“Slap it up, flip it, rub it down…Oh nooooo,” Dan sings along.
I look over and feign my best smile. He immediately recognizes the attempt.
“Loosen up, bro. Tomorrow you’ll settle in once we get moving. Briggs wanted me to take you all out to release some tension. Doesn’t like his troops all pent up before battle - afraid one of you cocksuckers will lose it and shoot each other. I came up with the idea. He’s cool with it. Just need to be back in quarters before 16 hundred.”
I look down at my watch. 13:32. two hours, twenty-eight minutes, I think. We are heading almost due west now, and the somewhat flat sandy ground turns to hardened clusters of rocky ground with small rolling hills. Dan now sings to “Cradle of Love,” turning often to show his best Billy Idol snarl. I can’t help but laugh and am starting to relax. I figure I should make a comment. “You remember that summer we listened to Idol in the back of my dad’s pickup on the way to the beach?”
“Remember? I’d have to be dead not to. We listened to it over and over and over. I also remember your dad getting pissed off when we would flick pennies out of the back onto the freeway.”
“I forgot about that,” I respond. I really did forget. I don’t think I had ever seen my dad angrier than he was that day. Dan had flicked a penny, and right when he did, some blonde in a beemer looked right at us. A second later it bounced off the asphalt onto her hood, and then over the top of her car. She tried to swerve after she saw Dan’s flicking motion, but it was too late. Her eyes went wide as she sped up and pulled alongside my dad, rolling down her passenger side window, and yelling to him about us throwing stuff from the truck. He pulled off at the next exit, got us out of the back, and wanted to know, “What the hell we were throwing out of the back?” We both played dumb, though I am positive I looked guilty.
Dan said, “Mr. Grant, we didn’t throw anything out of the back. Josh and me were listening to music and all of a sudden we see that lady in the BMW start cutting off cars behind you. And, she was putting on make-up after she got behind you. Maybe a rock flew off of your tire and hit her car. All I know is that we were watching her and, all of a sudden, she swerves, almost hits the car in the lane next to her, gives a dirty look to me and Josh, who are listening to music, and then speeds up and tells you we threw something.” My dad’s brow clenches - three squiggly lines on his forehead. I quickly add, “We don’t even have anything to throw other than our beach towels.” My dad seems to accept Dan’s explanation and my confirmation. “You better not have thrown anything. That woman was mad for some reason. Made it sound like she saw you. I’m already running late for work, so you two will have to take a bus from there down to the beach. No time to drop you off now. And do not, I repeat, do not throw anything, or even look like you are throwing something out the back. You got it?” “Yes sir,” Dan and I answered almost in unison.
“That was the first time I ever got away with lying to my dad,” I add, “You came up with such a good story, and I had to bury my guilt. My dad could always tell, before that, when I was lying.”
“Good skill to have,” Dan responds.
Groups of shrubs appear now along the sides of the road. The wind seems to have died down. The gullies between the hills are mostly washed out, and Dan slows the Humvee down as we make our way across each one. Our M-16s bounce in the cargo area behind our seats, clanging up against the vehicle’s gray metal. I check the mirror again, and see Williams and Harmon snaking their way along in our dust, goggles protecting their eyes.
“Maybe I should flick a couple pennies out the window.”
Dan gives me the good-fucking-idea look. “We’re just about there. Over the next burm.”
The number of shrubs has increased even more, giving a reminder that the tan, barren expanse around us does not continue on forever. The Vanilla Ice song comes across the shortwave. I strain my eyes to see what is ahead in the distance. As we reach the top of the hill and begin ascending down its back side, some black tents come into view. I see about two or three of them positioned just south of the road. Some goats are massed about seventy-five yards west of the tents. A person wearing colorful, yet faded, red pajama-looking clothes stands next to the structures and looks in our direction. It is a woman. The clothing shows more color – blues, yellows, oranges – in symmetric tribal patterns. Another woman steps out from a flap of tent cloth. She’s talking to the other woman, who now looks considerably younger , perhaps seventeen or eighteen. The older one appears calm , considering they are being approached by strangers. The younger one seems agitated , gesturing with her arms, and then covering her face with her dark hands. We stop about ten yards from the tents. I can now clearly see the younger one is crying. The ALSV pulls up alongside us outside my door.
