Memorial Day Weekend

Spit your game
Talk your shit
Grab your gat
Call your cliques
Squeeze your clip
Hit the right one
-Notorious B.I.G., Notorious Thugs

::::::

In Berlin, when I told one of my aunts that my unit is deploying, she pushed a silver-dollar-sized, gold coin into my hands.

"I got this in Lourdes, when I went in 2003," she explained.

I'm not sure I believe in God I thought to myself, then I said, "I can't take this."

"No, no. Take it. It will protect you so that you can come back and visit us again!" she insisted.

The look on my face said it all, so she continued, "I'm not kidding. Take it. It's helped me in the past--cured sickness!--and I want you to have it. It's dangerous, the work you do."

"It's not that dangerous," I protested. "And I can't take this. I have my own good luck charms."

"I don't need it anymore. I'm going again this August, anyway," she said, pushing the coin back into my hands again. I looked her in the eyes, looked down at the coin, and put it in the tiny watch pocket of my jeans. She smiled warmly and sipped on some tea.

::::::

People like to ask me if I'll be doing this for career, as if someone who hasn't deployed yet can really make any long-term decisions about military service. I'm not enough of a dick to say that to people, though. Mostly, I tell them that it probably won't happen, so then they follow up, "Well, then, what are you planning on doing after the Army?"

Lately, I've been responding, "Probably work as an assassin for the CIA." And then I laugh heartily, and then they laugh. Sometimes uneasily because I can see in their eyes that though I may be laughing, they're afraid that I'm serious.

::::::

I remember a week before we got our actual dep(loyment) orders, our First Sergeant pulled the troop aside and said, "Look, guys, it's coming. I know we all thought the SCO (squadron commanding officer) was going to announce it today, and it didn't happen. But don't fool yourselves. It's coming. I don't need a degree to tell you that. Just pay attention to the news.... Be prepared. Do what you need to do to prepare yourselves.

"Listen, I know that some of you don't want to go. Some of you are afraid of going, but it doesn't matter. You signed the contract willingly. This ain't Vietnam where everyone got drafted. You volunteered for this. Be a man, and do what you promised you would do. I know some of you don't agree with this war, but hell, man, that's not our decision to make. Our politicians sent us to war, and this is our job.

"It's not about them; it's about us. It's about the guy to your left and to your right--you want him to come home to his kids, too. And it's also about your families back home. Listen, they attacked us, and whether or not you agree Iraq had anything to do with 9/11, the terrorists are there now. Because of us, they are concentrating on fighting us in Iraq. We are fighting over there because we don't want to be fighting them on our streets back home....

"Like I said, be a man, protect your home, 'cause lords knows, no one else is brave enough to do it."

Hollywood

If I've learned anything in life, it is to expect more of myself and less of others.
-Annette Amadin

::::::

"If you want an Iraqi to back off, if you wanna scare 'em, put an M9 in their face," SGT Tantrum declared. "They're not scared of the M4, but they'll shit themselves at the sight of an M9." The M9 is the Army's standard issue handgun.

SGT Tantrum elaborated, "That's the crazy thing about the Iraqis. You put your M4 in their face and it don't scare them. You could be at a checkpoint, you'd have one of them barreling at you in his car, yell at him, point your M4 at him, point the 240 Bravo at him--"

"Fuck the 240. Shoot at them with the 50 cal and they'll drive right into it," SSG Maverick cut in. "But point a pistol at them, and they'll get out of their vehicle with their hands up yelling Please! No shoot!"

"What the fuck?" I said. "That doesn't make any sense. Why?"

"A pistol's a symbol of power. Only officers carried them, and back in Saddam's regime, when they executed people, they'd drag 'em out into the middle of the streets, put the gun up against their head and shoot 'em. That's what the people see. That shit's burned into their memories, man. They lived in fear of being executed in the dark of night for decades."

I laughed in marvel.

"You know what else works, though?" SSG Maverick asked.

"What?"

"Green lasers. We'll sometimes come through and the kids'll all crowd up on you, and what're you gonna do? You can't use lethal force unless they're threatening you. They just want something, anything from you. Man, my boys tried everything on them. But green lasers work. You flash the green laser at them and they back off," SSG Maverick explained, his palms up. He continued, "It's all Hollywood, man. That's all they know about our culture. They see a green laser beam and they think some bad shit's going to happen. And it ain't just the kids. Everyone's fucking terrified of green lasers over there."

