The man without a face.

When I was in college I had my only regular customer service job. Yes, I know, in a way all jobs are customer service jobs, as various enthusiastic vice presidents like to say, even if the customer is just the person in the next department. But I consider them to be jobs like McDonald's cashier or postal clerk or gas station attendant, where people arrive to make a commercial transaction and the kid is the person they see. I only ever had one job like that, in senior year.

There was one line, snaking up to the windows, and whichever clerk was free would call "next" to help the next person in line after we finished with the current one. You had to be on your toes, because you never knew what the next customer would want, but most of the time I liked the job well enough. The time went quickly. I would have hated the thought of doing it my whole life, but that's why I was in college.

One Tuesday when things were slow I looked up from finishing paperwork from the previous customer and noticed that the other clerks around me were all doing busywork at their stations, even if they had not had a customer recently. Some of us were quicker than others, but no one was a slouch. There was one person on line, standing quietly, and when I saw him I knew why no one had called him. He was the man without a face.

He had some face, but not much. He had one eye, most of the left side of his jaw. Where the right side of his face should have been -- eye, cheek, jaw, the whole nose -- was a white patch, about the size of his a man's hand, or a bit bigger. It flapped when he breathed. It was terrifying.

"Next, please," I said, bracing myself.

"Good afternoon," I said when he arrived.

He came up to the window easily, placing a pile of papers with instructions on the counter. I followed his directions meticulously, glad for something to do with my eyes, but a small part of me wanted to gawk like a child. I said nothing more until I had completed his requests, then handed him his receipts and said, "Thank you," as always. He nodded -- I  think -- and gathered up his papers, and I never saw him again.

That was a long time ago. Of the hundreds who went by my window that year, I remember four -- the guy who was mad because I was taking so long, the guy who tipped me five bucks when I caught a $20 error (it was not a business that expected or really allowed tipping), the lady with the counterfeit $100 bill, and this man.

I couldn't think of a way to ask any of the other employees about him without sounding like I was accusing them of ignoring him, so I didn't. I have always wondered whether he had suffered some horrible accident, some flesh-eating disease, some horrendous criminal act.

Or was he a veteran, someone whose war took his face.

Whoever he was, he lived in New York City and had a life harder than just about anyone I could imagine. Yet he still made it around, did what he needed to do. He clearly knew when the bank was likely to be empty. He probably spent his life knowing when things would be empty. How did he eat? Communicate? Did he live alone? Did he come back from war to a horrified family? Did he have regular medical help? What was under that bandage? Oh, God, do not let me find out. But I have certainly seen some U.S. military veterans who have suffered awful injuries, and am amazed how they carry themselves still with honor.

In the end, I have no idea if my customer was an injured veteran, but he was a human being and deserved respect, and I'm glad I gave it to him.

I wish that all our veterans will get the respect on this Veterans Day that they deserve. And if you are a United States veteran, I thank you for your service.