If there was a problem, yo, I'll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it
Dan shuts off the engine, and the radio cuts. “We’re here.” He unbuttons his upper left shirt pocket, and I hear the crinkle of plastic. He hands it to me. “Ribbed, for her pleasure,” he says, pausing long after “ribbed” and letting his white upper teeth bite onto his chapped lower lip.
I immediately feel light-headed and look up at the two women. The older one is waving for us to come to her, while the younger lifts the black, weathered tent cloth and disappears inside. Dan laughs, a horrible small laugh, and my thoughts change from one thing to the next, from the crying girl, to lying to my dad, to the condom in my hand.
“You can do this,” Dan offers. “It has already been arranged.”
I feel dizzy. The saliva is filling my mouth, and I gulp it down, but it keeps on coming. I hear the door slam shut on the Humvee, and Dan is now just outside my window talking to Williams and Harmon. I hear the crinkling of plastic again and the same words as before delivered now to them. And there’s the laugh. I pull the water bottle from my ruck sack behind the seat.
“Hey, hey.” Dan is at my window. “Get your ass out here, Marine. We’ve only got two hours to get this done.” He sticks another condom in my hand. “Here’s an extra in case you go wild on us and try to one-up me.”
I look into his brown eyes and see nothing, only the pitch -black irises with red, broken vessels branching out randomly.
“Get the fuck out, Goose. I am the mission-leader here. Don’t want to shoot you for insubordination.” He laughs again, same laugh, only this time it is echoed by the two Marines behind him. He opens my door. I step out and wobble on my legs, as if I could feel the earth’s spin beneath me. The saliva has subsided. I take a swig from the water bottle. Dan moves towards the tents, with Williams and Harmon, M-16 in hand, close behind. I see Dan greet the woman. She smiles at him, takes his hand in hers, and then releases. Her coal, coarse hair, matching the goats in the distance, is pulled back into a ponytail. Her skin, especially around her temples, looks dry and cracked like the tops of her bare feet, which are dirty. She and Dan exchange some gestures, with him putting his hands together as if praying and her responding likewise. She turns, lifts the tent cloth, and motions for us to follow, looking from Dan to each of us. I take another swig from the bottle and follow into the shelter leaving Harmon behind as lookout.
As I enter and drop the flap behind me, I cannot see and bump into the back of Williams. “Sorry, man,” I say, “I can’t hardly see.”
“I can’t, either. This is like goin’ into a dark theater. Only there ain’t no movie on.”
My eyes start to adjust and I see the old woman sitting on a blanket, with a makeshift table, more like a tray, in front of her. Dan sits down directly across from her. She motions to us, waving her hand down, and then pinching her fingers together and putting them to her mouth. We sit down next to Dan. The table is arrayed with some round pita-looking bread and chunks of roasted meat. Steam rises from a pot, surrounded by four wooden cups. Dan reaches for a circle of bread, then some meat, which he places on the bread. The woman reaches for the pot and pours a brown liquid into each cup.
“All right. We all need to eat and drink, otherwise she will be offended. Just follow my lead. The goat meat ain’t too bad, but tastes nothing like a grilled rib-eye.”
The woman has been looking at us, fixating now on my eyes. She hands me a filled cup, then motions to her mouth, her eyes expressing a motherly warmth. I sip the liquid, bitter and strong. I feel it slide down my throat and well up in my stomach, radiating heat back out of my body. She still stares at me, looking into my eyes, seemingly not at me, but through me.
By this time, Williams is chewing on the bread and meat and gulping down the tea. He comments to Dan about how this stuff isn’t half bad, how it is better than most of the mess-tent slop they make us eat. I reach for the last piece of bread and a couple goat chunks. I keep my eyes averted from the woman, yet I can still feel her gaze upon me.
