Twenty-Four, Part 3
Channy
The Visitor
Harvey began sending emails as soon as he arrived – which surprised me. I thought he’d be too busy, but it turned out that a lot of his duty was spent waiting around. And writing, in stripped-down language, of the casual terrors of Iraq.
First day on patrol, spotted a couple Iraquis approaching the checkpoint. We have orders to shoot anyone who passes the periphery without properly identifying themselves. Everybody’s pretty jumpy from all the IEDs (that’s Improvised Explosive Devices). I had this one tall guy in my sights – to be specific, I had the red laser dot on his heart. He looked down and saw the dot, and was smart enough, and calm enough, to turn so I could see his contractor’s badge. I have no idea what he was doing out there, but I’m sure glad I didn’t have to shoot him.
“Whatcha readin’ there, Channy?”
Debbie snuck up behind me at the pool table, holding a huge glass of Coke.
“Oh, hi. Letters from the front. Wow, listen to that: ‘Letters from the front.’”
“Is he doing all right?”
“Harvey’s hard to figure out. He’s either terribly excited or terribly afraid. Me, I’m just terribly terrified, and I have way too much time to imagine all the grotesque possibilities. And being alone has never felt so lonely.”
Debbie rested a hand on my shoulder and studied me through her thick glasses. “You know, that brings me to an interesting subject. J.B. and I have been asked to do a couple nights a week at this Mexican restaurant in Lakewood, and frankly neither one of us has the energy for it. However, now that we’ve made the transition to a fully computerized system, we’ve got enough old-fashioned CDs and surplus equipment to send someone else to Lakewood. Namely, you.”
The idea was pure gold, and I knew it. “Really? You’re sure?”
“Sure. We would ask, like, thirty percent for using the equipment.”
“God, Debbie. That is so perfect. You don’t know how perfect that is. When do I start?”
“Next Thursday, if you like.”
I hugged her so tightly I thought I might hurt her. “Oh, Debbie! I like I like I like. Save me from myself.”
“You got it, kiddo.”
Had to clean up after a car bombing in a village square. Pretty horrible stuff. A Humvee unit was out on “hearts and minds” duty – go out and wave to the natives while you’re wondering which one of them is going to kill you. Found a Lt. Cooper who bled to death, both arms blown off at the elbow. Ten feet away, I found a bottle of bubble-blowing liquid. They were blowing bubbles out the window, something for the kids. The bomb also took out his three comrades, and 14 villagers.
La Palma restaurant had a decidedly funky location, tucked into the corner of a ginormous shopping center parking lot, next to a transit center with a dozen bus stops. The lounge was funky, too: Aztec legends depicted in black velvet paintings, and a great old bar with ceramic tile arches. The room was long and narrow, and I was exiled to the far end, a stage divided from the main area by a low wall with a tile counter. I was afraid that my customers would feel like they were singing from a cage.
That is, if I had any customers. My major concern was that no one would show up at all, that I would have to fill four hours all by myself. I waited half an hour just to make sure I wasn’t pushing things, then I sang a sound check: “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen. When I returned to the soundboard, I found an actual song slip. The singer was Shane, a big guy with an Irish complexion and dyed blond hair. I’d seen him earlier, working on a book of drawings in the corner, and frankly hadn’t expected much. As it turned out, he was quite the Dean Martin buff, and he worked through half the list – “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head,” “Everybody Loves Somebody,” “An Evening in Roma” – as I tried to keep up with him with the songs I’d sung at Kerby’s. A couple of the barflies finally got soused enough to give it a shot, and we forced the bartender, Paul, to try “La Bamba” despite the small impediment of zero singing talent. By the end of the night, I had five new friends and some assurance that I did not entirely suck at this job.
The next night, I had a rotation of ten. The manager of the restaurant seemed happy.
You might think from all these exciting tales that life here is constantly involving, but believe me, it ain’t. We spend most of our days in excruciating boredom, and we are definitely not free to just go for a walk in the countryside. Killing off time has become an art form unto itself. Thank God for video games. No Zero Squadron, but I’m beginning to realize what a big fat lie that game is, anyway.
However. Be careful what you wish for. The insurgents like to keep us on our toes by lobbing random mortars at our compound. Captain Lukafour was at the mess last week, looking in the fridge for a soda, and the next second he’s a pile of charred meat.
Sorry. I don’t mean to be crude. But it’s hard. My commander, Bucksy (have I told you about him? He is absolutely the best), he told me after the attack, “You wait, Harv. Tomorrow morning, there’ll be two dead Iraquis outside the fence. I don’t know how it happens, but it does.”
Sure enough, I’m on guard duty the next morning, and there’s a couple extra body bags ready for transport. Couple of guys walk up, give the bags a kick and say, “Wake up, motherfucker!” Pretty cold, but I gotta admit, it made me laugh.