SGT Tantrum added, "Man, one of my favorite things is--especially when you get out in the fucking boonies, outside the cities--they refuse to talk to you when you have your sunglasses on."

"Why, because it's rude?"

"Well, yeah, that," SGT Tantrum said. "But it's actually more like they think we have lie detectors and computers built into our sunglasses, like in Terminator or something. I'm not even talking about the big goggles we got. My guys would be wearing Oakley's and they get all nervous around you. They think you can see into their soul or something. They'll ask you to take your sunglasses off before they'll answer your questions."

SSG Maverick added, "You know what we used to do when we did block parties*? If we got intel that there was a weapons cache in some guy's house, we'd capture him, and ask him where the weapons are hidden. Mr., I don't know what you talking about they'd lie. And then we'd put the night vision goggles on them, make them look at their house, and tell them, Now tell us again where the weapons are hidden. This can tell if you're lying. If you see purple, it means you're telling us the truth. If it's green, it means you're lying. Now, what color did you see? and then they'd look down at the ground and say, I saw green. and we'd ask, So are you lying to us? and of course, he'd say, Yes."

We all laughed, and then SGT Tantrum said, "Those backwards assed motherfuckers. It'll be a fucking miracle if they ever get a democracy going."

---

*Block Party, AKA Cordon and Search: It's what we call it when we get intel that there is a target (e.g., safe-house, weapons cache, High Value Target) in an area and we section off the area, raid all the homes on that block, and pick up every male of military age.

Miles Away From Ordinary

Saturday evening, I was in a hot tub staring out at the beachfront.

The boys and I had pooled together for a weekend trip down to South Padre Island, renting a townhouse on the beach. We'd be spending a third of our weekend driving, and two thirds drunk.

The beachhouse was decked with a patio pool and hot tub.

I held a Cape Codder in one hand hanging over the ledge of the tub. It's funny how the view of a beach can make it okay to hold a bitch drink. I'd been drunk since 8:00 a.m. and was about halfway through what would eventually be a twenty-four hour maintained buzz.

"Whaddya think a place like this costs you," Tinman sighed. He was hanging on the edge of the pool, sipping on a Pina Colada.

"Bet it's about half a mil," Weaver replied. His drink was a Corona.

"On the beach!" Tinman scoffed, "You're shittin' me, I bet this place is at least a mil."

"Probably not down here in Padre," I chimed in, "But I'll meet you halfway. I'd say this'll set you back seven hundred commas."

The house was two-storeyed with four bedrooms, two kings, a sixty-inch in the living room and a thirty-seven in each bedroom. A balcony and a patio overviewing the island beachfront. Needless to say, much nicer than the homes any of us were living in.

The guy who owned the place was a cat named Gary from Oregon. He bought the place as a vacation home to windsurf in the late Spring and early Autumn, and rents out to guests the rest of the year. I learned all this from the letter he leaves out on the dining table.

"Must be nice..." Weaver commented.

"Hey, it's not like we couldn't have a place like this," I threw it out there.

"Yeah, bullshit," Tinman scoffed again, "You think you're gonna get a place like this."

"I didn't say I will. I said we could. We threw together money for this place for a weekend. Save up a few years, we could throw together money for a place like this to own."

"Right, like I'm gonna save up to live with you guys."

"Hey, we're doing all right, it's a good weekend. Why not? You know what they say: if it ain't broke..."

I was talking out of my ass, of course. They say the quickest way to hate someone is to live with them. I'd probably hate these guys to high hell if I had to live another day with them. Besides, there were eight dudes spending the weekend together in the house. Reminded me of Project Hollywood.

Big Ben and Tinman had set up a volleyball net early in the morning in front of our patio where we played a couple of matches earlier in the day. After everyone had dove around and swallowed their share of sand, we resigned to the pool and hot tub and watched girls wander up from the beach to play.

We shooed the dudes and little kids away, but acceded to chicks playing on our net. One of the groups of girls approached our patio to thank us for the net and complimented the house. We could've so easily invited them in.

But we were on vacation. And all the best things in life are temporary, be it a beach house or skimpily-clad chicks jumping around after a ball.

I swirled my Cape Codder and took a sip. Through the bottom of the glass, I could see a Corona bottle in the front of a sandy beach backdrop.