“Good,” Dan says, drawing her attention back to him, “Good.” He offers a full-mouthed smile, half of one from my view. The woman seems pleased with this. She lets out a sound similar to Dan’s “good,” though not quite the same. “Good,” Dan says again. His mouth partially full, Williams echoes Dan. Her eyes, again, become fixed on mine. I bite into the taco-folded offering. The meaty juice squirts from between the padded covering and drips down the right corner of my mouth. I wipe it with my hand, as the flavor spreads across the inside and I chew, though very little. The meat melts and I swallow. I look up and meet her waiting gaze. She lets out another attempt at “good,” this time closer to the correct sound. From my left side, I hear what sounds like sobbing from a separate room of the tent. I think again of the girl, lying in the adjacent room, wondering why her mother would do this.
“Dude, let her know you like it. It tastes like crap, I know. We need to get moving,” Dan half whispers.
Get moving, I think. I don’t want to do anything but get back to camp. I picture the girl now, crying herself to sleep, only to be awakened into a nightmare in a few minutes. The dizziness returns.
“Come on. She is waiting. We ain’t got all fucking day.” Dan turns to Williams and says, “He’s always been slow like this. Fourth grade I saved his ass from the sistah who was kicking him. Goosey was curled up all fetal position, and I got her to stop.”
A new feeling rises from out of me. I slide my left hand down to my calf and slowly unbutton the sheath, exposing the ivory handle of my great-grandfather’s knife.
“Why was she giving him the beat down?” Williams asks. “I hope he didn’t call her nigger or something like that. I beat down enough white people, and Mexicans, too, in school back in Philly.”
Dan sighs. “Nah, he didn’t call her no nigger. He don’t have enough balls to even say the word ‘nigger.’ He made fun of a hairy, quarter-sized mole on her face. Always the same with Goosey. Bailing his ass out of one situation or nother.”
My hand wraps around the ornamented, curved hilt. I grip tight.
Williams adds, with a chuckle, “I figured Grant could take care of hisself. I –.”
Dan interrupts, “– he never could. In sixth grade, there was this new chick. Hot little artsy girl, Allie –“
“– Good,” I say, the sound breaking forth from me, shortened by the quick, uncontrolled expulsion of air from my lungs. All eyes focus on me. I look at the woman. “Good,” I say again, this time slower and with the meaning wanted. Her mouth opens even more, exposing tea-stained teeth. She motions to me to stand up, as she does so herself, saying, “Ta-aal, ta-aal.”
Repeating the word aloud, I rise. She continues her smile, takes my hand in hers. The skin is cool, rough, and dry. I feel the sweat from mine, mixing onto her flesh. She lifts the flap of tent, leading me into a room behind her.
“Don’t take all fucking day in there. Williams and Harmon need a go, too,” Dan adds. “Don’t wear her out.” He laughs, with Williams joining him.
In the next room, much smaller than the previous, I see bright red, blue, yellow fabrics fastened to the inside of the tenting material. The floor is covered with a coarse rug, with tufts of fur poking upwards approximately every half inch. It is a black color interspersed with a dirty white, repetitious pattern resembling circular disks about six inches in diameter. Additional tufts of white array out from each circle. In the corner to my right, I see a large wooden box with various rocks, what look like some bones, and a feather on its top. The old woman, still absorbing the sweat from my hand into hers, pulls me forward, alongside to her left. I notice an area of bedding directly in front of us and a small figure rolled underneath a blanket woven with vibrant ochre circles accented by a surrounding sky blue.
“Om,” she says, pointing toward the bedding. I do not know what this means. “Om,” she repeats. The small figure moves, soundless except for the brief breaths I can now hear. She releases my hand and kneels. I want to tell her to stop, but do not know the words. She extends her arm and puts it on the figure. I expect a shudder or a cry, yet none comes. “Om,” she repeats, this time with more force. I find my right hand in my pocket, fingering the condom’s thin plastic serrated edge. I am light-headed again, my knees unable to keep my body upright much longer. Just as I decide to turn back towards the entrance, a haggish woman emerges from within the blanket. Her eyes move to the now-younger woman’s, then over at me. Assisted, she sits up slowly and mumbles words I cannot discern. The assistor turns and leans toward the chest. I hear the rocks she grabs in her right hand hit together as she leans back and places them in her elder’s cupped hands. I study her .
