PALM BAY — Children mistake it for the ice-cream truck.
Even adults expect to see a clown climb out of the front seat when Andres Ortiz takes his psychedelic Suzuki Samurai for a spin.
It’s not until they come closer that the images and words plastered on every square inch of the sport utility vehicle become clear. Faces of grinning soldiers peer from faded black-and-white snapshots sandwiched between antiwar bumper stickers, tarnished medals and American flags.
A photo of orphaned Vietnamese children covers part of the passenger door. An Army helmet is mounted on the roof.
Hand-painted red, yellow and green, this rolling scrapbook Ortiz calls “Andy’s Mobile Memorial” is the Palm Bay man’s tribute to Vietnam War veterans.
It also is his therapy.
Haunted by memories of his one-year tour of duty in Vietnam and struggling through a divorce, Ortiz walked outside his Staten Island home one day in 1989 and stuck a strongly worded antiwar sign on his Samurai.
Next, he tacked on an old photo of his six-member squadron, all Puerto Ricans. Then came the Purple Heart decals, homemade signs and the first letter he received from a girl back in the states. On the fenders, he scrawled the names of Puerto Rican soldiers who never came home.
He hung his khaki field uniform in a rear window. Slowly, day by day, he transformed a plain orange Samurai into a shrine.
He moved to Brevard County about two years ago.
“I’m not doing it to brag about the war or open old wounds,” Ortiz said. “I’m doing it to keep the spirit alive so people won’t forget.”
Ortiz, 57, who was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, also hopes someone will recognize the faces in the photo of his Army buddies — men he remembers only by nicknames such as Hochie and Miguel.
He thinks finding them would help.
“When they took me out of the field, I was so happy to be going home that I forgot to get their addresses,” he said.
“I just want to get together and talk.
“I just want to make sure they are alive.”
Ortiz, now disabled but a volunteer for Meals on Wheels, drives the truck regularly in Veterans Day and Puerto Rican Day parades and actively seeks publicity to further his cause.
On the few occasions he drives it around town, people stop and stare. Some of them leave notes of appreciation attached to his windshield.
Once, someone threw a brick through the window with a note: “Make love, not war.”
One day, he came out of a store and found a Puerto Rican woman standing nearby and crying.
“She had found her brother’s name on the fender,” Ortiz said.
“She thanked me for keeping his memory alive.”
On a recent afternoon, a young man selling cleaner door to door strutted across Ortiz’s clipped lawn.
“What’s that supposed to be?” the man yelled as he neared the driveway.
“Somebody’s idea of artwork.”
Then he came closer, knelt, and studied the colorful decals and pale photos.
“My dad was in Vietnam,” he said.
“This is really cool, man. You put a lot of heart into this.”
In the past few months, Ortiz also has turned his garage into a one-man museum, plastering war memorabilia to the walls. He has even put signs and a photo of his lost buddies on his 2000 Chevrolet Blazer.
“I just can’t help it,” he said.
His wife, Maria, said she supports him — as long as he stays away from her new Ford Mustang.
“It’s his medicine,” she said.
But Ortiz knows that some people, maybe even a few family members, might shake their heads and dismiss him as a nut. He just shrugs.
“I’m doing something that means a lot to me,” he said.
“Some people spend millions of dollars collecting stamps.
“I think that’s weird.”