When I was Still Your Golden Boy

As of Friday, I've officially made the transition from student to alumnus.

Today, I overheard my parents discussing it downstairs. My father commented, <All the boy does is sleep all day. He doesn't go to class, he doesn't study, how the hell is he going to work?>

<He's your son,> my mother sneered.

<And what is he thinking? Why didn't he take the ___ job offer?>

<That's the old way of thinking, old man. You can't define his success by numbers anymore. He has succeeded in that he gets to choose and decide. You and I didn't get that luxury growing up.>

It was odd hearing my mother defend me. Growing up, she was always the harsher of parents, grilling me for every mistake.

I never saw, however, that I stood in such a seemingly negative light in the eyes of my father. I never thought that he might have perceived me as the lazy slob son. Or maybe it was just that that was my father's way of accepting that I had exceeded his expectations and, perhaps, done him proud. My parents never were the type of people to express endearing words.

When my mother saw me later, she made an off-remark about how I don't look as much like my second brother as I used to.

My brother and I shared a lot in common. We share names, in fact. Conveniently, I grew up to be -- according to friends and relatives -- his spitting image, twelve years younger. As a child, I even picked up a lot of the same mannerisms as my brother; the silent composure, the head cocked back and to the left, the low, sharp tone we take when upset.

My brother got in trouble constantly in his teenage years; escorted home by the cops twice, kicked out of the house on occasions, and eventually packed his things and left home in the middle of night.

In high school, I fought a kid in a park because he said I looked at him funny. I stared at him just to provoke it. A year later, the cops phoned home to let my parents know that I had jumped a few fences to elude them. And some time later, I was caught sneaking out and back into the house at freakishly late hours of the night.

It seemed, after some point, that my parents had written me off as just another black sheep. They had five other children, after all, who could hold it against them for one bad apple?

Today, as my mother remarked about my appearance, I wondered if that were her way of telling me I'd finally come out onto my own.

The Girl's Friend is Your Enemy

Eyore rented out a lounge Saturday night for a graduation party for her boyfriend. When I arrived, a couple of girls were leaving and exchanging parting words with Warren.

"Hey," I greeted Warren at the door with a brown bag under my left arm. A liter of vodka and a liter of rum.

My eyes trailed from Warren and landed squarely on one of the departing girls; a girl of seemingly mixed heritage, pale skin, curly hair, but a dab of slant in her eyes. I'd have guessed Korean and white, the Korean of which was probably either passive or absent in her upbringing, because she donned a white-washed ensemble -- a summer dress under grandma sweaters and ribbony decor in her hair.

Following my eyes, Warren took cue and introduced me to the girls, asserting cadent emphasis on the halfie.

I shook hands with the other girl first, the halfie second and last and held her hand for a second after, "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch it. What was your name again?"

She answered, and I released her hand.

I repeated her name slowly at first and then followed up by quickly chanting it three or four times as if to commit it to memory. "Okay, got it," I clasped my hands together, "I will be asking Warren for your number later tonight."

"What?" her head bobbed backward.

"Yea," Warren chimed in, "What? She's right here, man, why don't you just ask her right now?"

"Well she's gonna say no," I explained, "And you know me -- I'm terrified of rejection."

The girl laughed, her face starting to flush a little, "Well, I think you should just try. You'll never know!"

"Oh, I already know. We just met -- I mean, a guy can't just walk up to a girl and be like, 'hey, can I have your number?' You're leaving; I've missed my chance for the pick-up. I'll take my chances with him, thank you." I pointed in Warren's direction.

"What are you afraid of?" she crossed her arms, as if I really needed to be persuaded into asking her for a number, "Let's be honest, this right here--this isn't exactly a strong first impression." She motioned her finger in a circle around the area we were standing.

"Well," I fabricated a sigh, "If you really insist."

She placed a hand on my shoulder and gave a soft squeeze, "Try me."

Why the hell wouldn't I ask her for her number? She wanted me to do it. It was her idea -- or at least, she thought it was. "All right," I began pseudo-hesitantly, "Can I have your number?"

The girl giggled and nervously broke eye contact with me. She took a deep breath. There it was, the moment of hesitation. I was so in. The girl looked around, as if looking for support or assurance. Instead, she found eye contact with her friend. Shit. I forgot about the friend -- her two windows back into a mind of sensibility.