Her skin, considerably lighter than the other two women’s, looks more like the desert sand. The face is heavily wrinkled, as are her exposed hands and feet, which poke out from her over-sized black shirt and pants. Full-gray hair, thinning and coarse, shoots out in multiple directions, drawing attention away from all other aspects. She meets my frozen stare with communicative eyes, like none I have ever seen before.
The younger woman rises, moves past me, and leaves the room. I step forward and sit directly in front of her, our eyes never quite disconnecting. She averts them and removes a small mat between us. Underneath the mat is a two-foot square of exposed ground framed by the larger rug on which we sit. Our eyes meet again. She extends her hands, still cupped, dropping the stones into mine, which I have extended to meet hers. Her lids close as I bring my hands back to my body. I close my eyes. I sense my breathing, rapid and shallow. My thumbs feel the stones, honed into flat surfaces on one side, with the remaining area coarse and jagged in comparison. I estimate I hold ten stones. Upon the smooth portions, I feel engravings – a multitude of shapes, some circular, some linear, some a mixture of lines and shapes. Rotating them, I try to get a sense of each stone, seeking out their designs. One, in particular, returns regularly to my thumbs. Its carving is a circle with lines arrayed out from the circumference. Another feels like an elongated rectangle topped with a mass of swirling etchings. My breathing has slowed to a deeper rhythm, and flowing warmth pulses up through my spine, spreading out to my arms. I stop studying the stones and turn them about in my closed combined hands. Images flash into my mind accompanied by corresponding emotions: the ocean (soothing), tanks rolling into a burning village (fear), the moon (soothing), a man hanging from a tree (anger), a river (soothing), dark-skinned people on a trail (sadness), a river (soothing), two women surrounded by a mob of people (fear), and the ocean again (soothing). The images repeat, this time slower than before, and I am able to focus on details. The hanging man is black. The huts are stilted. The moon is red. The ocean waves break upon coastlines – one sandy-smooth, the other rocky. Again, they repeat, but blurry this time, same speed. I cannot make out any more details, nor can I feel the associated emotions. Again, they repeat, and my memory tries to overlay the now unrecognizable images with what came before. Again, I think, again. I realize I am clenching the rocks with all my might. And, the warm flow up my spine subsides, radiating the remaining heat into my arms and down to my rigid hands.
Again, I think. I release the pressure from my hands and open my eyes. The old woman opens hers. I look down to the stones, and see the indentations left in my palms from the rough edges. A small trickle of blood leaks from my right ringfinger, dripping into the exposed ground beneath my hands. The woman motions her hands downward and outward towards the two-foot square. I mimic the gesture, release the stones, and watch them embed into the soft sand-dirt.
In the next room, I hear Dan and Williams laughing. Then, I hear the laugh of a woman. The woman in my tent leans forward and turns three of the ten total stones to expose their flat sides to match the two already visible. Upon each one I see a different symbol: a sun, a tree, a crescent moon, two parallel squiggly lines, and a fish. She points to the sun, and then points to me, tapping the air three times with her extended finger. I nod my head. She points to the moon, and then places her hand flat across the center of her breastbone. I nod. She points to the fish, and then takes both hands with fingers extended, beginning below her now-sad eyes, pulls them down across her cheeks to the jawbone, and then repeats the motions three times. I think crying and nod. Her expression changes to a smile, as she points to the squiggly lines and the tree. For this, she forms the shape of cupped hands scooping together, and then motions as if pouring something onto the ground. She repeats this four times, but before I can nod, she begins a new motion, her hands meet prayer-like, starting from near the ground, rising straight-up, and then fingers array, palms out, apart from each other.
“Let’s go, Marine,” Dan’s voice bursts forth from behind me, causing me to twitch. “Enough playing with the locals. Got some man’s work to do now.” I bring my eyes to meet the old woman’s. She leans forward again and turns over another stone - a bird, raven-like, with a snake trapped in its beak.
“Alright, I’m leavin your ass here with your girlfriend.”
I respond, “I’m coming. I think she likes you better than me anyhow.” His laugh fades, and I begin to rise. The old woman reaches for my right arm and turns her hand palm-up. I know exactly what she means. I unbutton the external right leg pocket on my BDUs, reach my hand in, and pull out my assortment of Saudi bills. Sorting through the various pictures of King Fahd, I settle upon the ten riyal and give it to her. She smiles, and then nods her head.