I began to develop a group of regulars, and the manager, Cesar, asked me if I wanted to make it three nights instead of two. With Harvey’s combat pay coming in, I decided to use my karaoke money to buy the CDs and equipment from Debbie and J.B. It felt good, finding a job I enjoyed so much, and a way to hedge our bets.
It was morning, early September. The valley was groggy with overcast. I had just rolled out and put on some coffee when the doorbell rang. I opened the door to a young man in full Army dress. He was tall, with a chin so sharp and closely shaven that it seemed more like a weapon. I was just fuzzy enough that I had no idea what he was doing there.
“Hello?”
“Morning, ma’am. Are you Mrs. Chanson Lebeque?”
I was struck by the way he pronounced my first name in the correct French fashion. “I… well, yes.”
“Ma’am? Could I come in for a moment?”
“Um, yes, okay. Would you like some coffee?”
He stood in the living room, almost at attention, as I went to the kitchen and filled a mug. A shaft of frosty light cut through from the kitchen window, settling on one half of the soldier’s face. In that one blue eye, behind all the military polish, I could see just a hint of fear.
My legs gave way, and I clung to the edge of the counter. My soldier was there in a flash, propping me up, helping me to the couch. A minute later, as the clarity began to return, I looked into his young, young face and offered a one-word question: “How?”
“Sergeant Lebeque died of an apparent suicide. They discovered his body next to a river behind the base, in a grove of eucalyptus trees. He was killed by one of his own bullets, discharged by his own rifle.”
Later that morning, I wandered over to the Kerby’s parking lot, gathered two fistfuls of grass and stood at the fence for an hour, pleading with Ben and Bessie to come to me. When I felt a hand on my shoulder, I turned and buried my face into someone’s chest. I remember the smell of his leather jacket. When I finally looked up, it was Rob, the owner of Kerby’s, who had come to open the bar.
Harvey’s bullets were designed to pierce tank armor. I was strongly advised not to view the body. I signed a release for his cremation, and attended a burial at the cemetery at Ft. Lewis. That afternoon, I gave notice on the house, and placed Harvey’s belongings in a storage unit. Debbie and J.B. wrote off the last few payments on the karaoke equipment. Two days later, I was loaded up, headed for the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. The transition was so seamless, it made me question my pronouns. Had I been hedging our bets? Or hedging my bets?
Next: Oddball Brother
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Image by MJV
Channy
The Visitor
Harvey began sending emails as soon as he arrived – which surprised me. I thought he’d be too busy, but it turned out that a lot of his duty was spent waiting around. And writing, in stripped-down language, of the casual terrors of Iraq.
First day on patrol, spotted a couple Iraquis approaching the checkpoint. We have orders to shoot anyone who passes the periphery without properly identifying themselves. Everybody’s pretty jumpy from all the IEDs (that’s Improvised Explosive Devices). I had this one tall guy in my sights – to be specific, I had the red laser dot on his heart. He looked down and saw the dot, and was smart enough, and calm enough, to turn so I could see his contractor’s badge. I have no idea what he was doing out there, but I’m sure glad I didn’t have to shoot him.
“Whatcha readin’ there, Channy?”
Debbie snuck up behind me at the pool table, holding a huge glass of Coke.
“Oh, hi. Letters from the front. Wow, listen to that: ‘Letters from the front.’”
“Is he doing all right?”
“Harvey’s hard to figure out. He’s either terribly excited or terribly afraid. Me, I’m just terribly terrified, and I have way too much time to imagine all the grotesque possibilities. And being alone has never felt so lonely.”
Debbie rested a hand on my shoulder and studied me through her thick glasses. “You know, that brings me to an interesting subject. J.B. and I have been asked to do a couple nights a week at this Mexican restaurant in Lakewood, and frankly neither one of us has the energy for it. However, now that we’ve made the transition to a fully computerized system, we’ve got enough old-fashioned CDs and surplus equipment to send someone else to Lakewood. Namely, you.”
The idea was pure gold, and I knew it. “Really? You’re sure?”
“Sure. We would ask, like, thirty percent for using the equipment.”
“God, Debbie. That is so perfect. You don’t know how perfect that is. When do I start?”
“Next Thursday, if you like.”
I hugged her so tightly I thought I might hurt her. “Oh, Debbie! I like I like I like. Save me from myself.”
“You got it, kiddo.”
Had to clean up after a car bombing in a village square. Pretty horrible stuff. A Humvee unit was out on “hearts and minds” duty – go out and wave to the natives while you’re wondering which one of them is going to kill you. Found a Lt. Cooper who bled to death, both arms blown off at the elbow. Ten feet away, I found a bottle of bubble-blowing liquid. They were blowing bubbles out the window, something for the kids. The bomb also took out his three comrades, and 14 villagers.
