"Sergeant Davis" | Memoir | Part I of VI | Foundations

I penned a brief narrative, “The Pentagon,” reflecting my patriotic sentiments during a temporary job at the United States Department of Defense, headquartered at the Pentagon. As I crafted that story, I was reminded of a memorable veteran of the United States Armed Forces, Sergeant Davis, who resided in an apartment complex near the projects where I lived. His remarkable and unconventional behaviors are firmly etched in my memory.

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Sergeant Davis was a retiree from the United States Army. We knew him solely by his military name, Sergeant Davis. He was a tall, striking African American gentleman with an impressive intellect.

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Davis resided in the Parkland Apartments community. His apartment door was always ajar, revealing the immaculate interior of his modest one-bedroom dwelling. He spoke with great eloquence. He was always impeccably dressed, and his black patent leather shoes gleamed. His drink of choice was Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey.

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Sergeant Davis rarely ventured out for groceries, relying on his daughters to handle that task. However, he did step out to visit the liquor store!

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Family and friends frequently visited his home. Upon entering, you’d be met with a cold, stern gaze, followed by a military salute. Then, he’d bluntly ask, “What the hell do you want?” If he liked your answer, he’d motion you toward the couch and pour you a drink, no small talk, just presence.

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Sergeant Davis had a clear view of the street from his kitchen table, where he’d watch the day’s activities unfold while savoring his whiskey and preparing a full-course soul food meal. Fried chicken, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, candied yams, and cornbread were staples, his culinary pride. He cooked with precision, as if each dish were a mission briefing.

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His metal bookcase was adorned with framed photos of him in his military uniform, military awards, and medals. One photo showed him standing beside a tank, another saluting in front of the American flag. A third, tucked in the corner, showed him smiling with his daughters, his pride, his legacy.

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A Christmas tree, twinkling with colorful lights, was a permanent fixture in his living room. When the lights dimmed from overuse, he’d replace them with a fresh string of lights from his closet. He said the tree reminded him of hope, even in July. It was always lit, even when the world outside felt dim.
 
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Though he rarely smiled, his presence commanded respect.

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Children in the building were warned not to play near his door, yet they often peeked in, mesmerized by the glowing Christmas tree and the scent of soul food drifting into the hallway.

On Sundays, gospel music floated from his living room, James Cleveland and the occasional sermon on cassette. He never attended church, but he quoted scripture with precision. “Honor thy father and thy mother,” he’d say, sipping bourbon with reverence.

His voice carried weight, like a drumbeat in a quiet room. Even silence seemed to stand at attention around him.

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“Sergeant Davis, I salute you.”
 
May you rest in peace, sir.

Respectfully,
Mia Z. Edwards

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(Copyright © 2025 by Mia Z. Edwards. All rights reserved.)