We are back on the road, heading east, and about eleven klicks from the road leading back to base. Bon Jovi sings about being a cowboy, and I am pondering how a Jersey-boy would have any clue. I am also wondering what we are doing with the two goats with us in the Humvee.
“So, you gonna tell me what the grandma showed you?” Dan asks.
“Not until you tell me what we are doing with these goats,” I respond. One of the beasts sticks its head between our seats, as if he or she wants the answer, also. Dan slightly turns, reaches his right hand up, cups the goat’s mouth, then pushes it back. The animal, already having trouble standing up through the bumps, turns sideways, and then bounces up against the other goat, knocking it into the metal interior of the vehicle. It proceeds to let out that sound goats make.
“Stupid fucking animals. My grandpa had a goat once on his place in Mississippi. We went fishing one Sunday morning, came back, and the fucker chewed through the chain he was on, then chewed the shit out of grandpa’s pants hanging on the washline,” Dan says.
“Don’t seem all that smart to me.”
“My grandpa says to me, ‘I’m goin show ya how we handle this in the South. Same as we kept them niggers in line ‘fore rights and a ll .’ So, he whistles for his two houn’ dogs, Jack and Dixie, and heads over to the goat, still chewin’ on the pants. He grabs the goat by the neck, then slaps the hell out of its ass, hollerin’ at the top of his lungs. The goat takes off running across the yard. Grandpa yells to the dogs, ‘Dixie! Jack! Coon! Coon!’ They chase the goat and corner it along the fence. Ripped it to pieces in no time.”
I don’t know how to respond and try not to think of how the dogs began dissembling the goat. I think of my own grandfather and the few memories I have of being around him: big band music, his prominent German features, and his alcoholic second wife with nicotine-stained fingernails.
I continue searching for something to say. “Must have been hard to watch.”
“Not so much. Taught me how to deal with life…and goats.”
I laugh, more from reaction than thought.
He veers the Humvee off the road and heads across the flat, sandy ground toward a few dark objects about a mile or two away.
“So, big question: What’d the hag show you? Cost me bigtime to get you in there… and for the goats.”
“Nothing, really,” I say.
“Whaddaya mean, nothing? She had to show you something. Did she have you throw the rocks?”
“Yeah.”
“And, did she act out the meaning for each picture?”
“Yeah.”
“So, what fucking did she show you?”
“I don’t remember. A sun, a moon. A tree. One was an image of a jackass. Figured that was you, since she pointed at you when you walked in.”
“Funny. I set this whole thing up for you, ‘cause I know you like that shit and you won’t tell me what she showed you. Un-fucking-grateful.”
As we get closer to the objects, I begin to discern what looks like a couple of tanks and some sort of armored vehicle.
“I think she basically told me not to eat fish from the ocean and to work on gardening, particularly tree-pruning,” I say, adding a louder-than-normal chuckle to the end.
“Yeah, that’s right. Keep laughing to yourself. Lord knows we got a good laugh out of watching you squirm about thinkin’ you were gonna have to screw one of those freaks. Williams and me ‘bout busted a gut.” I look in the sideview and see Williams and Harmon behind us. Dan adds, “Though I have to say, that younger one was doable.”
“Yeah,” I respond.
We are about one hundred yards away from the objects. I see the tanks, riddled with large holes in the sides, the turret completely missing from one, and a track broken off from the other. Both appear to be some older model of tank, possibly Vietnam era or before. The other vehicle, some sort of troop transport, lies on its side and has Arabic markings across the roof. All three are blackened from fire.
“Training site for the Saudi forces,” Dan offers as he stops the Humvee about fifty yards back from the site. The LSV pulls up alongside my door.
Dan gets out, opens the passenger door on his side, and says, “Goose, grab that other goat from your side.” I get out, open the door on my side, and pull my goat out of the vehicle. Dan tells Harmon to hold on to his goat while he gets the rope from one of the storage bins. He takes the rope out, cuts out two six foot lengths, and then ties a noose onto the end of each one. The wind, blowing about fifteen to twenty mph, means it must be after 15:00. Dan loops the nooses around the goats’ necks, and we lead them over to the tanks.
