It was a humid summer day. The air smelled of rain.

I pulled my 2015 Chevy into a handicap spot in front of Happy Burger, just as most of the lunch hour crowd was leaving the parking lot.

Situated in a gleaming aluminum-clad railroad car, Happy Burger is one of the city’s more popular eateries, acclaimed for its delicious hamburgers, real potato French fries and its classic 1950s ambiance.

“Welcome to Happy Burger,” chimed a smiling teenager. “My name is Eddie. Counter or booth?”

“By a window.”

“Sure thing. Right this way. Been here before?”

“No.”

The restaurant’s retro decor swept me into a whirligig of time, magically transporting me back 70 years into a cobwebbed world of haunted echoes and blurred memories.

A dozen red-cushioned bar stools stood obediently before a glossy lunch counter. The floor was a gigantic chessboard made of black and white tiles. A kid wearing a white T-shirt and paper hat was busy scooping ice cream at a small but efficient soda fountain. An old fashioned, neon-illuminated jukebox mechanically sifted through a stack of neatly racked vinyl 45 records as it played the soundtrack of a bygone era. A young fry-cook shifted his attention from a row of beef patties hissing on an open grill to the screaming-hot contents of a gurgling deep fryer.

This novelty diner was an authentic shrine to rock ‘n’ roll’s golden age of doo-wop and American Bandstand. Boy servers with crewcuts wore starched white shirts beneath red cardigan sweaters, black chino pants and penny loafers. Girl servers with ponytails wore white blouses, gray poodle skirts, bobby sox and white sneakers. A collage of photographs and placards papered the walls. All the music icons of the era—Elvis, Little Richard, Richie Valens, Fats Domino and others - were pictured in a jumbled patchwork of noteworthy curiosities, including time-capsule memorabilia like old Ivory soap and Pepsodent toothpaste ads and a panel of really large posters showing Marilyn Monroe modeling one-piece swimsuits.

Happy Burger diner sparked an eerie connection to my heart and brain, like I was reliving events that had happened a lifetime ago when my dreams were young and the days seemed hopeful. A few years later, I would experience the life-altering horrors of grotesque combat, and the world would never again seem as radiant. The heavy dark clouds of war hover still.

“How’s this?” Eddie said, stopping at a booth with a window that captured a snapshot of the parking lot.

I slid onto the Naugahyde seat.

“Can I take your order now, or do you want to look at our menu?”

“I don’t know.” Whiffs of sizzling burgers on the grill made my mouth water. “I like my burgers simple: charbroiled with lettuce, tomato and raw onion. And three shakes of catsup on top.”

“Oh you want the American Burger. It comes with a Coke and fries.”

There was an awkward silence.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but I noticed the cap you’re wearing has the logo “Vietnam” printed on it. Well, I just want to ask, were you there? Is that where you served?”

“Yep, 3rd Marine Division, 1968, 1969.”

I complimented the young man on his powers of observation. I don’t think he caught my intended sarcasm, but the kid was right. I felt like an old relic, kind of useless.

It’s true, though. I’m proud of having served our country, and I am not ashamed of having served in Vietnam, despite the war’s public unpopularity. I still wear Vietnam emblems on my caps and sweatshirts and jackets. The older I get, the more I seem to need to display this important symbol of that indelible time in my life.

“Gosh,” he said, “I never really talked to anybody who actually fought in Vietnam.”

I scrutinized the young man. I looked into his bright, untroubled eyes and saw a reflection of my own innocence 50 years removed.

“I’m 19,” he continued. “I go to community college, and we’re learning about Vietnam in our American History class.”

“It was a war from the last century,” I said. “I guess that makes me ancient history.”

“Oh, no sir, I didn’t mean it like that. Well, it’s kind of like working here at Happy Burger. I get to know about what life was like two generations ago, like studying history close up, without books. So getting to talk to you gives me a chance to know how things were back then, what people were really talking about.”

“Wow Eddie, you’re deep,” I said feebly. “No offense taken. If I didn’t want to talk about ‘The Nam,’ I wouldn’t be wearing this cap.”

“You see? That’s what I mean. You called it ‘The Nam.’ That’s what you guys called it. If I hadn’t talked to you, I wouldn’t have known that. I learned that just now, from you. Thanks so much for your service. I’ll get your order.”

In an instant that brief conversation changed me. My thoughts were set adrift in a flood of complicated feelings. The conversation with my teenaged waiter made me recall how Vietnam turned me into an old, old man before I was 20.

The promise of rain was about to be fulfilled. Through the window I could see thick clouds swimming in a dark sky, pulsing thunder, winking lightning.

By the time my burger arrived, rain streaked the window, and tears streamed down my face.

“Are you OK?” Eddie asked, placing my meal on the table. “I didn’t upset you did I? Hey, I’m so sorry.”

“No, no kid. Things fall apart sometimes. I’m good.”

I looked at my lunch. The hamburger made me salivate, again. The toasted bun was a domed platform for a two-finger-thick, quality beef patty charbroiled to perfection, luscious and juicy.

To this day I cannot explain why I felt what I felt, but for me this sandwich was a thing to behold, a magnificent creation topped with pale green iceberg lettuce, two slices of tomato and a small mound of chopped onions. When I picked it up, catsup oozed.

Fries as thick as potato wedges cooked to a golden exactness, soda fizzing in a frosty Coca-Cola glass dripping with cold sweat — a scrumptious feast from the past.

The pounding rain had turned the parking lot into a miniature lake when I took the first bite of my burger.

This hamburger was no impostor. It tasted so good it snapped me out of my depression and put me in a more reflective mood. I munched on a French fry, took a sip of soda and suddenly felt more alive than I had in years.

Being in that nostalgic environment at that moment made me realize how fortunate I was to be alive when so many men and women were killed in human wars. I was forced to confront my guilt. I’d survived war. So many of my friends had not. Ghosts. They’d never enjoy this great culinary construction I was privileged to eat.

My anguish grew with every bite. My thoughts went on a loop, replaying ugly combat memories and projecting the faces of boys who died as men.

That burger joint and a bright-eyed kid put me on an emotional turntable spinning around and around until it seemed that time circled on itself, stood still, rushed forward.

I thought about the young brief lives of the dead, motionless in their graves for eternity, and I realized we are all part of a story that expands beyond ourselves. I did not invent war or violence. I’m just another soul in an endless parade of souls marching into the vast mist. A weight was lifted from me; stale bitterness and old grievances eased away. For so many years I’d tempered my existence on the irreversible events from that damned war, clinging to it every day and lugging it into the future with me. Suddenly it seemed safe to let the war go, or at least begin to.

The rain stopped. I finished my meal, paid the bill, gave Eddie a generous tip. I assured him that he had not offended me with his questions. Just the opposite occurred. My tears signaled a personal catharsis. I told him I was happy about meeting him and how he had stirred a reawakening within me.

Outside, the air smelled fresh and clean. The sky was blue, and the sun peeked through the lingering clouds.