Hash and Honor

Cormac liked to think he’d had breakfast just about everywhere it could be had.

Plastic trays in Panama, where the eggs were always overcooked and the coffee tasted faintly of diesel. A chipped porcelain bowl of rice and fish soup in Korea at four in the morning, steam fogging the windows while the cook chain-smoked and never once smiled. Powdered eggs in West Germany that came out gray no matter what you did to them, eaten standing up, boots still on, everyone quiet for reasons no one said out loud.

All of them fed you. Some even warmed you. But none of them quite matched a plate of hash and eggs at Burger and Breakfast Bar on Volunteer Parkway in Bristol, Tennessee, in May—when the doors were propped open and the air moved through the place teasing napkins and surfing paper placemats.

Cormac sat alone in a booth by the window, mopping the last of a soft yellow yolk with wheat toast. The hash was crisped just enough to fight back a little, the way he liked it. Coffee steamed up from a thick white mug, bitter and clean. Bacon grease and toast hung in the air, threaded with the faint sweetness of pancake syrup from somewhere down the counter.

The waitress—Linda, according to the name stitched crookedly over her pocket—had refilled his mug twice without asking and once with a nod that said yes, it is good and hot.

He realized, halfway through the toast, he was smiling.

It had been happening more lately. Catching himself at it. At stoplights. In the grocery store aisle. Once in the warehouse, standing alone with the lights half on. Something heavy had slipped off him over the winter. There had not been an exact day it happened—it had been a few moments—but, now, the weight was gone and smiles seem to come for no reason.

But this morning was different.

This morning, he knew exactly why.

The painting was the reason.

It sat wrapped in a towel on the passenger seat of his truck outside, leaned carefully against the door. He’d bought it an hour earlier at the Tri-Cities Flea Market—twelve dollars cash from a man who’d shrugged like he couldn’t believe anyone wanted it. A small oil, maybe mid-century. A river cutting through trees beneath a sky that didn’t quite make sense. The frame was wrong. The paint cracked in places. But there was something in it that had reached out and caught him, like a hand on his sleeve.

He’d sat in the truck afterward, engine ticking softly as it cooled, tilting the painting toward the light. Getting a closer look. Thinking how it would hang in the warehouse.

Cormac dragged the last corner of toast through the plate and slid the fork aside.

That was when the noise started.

Not a crash. Not a scream. Just a voice, loud and brash enough to cut through the scrape of silverware and the low hum of conversation.

“You weren’t in the Army!”

The diner went quiet in that public-place way—forks paused midair, coffee cups hovering, everyone pretending not to listen and failing.

Cormac didn’t turn right away. He caught it all in the reflection of the window glass: a kid near the counter in a surplus jacket that didn’t quite fit, chest puffed beneath a scatter of medals that made no sense together. Early twenties, maybe. Standing like he’d learned it from pictures.

And the other man—mid-forties, broad, sunburned, already rocking forward on the balls of his feet. A man whose anger never really cooled; been warming itself all morning, waiting.

Cormac took one last swallow of coffee, set the mug down, and stood.

“Take it outside,” he said. Not loud. Not angry. Flat.

“Away from the civilians.”

The last word landed.

Both men looked at him before they realized they had. Cormac met their eyes briefly, then nodded toward the door like procedure, not debate.

As they hesitated, he reached back into the booth, slid two tens under the edge of the plate, and nudged them into place with two fingers. Linda saw it—really saw it—and gave a small nod before setting the coffeepot down like something fragile had just been handed off.

The angry man swore under his breath and turned. The kid hesitated, then followed, medals clinking softly with each step. Chairs scraped. Someone muttered, “Jesus.”

Outside, May had settled over Bristol like a benediction. Blue sky. Warm sun. A breeze carrying cut grass and hot asphalt. Too fine a day to be mad, Cormac thought—and almost smiled again.

They stopped near his truck without meaning to. The kid’s hands shook now. The other man’s jaw worked like he was chewing something hard.

A few patrons drifted out behind them. One of the waitresses—young, bored—held her phone up, filming without much effort, more habit than intent.

“This stolen valor crap makes me sick,” the man said, jabbing a finger at the kid’s chest. “You think this is a costume?”

The kid swallowed. “I—I just—”

The man stepped in. His fist tightened.

Cormac shifted sideways—not between them yet. He glanced once at the medals, the arrangement wrong enough to be almost impressive.

“I believe that one’s for Perfect Attendance,” Cormac pointed.

The kid blinked. Then, grateful and desperate, he nodded hard.

“Yeah. Yeah, that one. Four years straight.”

The man stared at him. “Are you kidding me?”

Cormac lifted one shoulder.

The man jabbed again, weaker now. “And this one’s for what? Most Improved?”

The kid winced, then rallied. “Um. Yes?”

A laugh burst out of the man before he could stop it—short, sharp, surprised. He clapped a hand over his mouth like he’d bitten himself.

“Oh, you gotta be shittin’ me.”

Cormac leaned back against his truck, arms loose at his sides. The breeze lifted the edge of the towel inside the cab, just enough for him to see the river in the painting.

The man dragged a hand down his face. When he looked at the kid again, the heat was gone, replaced by something closer to confusion.

“Why?” he asked. Not accusing now. Just tired.

The kid stared at the pavement. “I just… I love the Army,” he said too fast. “I study. I keep taking the test. I’m just not good at it. The test, I mean.”

He rushed on—facts bent, names wrong, hope leaking out everywhere.

Cormac watched the man deflate in real time.

“Aw, shit, kid,” the man said finally, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked closer at the medals. “C’mon. Let me buy you some pancakes. I can explain what you actually have on your chest.”

The kid’s face lit up like he’d been handed a 3-day pass.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” the man said. “Really.”

They headed back toward the door together. Through the window, Cormac caught sight of Linda again. Her eyebrows were raised so high they looked permanently installed that way, like she wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or offended she’d missed the good part.

Cormac lifted two fingers—not a wave, not a salute. Just acknowledgment. Linda snorted despite herself.

He didn’t wait to see them sit. Didn’t wait to see how it played. By the time he reached his truck, the whole thing had already slipped out of his head.

He eased onto Volunteer Parkway, glanced once at the painting on the passenger seat—the river, the wrong sky—and smiled.

Breakfast, he thought. Some places just get it right.