Williams can’t hold back. “Now we’re walking goats in the desert. Thought I had seen it all. Goat for lunch. Crazy ‘rabian women. Rubbers with ribs. Goats in a Humvee. And now we’re walkin’ em. Next we’ll probably be fuckin’ the goats in those tanks.”
“We ain’t fuckin’ no goats, unless you got some secret fantasy goin’ on in your mind, Williams,” Dan offers. If you decide to, then I suggest you wear that rubber and hold those horns real tight,” Everyone laughs except Williams.
Williams responds, “I was just sayin’…”
Dan ties his goat to the turretless tank, and then has Harmon tie mine to the one with the damaged track. “Okay, gentlemen, the name of the game is “Get My Goat.” The rules are simple. I’ll drive the LSV. You each get three shots at the goats from the moving vehicle. Whoever takes a goat down gets a fifth of Jack to suck down once we take back Kuwait. Easy enough.”
I think, Gotta love this guy. Never a boring moment.
I pop the pill into my mouth and take a swig of bottled water. I always do it before bed, per regulations. The pill, sometimes bitter before sliding down my throat, protects from the possible effects from chemical agents. I hope the fly-boys have taken care of them. I lie back on my cot and read the letter from Ariadne again.
Hey Joshy,
Finally got a chance to sit still for awhile and send you a letter. How is it going? Is it cold there? I try to catch CNN when I have time. Very hard to watch all those bombs killing people. That’s all I can think of when they show them. I wonder how many children are in those buildings. They say the bombs can pinpoint things, but also that people are used as shields. I try not to think about it. Very sad. I dunno. Crazy world. I hope you are doing ok. Can’t even imagine what it is like to be on the other side of the world, somewhere strange. You need to send me as many details as you can. Maybe even some pictures? Everyone here wants to know.
So, what is going on with me you ask? Well, let’s see. Ummmm. Been doing the usual stuff. Spent last friday at Trestles, then saturday at Old Man’s. Not as many jarheads on the beaches. Guess you all are busy or somethin
Oh, just thought of this. I hope they don’t read your mail before you get it. My language is pretty bad and I hope you wouldn’t get into trouble for it. Really miss you a lot. Did I mention that?
Anyhow, back to what I’ve been doing. Let’s see. Have gone to some concerts.
Pearl Jam/ Alice in Chains at florentine gardens
music was good though not my taste fully, AIC guy was pretty hardcore
Jane’s Addiction/Nine Inch Nails at the Gibson
you remember them?, we use to listen to them last summer when you’d hang with us, NIN guy is kinda cute and intense like the Alice guy, even got invited to the party after
Pixies/Jane’s/Primus at the Paladium
don’t remember too much, drank way too much jaegermeister and kinda got sick, don’t really wanna talk about that
Oh, and I almost got fired from my job a couple weeks ago. Here’s the story. I’ll try to keep it short. Know you are probably real busy getting ready to kick ass. Anyhow, I am in the shop, folding t-shirts, and this husband and wife walk in. Right away I can tell they are tourists, which I know, isn’t weird since 90% of our customers are tourists. Well, get this, the man, probably around 50 or so, wearing shorts with black socks pulled up to his calves and a pair of loafers, he asks me if we have sunglasses. His wife, about 200 pounds overweight (and should not be wearing a swimsuit, one-piece or not) starts rifling through the shirts I just folded. I ask if there is any particular brand he wants…Ray Bans, Oakleys. He says he doesn’t want any brand, just wants something to keep the sun out of his eyes. He didn’t realize how bright the sun would be in January. His tone is like I am stupid. By this time his wife has messed up two piles of shirts. Well, I tell him, there are sunglasses that tourists like down the street at Pacific Eyes and Tees. He snaps back at me saying how do I know he is a tourist. I want to answer him, but as I glance again at the socks and loafers, I just want to laugh. I think he must have caught my quick glance. He stutters out, do you have sunglasses or not? I say yes and point to the wall he walked by when he came through the door. His wife moves over to the folded jeans and starts going through those. I tell him I am sure he won’t find anything he would like and Pacific Eyes and Tees would have what he wants. At this point I