She stopped giggling almost instantly and cleared her throat. "You know what," she looked back at me and tried to feign a smile, "I just--I don't think that's a good idea."

I feigned a reciprocating smile, "Well, that's okay. Nice to meet you, anyway." As she turned her back, "I'm...uh...I'm still going to get it from Warren, just so you know."

After they left, Warren pined, "Damn, man, I really thought you had it."

"Shut up and give me her number."

Victims of Fate

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who are prepared, and victims.
-A Drill Sergeant

::::::

Very early Friday morning, I awoke on the streets of Milan with a start. I'd been asleep for 20 minutes but my neck was killing me. Stabbs was asleep beside me, Operator slumbered in the front passenger seat, and in the driver seat, Enanita was losing control of herself.

"Operator!" she cried out.

He roused and slurred, "what. What?"

Enanita took another right turn. Last I remembered, we had just gotten into Milan, and a catnap later, we were still circling the city blocks, looking very lost.

"Help!" she demanded.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just--Just--I need to find a place to pull over so I can stop driving around in circles!" she cried. Her voice was shrill. There was a natural pause in the air, as she'd just arrived at a red light. Ours was the only car moving for blocks.

"You just want a place to stop?" he confirmed. She nodded, her eyes glistening. Wordlessly, Operator jerked the emergency brake on, unfastened his seatbelt, opened his door and went around to the driver's side. Enanita put the car in park, climbed over to the passenger seat, and dutifully put on her seatbelt. Operator released the brake, put the car in drive, took a right turn, took a left, and pulled us into a parallel parking space on a dead-end street.

Operator turned off the car, and Enanita got out and stomped off into the night.

"What the fuck was that," I asked.

"I dunno," Operator said.

"Did she get lost again? She can't find the hotel?"

"I dunno. There is no hotel."

"What are you talking about? I thought we were going to a hotel here. You said you'd made reservations. We're in Milan, right?"

"Yeah, I think we're in Milan. We didn't make any reservations for Milan. We made them for Nice. We were just gonna find a place to stay the night once we got here." I had thought Milan was a destination, but it dawned on me that it was merely a stop along the journey.

"What, is that what she's doing now?" I asked, gesturing towards Enanito, who was now 50 meters down the block, behind us.

He replied, "I dunno." Then he stepped out of the car.

Moments later, I could hear them arguing, but I didn't care. After they stopped arguing, they got back in the car and we rode for another 10 minutes searching for hotels. We stopped at 3 places and yielded nothing vacant or even in our price range. Operator drove us back to that same parking spot, killed the engine, and we went to sleep. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I remembered another night, 5 months ago, in Paris that made this feel like deja vu.

::::::

Operator insisted that we spend that three-day weekend in Paris. He needed to see Sasha, a girl he'd twice proposed to. Sasha had just arrived in Paris for a semester of study abroad. She had declined marriage because they are young, but he is certain that he could never love another girl.

And me? I came along, hoping to meet up with Southie, a girl from Boston that I'd met my super-senior year of college. Southie was also in Paris for a semester abroad.

We hit the road right after work let out on Friday and arrived in Paris at 0200 hours, Saturday. Operator had said that we could find any old hotel--after all, it was Paris. We got into town, he called Sasha, we GPSed her address, picked her up, and drove around Paris, looking for a suitable hotel. We couldn't stay at Sasha's apartment because her landlord was an old-fashioned lady who clucked disapprovingly whenever Sasha had male friends visit, and besides, even if Operator didn't need a place, I needed a place to stay. (My hook-up would be out of town until Sunday.) That night, we criss-crossed Paris to no avail. One of the possible places, Hôtel de Ville, turned out to be a city hall. We ran out of gas, and all of the gas stations were closed until 0600.

That night in January, we pulled to the side of a road, in front of some stranger's house to keep the gendarmes off our back, turned the engine off, and shivered under our individual winter coats.

::::::

In Milan, we dozed for another half hour before Operator decided, fuck it, we're not staying the night in Milan. He'd been sleeping since we got out of Austria, and slept the entire drive through Switzerland, Liechtenstein, and Italy into Milan. He made it another half hour before he pulled to a rest station along Italy's autostrada.

We were parked under a street light, and I had to cover my eyes with one of my socks to get any rest.

