cola.Walking along | ponder. ITm TerryTs friend, so close tohim that I feel him screaming to me from across theocean. Dead or alive, heTs there and here too, in my heart,or in my soul, as | go along uptown at 9:00 on a Saturdaymorning in January, 1985. Do I know why?ItTs too early so everything is closed and peaceful. ITmme in this little city, going nowhere and somewhere. You'llsee. | see no news-stand nearby from which to buy mynewspaper, but perhaps ITm just avoiding the issue, notee