Actually the guy in his pajamas, his butt hanging out, was right. The one blocking his way at the Walmart door is old.
That realization is perhaps all that caused the older one to pause, reflect and move out of the way.
The last man in pajamas who yelled at him was VC, coming over the sandbag rampart at a besieged fire base. 
The now-old man shot him in the face with his sidearm, one of several he sent to meet their maker that night those many years ago.
That same night a white-hot piece of razor blade -- mortar scrapnel -- tore into his leg as he and the rest of this unit determinedly defended a nameless piece of ground against a swarm just as determined to take it.
The Marines won that one, though no one but those involved knows or cares these decades later.
That seemed particularly the case of the porcine, pajama-clad punk in a hurry, his nose, lip and ear bling shining in the November sun.
The old man had a choice -- defend the ground or move out of the way. He moved, not that he wanted to but because he could do nothing else.
His situation is not all that uncommon. He is one of many aging men and women who walk among us every day, their stories of sacrifice and valor untold and mostly unknown.
We talk about them on Veterans Day, and we remember them, and their peers who didn’t return from fields far away, on Memorial Day.
But this time of year, we’re thinking more about Thanksgiving and Christmas and hunting seasons and football and other things than we are about those who defend us as many of us celebrate a day off in honor of veterans.
The old man in question in this instance has his own way of celebrating Veterans Day.
Today, Nov. 11, he’ll pin on his Purple Heart, drape his Silver Star around his neck and go about cooking on the deck.
He has honored his cohorts that way annually since the nation’s bicentennial, which in truth, really makes him old.