Like the Paris trip, I was grossly under-prepared for this trip. Thursday after lunch, I'd idly asked Operator what he had in store for the weekend. He mentioned Milan and Nice, and asked if I wanted to come. Of course I jumped at it.

Once we got to our hotel, Le Meridien, I had to buy swim trunks and flip flops because I didn't know that Nice was on France's Mediterranean coast. That Nice was in fact, a part of France's famed Riviera. I'd just wanted to get out of the barracks and see more of Europe before I'd be breathing in Iraq's wasteland of moondust.

::::::

Germany had been storming the past week, and we'd been putting in longer days in preparation for our deployment. There was a new energy on post, as everything we did was drenched in the grim urgency and importance of war.

France was a welcome change of pace.

I mostly lounged on the beach, with a novel and mojito in hand. The Mediterranean sun blazed late into the evenings there. The sea brought in balmy winds that cooled my brow. I drifted into and out of consciousness under the warm skies. When I couldn't focus anymore on the novel at hand, I took off into the brisk, clear waters and swam. I haven't been to the beach in years, it seems--at least the 19 months that I've been in the Army, anyway. I went out to where I could no longer stand and treaded water.

There were young couples out. The girls were scandalously sexy, and I deeply envied the French with their warm sun, cool waters, and supple, beautiful girls. In the evenings, the youth were out in force. Legions of lovely French ladies swarming the streets and cafes, bodies banging, eyes expectant, and boyfriends hand in hand.

For two whole days, I tasted this glimmering, slightly bitter wine. I think of it as a recon mission. A lifetime later, after Iraq, I'll be ready and in force.

I Bleach the Sky Every Night

Plucker, Wall, and I seated ourselves in a dingy, hole-in-the-wall type of bar. Just the type we like. A cute waitress attended to us, a baby-doll face with a shy, nerdy kind of smile.

"Hi fellas, what do I--" she stuttered, "I'm sorry, I mean--what can I getcha?"

I stared wordlessly and grinned at her slurred speech.

She noticed me and repeated herself, "I'm sorry, I'm just--I--"

"Hey," I cut her off, "I know we are cute as hell, dear, but you don't have to be nervous around us."

She laughed an awkward, geeky laugh. She was obviously drunk as hell.

"Jeezus," I said, "What have you been drinking tonight?"

"I've been--I've--" she was still stuttering, "I've been drinking with that table--that table over there. With my co-worker, she's--she's off tonight. I think I had a couple gin and tonics, a bull-blaster, I think--I think the last one was an Amaretto sour."

"Of those, which one did you like most?"

"I liked the Amaretto sour," she said, nodding. That was her first confident statement of the night.

"Well, then," I leaned back in my seat, "I will have a... gin and tonic, please."

She gave me a what-the-fuck look, but giggled, brushing me lightly on the shoulder. Wall and Plucker ordered their drinks, and the girl disappeared.

The cocktail waitress -- her name, Bick -- returned moments later with our drinks. I remarked, as if surprised, "Wait, where's yours?"

"Nooo!" she playfully whined, "I--I can't!"

She turned her back to me to empty her tray of drinks to the occupants of an adjacent table, then returned and sat at our table, to my immediate right.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I clamored, "What the hell is this? You can sit at my table, but you can't drink with us?"

"I really can't take another drink," she pleaded.

"This table is a drinking table," I declared, "We are celebrating."

"What are you celebrating?" she sat erect, hands on her hips, skeptical-eyed, drunk-nerd-baby-doll look on her face.

"We are celebrating..." I trailed off to think. Then, I pulled her seat closer and I threw an arm around her, "We are celebrating you and me."

She pushed off, "Honey, I'm not sure there's a lot to celebrate there."

She called me honey. She had been slowly gaining confidence throughout our flirtatious exchange, and all of a sudden, she was pushing me off and calling me honey.

I use words like dear and sweety because they are borderline-condescending terms of endearment. The girl will want me more as I climb higher up on the disparity ladder. And one of the methods of demonstrating value is by debasing her's without directly insulting.

I couldn't let her take the reins by using condescending terms on me. That shit simply will not fly. I had to dethrone her.

I turned to Wall and spoke to him instead. We had a brief conversation that did not involve Bick.

A moment later, Bick tapped me on the arm and leaned in as if to whisper, her chin almost resting on my shoulder. I did a double-look, as if I had just remembered that she were still around.