want him out before his wife goes through every pile I’ve folded and leaves them to be refolded. Then he says, after the only other customer in the store walks out, what is your name miss? I am thinking, great, I don’t need to lose this job. I hate it, but I need the money right now and I hate looking for a job. So I say, Gretchen and smile at him in my best flirty kinda smile. It doesn’t work. He says he is sure my boss would like to know how rude I am to customers and he will call my boss. After him and his wife leave, I look out the front window, and, sure enough, they have Iowa plates on their car. Well, now I am sure I am going to get fired. Already been written up twice, once for being an hour late (the day after the Jane’s/NIN concert), once for my register coming up short by $30. Anyhow, I am totally stressed out for about a week, thinking every day I come in will be my last. Finally, about a week later, Steve, my boss asks me to come back into his office. I am thinking, this is it. Great, gonna have to go work at Pacific Eyes and Tees. I shoulda told that old, black-sock, loafer-wearing grandpa from Iowa to go the fuck back to his farm. No one wants him here. So, I go into Steve’s office and he is all-serious and asks me to sit down. I am thinking, here we go, maybe if I cry and make up something about my mom being sick, he will keep me on. So, Steve asks me how long have I been working here. Great. Gonna get a fucking lecture besides being let go. I say, 2 years even though it has only been like a year and a half. Steve pauses for a bit, reading a paper he has in his hand. I am trying to think of something to say to defend myself. That the old man was making sexual suggestions to me or that his wife was probably pissed because he kept staring at my legs. I start to talk, but Steve cuts me off, looks into my eyes, and tells me that Gretchen has been let go. He continues on about how I will have new responsibilities and how I need to be on time to set a good example for the other employees on the weekends. The whole time I am thinking about first, how he says weekends. I haven’t worked on a weekend for six months and don’t want to. I also can’t believe how quick I was with the old man in spouting out Gretchen when he asked me, considering her and I are both blondes and look a lot alike. Did you ever meet her? I can’t remember. So, I am now the assistant manager. Got a 35 cent an hour raise, but have to work weekends. At least I have a job though and don’t have to go out looking.
Anyhow, that’s the story and it’s kinda funny. Can thank that tourist for getting me promoted and for helping to get rid of Gretchen. She was such a bitch. She even fucked Lannie a few months ago, one night after getting toasted at Goodys. Still remember her coming in to work, all smiling, thinking she had snared him. Stupid skank.
Well, that is what I have been up to. Not a whole lot. Lannie is here now with some VHSs, so we’re gonna start watching them. He says to tell you, what’s up bro and wants you to shoot at least 10 Iraq dudes for him. Also wants to know if you’ll bring him back a souvenir, a knife or something. Ok, looks like we are watching Arachnophobia and Side Out. I wanted Hamlet with Mel Gibson, but, you know how Lannie is. He gets what he wants. I really hope you are doing ok. Miss you lots and hope you get to come home soon. Gonna sleep with the stuffed doggie you won me at Knott’s Berry Farm and think of you while you are out there protecting us. Write back soon. I’ll try to write back faster, but two letters in three months is pretty good for me. Don’t ya think? Sorry for the scribblies. Lannie is smoking a bowl as usual and keeps trying to mess up my writing. Gotta go before he gets too wasted.
Hugs and Kisses,
Ariadne
P.S. I am putting a couple pictures of me in here. The first one is on New Year’s Eve by a bonfire at Trestles. Don’t my eyes look evil? The second one, remember, is us THAT night. You so impressed me with all those push-ups. Haha. You really know how to get a girl hot! Haha. I do miss our talks. Get home safe.
I refold the letter and put it back into my left shirt pocket. I close my eyes. I envision Ariadne’s face, round and full, her giggle resonating in my mind. I touch her cheek, gently pushing her blonde hair back behind her ear. I want to kiss her, but I can’t. I pull her close to me and can feel her warm breath on my neck. She pulls away, and her face blurs.
No comments:
Post a Comment