La Palma restaurant had a decidedly funky location, tucked into the corner of a ginormous shopping center parking lot, next to a transit center with a dozen bus stops. The lounge was funky, too: Aztec legends depicted in black velvet paintings, and a great old bar with ceramic tile arches. The room was long and narrow, and I was exiled to the far end, a stage divided from the main area by a low wall with a tile counter. I was afraid that my customers would feel like they were singing from a cage.
That is, if I had any customers. My major concern was that no one would show up at all, that I would have to fill four hours all by myself. I waited half an hour just to make sure I wasn’t pushing things, then I sang a sound check: “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen. When I returned to the soundboard, I found an actual song slip. The singer was Shane, a big guy with an Irish complexion and dyed blond hair. I’d seen him earlier, working on a book of drawings in the corner, and frankly hadn’t expected much. As it turned out, he was quite the Dean Martin buff, and he worked through half the list – “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head,” “Everybody Loves Somebody,” “An Evening in Roma” – as I tried to keep up with him with the songs I’d sung at Kerby’s. A couple of the barflies finally got soused enough to give it a shot, and we forced the bartender, Paul, to try “La Bamba” despite the small impediment of zero singing talent. By the end of the night, I had five new friends and some assurance that I did not entirely suck at this job.
The next night, I had a rotation of ten. The manager of the restaurant seemed happy.
You might think from all these exciting tales that life here is constantly involving, but believe me, it ain’t. We spend most of our days in excruciating boredom, and we are definitely not free to just go for a walk in the countryside. Killing off time has become an art form unto itself. Thank God for video games. No Zero Squadron, but I’m beginning to realize what a big fat lie that game is, anyway.
However. Be careful what you wish for. The insurgents like to keep us on our toes by lobbing random mortars at our compound. Captain Lukafour was at the mess last week, looking in the fridge for a soda, and the next second he’s a pile of charred meat.
Sorry. I don’t mean to be crude. But it’s hard. My commander, Bucksy (have I told you about him? He is absolutely the best), he told me after the attack, “You wait, Harv. Tomorrow morning, there’ll be two dead Iraquis outside the fence. I don’t know how it happens, but it does.”
Sure enough, I’m on guard duty the next morning, and there’s a couple extra body bags ready for transport. Couple of guys walk up, give the bags a kick and say, “Wake up, motherfucker!” Pretty cold, but I gotta admit, it made me laugh.
I began to develop a group of regulars, and the manager, Cesar, asked me if I wanted to make it three nights instead of two. With Harvey’s combat pay coming in, I decided to use my karaoke money to buy the CDs and equipment from Debbie and J.B. It felt good, finding a job I enjoyed so much, and a way to hedge our bets.
It was morning, early September. The valley was groggy with overcast. I had just rolled out and put on some coffee when the doorbell rang. I opened the door to a young man in full Army dress. He was tall, with a chin so sharp and closely shaven that it seemed more like a weapon. I was just fuzzy enough that I had no idea what he was doing there.
“Hello?”
“Morning, ma’am. Are you Mrs. Chanson Lebeque?”
I was struck by the way he pronounced my first name in the correct French fashion. “I… well, yes.”
“Ma’am? Could I come in for a moment?”
“Um, yes, okay. Would you like some coffee?”
He stood in the living room, almost at attention, as I went to the kitchen and filled a mug. A shaft of frosty light cut through from the kitchen window, settling on one half of the soldier’s face. In that one blue eye, behind all the military polish, I could see just a hint of fear.
My legs gave way, and I clung to the edge of the counter. My soldier was there in a flash, propping me up, helping me to the couch. A minute later, as the clarity began to return, I looked into his young, young face and offered a one-word question: “How?”
“Sergeant Lebeque died of an apparent suicide. They discovered his body next to a river behind the base, in a grove of eucalyptus trees. He was killed by one of his own bullets, discharged by his own rifle.”
Later that morning, I wandered over to the Kerby’s parking lot, gathered two fistfuls of grass and stood at the fence for an hour, pleading with Ben and Bessie to come to me. When I felt a hand on my shoulder, I turned and buried my face into someone’s chest. I remember the smell of his leather jacket. When I finally looked up, it was Rob, the owner of Kerby’s, who had come to open the bar.
Harvey’s bullets were designed to pierce tank armor. I was strongly advised not to view the body. I signed a release for his cremation, and attended a burial at the cemetery at Ft. Lewis. That afternoon, I gave notice on the house, and placed Harvey’s belongings in a storage unit. Debbie and J.B. wrote off the last few payments on the karaoke equipment. Two days later, I was loaded up, headed for the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. The transition was so seamless, it made me question my pronouns. Had I been hedging our bets? Or hedging my bets?
Next: Oddball Brother
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Image by MJV
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