"Is that your friend?" she indicated at Plucker.

"Yeah," I answered. My eyes narrowed, suddenly insulted. Was this girl sitting next to me and checking out my friend? What was I -- some sort of middle-man stepping stone between her and another dude?

"I think I remember him coming in here before," she whispered, "He was in here with some other guys, and he was trying to ask me to hang out. He asked me if I would like to have lunch with him the next day, and he said that he was going to have lunch with his friend, Luck, and that I would like him."

I chuckled. I didn't understand Plucker's thought process behind trying to use my name to pick up a girl, especially when she had never met me before. I was, however, flattered nonetheless.

"You are that Luck, aren't you," she said.

"I am likeable."

She smiled a shying-away smile.

"Well, now that you've met me," I continued, "And now that you know I'm likeable ... how does lunch sound?"

She hesitated for a moment. As she did, I turned away to continue my talk with Wall, as if to let her know I really couldn't care less about having lunch with her.

She acquiesced, "I will call and let you know. What's your number?"

"Oh, you are in some shit now," I snapped, "You wouldn't have lunch when my homeboy asked, but here you are, playing a whole 'nother tune?"

Her facial expression turned to confusion.

"I'm telling him! I'm telling him!" I playfully cocked my nose toward the air and away, like a child taunting another.

She wrestled me back to attention, "What! Just because I won't have lunch with a guy, you won't have lunch with me?"

"You know the bros befo' rule, sweety, you are asking me to tread it! What makes you think you're that special!" I grinned, my eyes playful. I made sure she knew she still had a great chance if she'd pursue it.

"Oh, what's so great about bros," she sighed, exasperated, "Maybe I'm not different from any other girl that fucks you, but how can another guy be so special!"

"There's a helluva difference," I explained, "What guarantees do I have, that after you fuck me, that you'd still be around later on down the road when I need somebody."

"What makes you think I'd even fuck you," she rolled her eyes, pulled back, crossed her arms, and pouted a geeky pout.

I laughed, "You did! You're the one grouping yourself with girls that fuck me!"

Her facial expression turned to realization, her pout turned up a coy smile, her arms uncrossed and softened to her sides. "You..." she started slowly, "You're good at this."

"Sweety, you have no idea. I am fuckin' great at this." I leaned across our seats, threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, "So, about that lunch..."

This time, she didn't push off.

Grey Clouds for Miles

I slouched in my seat, breath heavy of alcohol, numb of the rest of the world. There would be a final exam in under twelve hours, but I cared none. I'm an overprivileged child of upper-middle-class suburbia. School was a formality, not a necessity. In a month, I'll be making that paper. The world was mine and ripe for the picking.

"D'you hear about Tank?" Chipmunk asked me, interrupting my moment of euphoria.

I chortled under my breath. In inebriety, everything seems worthy of a chuckle and a smile. "Tank? I haven't 'heard about' Tank in years."

"He passed away."

My eyebrows scrunched together, my cheeks came together like I'd popped a sour Warhead, "Shut the fuck up."

Chipmunk didn't say a word, just as I had told him to do. But that wasn't really what I wanted him to do.

"How?" I finally mustered up.

"Gunshot wound," Chipmunk spoke again, "Cripple just told me today. S'all I know."

"In combat?"

"Yeah."

"What was he, Army or Corp?"

"Army."

It'd been three and a half years since Thomas passed away. As insensitive as it sounds, other people's deaths stopped affecting me. There'd been three close deaths that I know of since Thomas's, and I never raised so much as an eyebrow to a one. Thomas was the "where" to my Brodsky's Almost an Elegy.

And in truth, Tank was no different. I never actually hung out with the guy -- didn't even know his last name. Played football and basketball with him and his brother a handful of times. Six-feet-something, two-something pounds, built like -- well, a tank. So thick-skinned, he once played basketball on the asphalt of my street bare-feet.

But it wasn't his passing that had upset me. It was the when and the where: in the deserts of Iraq, two days after Scout gave me the news.

Two days ago, Scout informed me that his squadron had received the word. They'd be deploying to Iraq in -- he's not allowed to say when -- what I assume will be the Fall of this year.

