Life's Awful Short

Words by Chris Doty-Dunn

Art by Sean Bw Parker

While Benny Goodman’s clarinet tickles everyone’s feet in the Stage Door Canteen, I see him. Through the smoke swirling under low ceilings, he’s standing on the stairs: a vision from a recruitment poster, his hair clean-cut, uniform pressed, jaw chiseled, and—

I freeze, half-hidden behind an ice sculpture of a dancing wedding couple (donated by the Waldorf “for our boys”, though rumor was some sap got stood up at the altar). I duck, holding the crate of cola bottles I'm hauling from the cold room tight to my chest, using these jinky lovers as cover like I'm on the beach in Normandy.

I take a deep breath before storming through the crowd of dancing enlisted boys and hostessees to drop it off behind the refreshments counter—

“Hey, ow! That's my foot, Jimmy!” 

—and slip into the back with a quick apology.

I find an empty side room the hostesses use when they need a break. The folding chair I collapse onto squeaks as I hang my head and arms over the back and get started on feeling sorry for myself.

Of all the U.S.O. canteens around the whole blasted world, he walks into mine? I’d managed to forget about him—most of the time, anyway. Except when something slams that cold block of shame into my chest and reminds me of him. Or when a soldier comes in that’s his height or has blond hair like his or his shoulders or smile, then I—

There’s a knock I barely hear over Benny’s distant swing.

I sit up. “Sorry, hon, I—”

But it’s not a hostess. It’s him and he’s leaning on the doorframe and the room’s a sauna.

“Hey, Jimmy.” His voice is smooth through his smile. The shame over what we did—what I want to do again—starts to crack.

“Sargeant,” I croak, my throat parched. I nod at the chevrons on his sleeve. “Congrats on the promotion. Musta done swell over there.”

“Did what I could. Got injured pretty bad—” he pats his left hip “—but I'm cleared now.” His eyes settle on a poster from the O.W.I. that says LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS. “Heading to France tomorrow to back up the boys already there.”

“Well, give ’em hell." I'm surprised I don’t pass out from the heat when I stand. “I gotta get back to work, and you’re not—”

He takes a step and his face is inches away. He’s looking down at me, eyes searching mine with the corner of his mouth upturned, the smell of familiar cologne like gasoline on the fire between us. “Care to dance?”

I stumble away and knock over a crate, spilling empty bottles across the floor. My heart pounds like we’ve been caught even as the shards of ice in my chest melt. “Joe, we—”

He grabs my wrist and raises my arm, slips his other hand around my waist and pulls me so close I can feel the buttons of his coat through my apron.

On cue, Benny and his band start playing “If I Had You”, the first song we danced to in the summer of ’42, in the sweaty wings of the empty Shubert after By Jupiter’s opening night.

My head finds his shoulder and I let him sway with me now that the shame’s cracked and melted and boiled away to steam.

“I learned a lot over there.” His voice is a warm caress on my ear. “About taking risks and what's worth fighting for. How life’s awful short.”

Someone coughs, a bucket of cold water on our fire. I push Joe away and fight to keep the shame from freezing on my face.

“No enlisted allowed back here, Jimmy,” Mags, one of the hostesses, says from the doorway. “’Specially not ones you're doin’ fruity little dances with.”

“Sorry, Mags, I—”

“Nothing fruity here, hon,” Joe says. “I’ve been stateside recovering and haven’t danced for ages.” He chuckles and pats his hip again. “Didn’t wanna ask one of the girls till I was sure I could, and Jimmy—pal from way back—well, he offered to give me a confidence boost.”

“Aw, you don't have to be so shy that you're dancing with a fella!” She pouts as she holds out her hand. “C’mon, we'll take it easy on ya!”

He gives her a wink and says, “One sec, sweetheart,” while he pulls cigarettes and a pencil out of his uniform. He tears a strip of paper off the pack and scribbles on it before tucking it into my hand.

His eyes are sad when he smiles at me, full of things I wish he’d say. And then Mags is pulling him away and he turns and I just see that upturned corner of his mouth. And then he’s gone and the room’s freezing cold.

I look at the slip of paper. His serial number and regiment.

The thought of writing him—of some postal censor reading the words I might send him, or him me—makes me shiver.

I toss the paper in the trash can as I stoop to reload the crate I spilled. I haul the empty bottles back to the cold room, taking my time, rearranging things so I don't run into Joe again.

When I get back out front, Benny’s playing “We’ll Meet Again” and the dancing couple in ice is barely a lump in the heat of the evening—no cover at all now that it’s melted down.

Their life was awful short. Just like Joe said.

The block of shame in my chest warms a degree as a drop of water falls from the groom’s face.

I blow on my hands and rub them together as I jog back to the break room, cheeks rosy, and fish Joe’s address out of the trash. I close my fist around it and shove my hand in my pocket.

I'm not sure I can write him; my hands are so stiff from the cold.

But the paper’s a tiny ember of warmth all the same.

About the author

Chris Doty-Dunn writes weird, speculative fiction, often with a queer bent. He holds a PhD in linguistics and aspires to learn all the languages. He lives outside Boston, MA with his husband and their two dogs, Weland and Waffles. Find him on Bluesky at @chrisdotydunn.com. 

About the author

Sean Bw Parker (MA) is an artist, writer and musician specializing in painting, poetry, cultural theory, and the media-justice system. After gaining a Masters degree in Fine Art from the University for the Creative Arts in 2003, he lived and worked in Istanbul for ten years, has published a number of books and albums, performed at curated festivals, given a TED talk, and had paintings displayed at London’s South Bank Centre and New York's Times Square. He has received endorsements from Nick Cave, Ricky Gervais, Scott Adams, Alain de Botton and Kristin Hersh, and his 11th book Panopticon (poems) was published through Close To The Bone Publishing in 2025. He was born in Exeter in 1975 and currently lives on the West Sussex coast.