And I didn't take the oh-fuck kind of attitude toward the news. I approached it with the congratu-fucking-lations! attitude -- as if he were a man and a gun without a target, a hunter sighting his first deer, a child in search of validation finding the light of opportunity. All I said to him was, "Keep your ass clean," to which he responded, "Fo'sho'."

Three and a half years had been enough time to regain confidence; to again believe that we are an invincible youth, bred for life, and destined for fortune. Tank's name aroused only in the nick of time to remind us otherwise.

I'm not a hippie. I'm not the guy in the crowd with the sign that reads, "Bring our sons home from war." I love the U.S. of A. and I would cut and I would bleed if she asked it of me, unconditionally.

But no camel-jockey ass sand-nigger's going to stop my children (legitimate or otherwise) from playing in the backyard with those of my godbrother. Fact.

In the Beginning, There was the Word...

Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying,
"Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?"
And I said, "Here I am. Send me!"
—Isaiah 6:8

::::::

We got the word go this morning.

Heading to morning PT formation, I saw troops marching around post, first sergeants calling cadence. I never see troops marching in cadence--not in the real Army anyway.

Instead of a troop formation, we rallied in the motor pool, and the SCO announced, "Around 1400 Thursday last week, the Secretary of Defense signed orders, and around 1300 hours yesterday, we got word. As of now, __ squadron is on deployment orders, port of call Iraq, in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom."

There was a slight pause before we responded with a less-than-enthusiastic, "HOOAH!"

He told us that beyond what he had just said, we could not tell anyone anything else. Not the time of day, the date, where exactly in Iraq we're going, or anything. He gave us some information, but not enough. And then he asked, "Is anybody scared?"

A few soldiers raised their hands, faces plastered with shit-eating-grins that dared everyone else to call them pussies.

He dismissed us to tell our families the news.

At 0700 here, the clock had just struck midnight back in Texas. Mom and Dad were sleeping, and I decided not to wake them up to give them what I knew would be ill tidings. I told my brother in the Navy, Squid. I told my godbrother, Lucky. Later on in the day, I was able to call Mom, but I was very brief. She took it well, but it sounded like her insides were deflated, like she couldn't breathe. I hung up before I could hear her cry. I was still at work.

After work, I called home but couldn't catch anyone. Mom's cellphone went to the voice-mail. I called my baby sister, Tea. She's finishing her freshman year of college, and I should have known that as soon as I told her I was going to Iraq, she would cry. She cried and cried. "I don't want you to go," she wept.
I laughed and told her, "But, Tea, you knew I'd be going."

"Yeah, but it's so soon."

"I've been in the Army 19 months. Almost two years."

"It doesn't seem like that long ago."

"C'mon, Tea...." I said. "I'll be all right."

We maneuvered the conversation over to something less emotional, something retarded about how she finally saw Spiderman 3 after I advised her not to. I let her go and hoped that I didn't just cause her to fail a final.

::::::

I will come home on pre-deployment leave in July.

Alpha Males to Whiskey Dick

"Tonight we'll drink to celebrate. Or, we'll drink to mourn." Those were my words just moments before the Rockets and Jazz tipped off for Game 7.

And last night, we drank to mourn.

After the game, the boys and I went downtown to an up-class club for some girl or another's birthday. Bouncers in tuxedos and everything. The crowd inside was great; probably the best club atmosphere I've ever been in, though that's not saying much since I'm not much of a club-goer. There were cute girls. Lots of cute girls. Everywhere.

And I didn't approach a single one.

Ever since I received a copy of Neil Strauss's The Game for a late Christmas present, I've been more analytical with myself in social situations. I've come to the realization that I don't have alpha-male confidence when I'm with my boys. I'm not a natural as a couple of people have hinted to me; I was completely socially inept and awkward before I met these guys. My social skills and confidence is only a result of having the luxury of growing up and being in daily contact with a handful of guys who are naturals. Inadvertently, when I'm in large social gatherings with the boys, my confidence dwindles, and I regress into a shy, diffident wallflower. In a sense, I almost look up to these guys, and as a result, I'm unintentionally AMOGed by them.

The result isn't entirely undesired, however. The confidence that rubs off from being around naturals my entire life carries with me when I'm with other crowds. When I'm with Titty and Plucker, for instance, I'm the alpha male. Under those circumstances, I have much more success both socially and sexually.

But those weren't the circumstances last night. And in a room full of beautiful women, I could not find the cojones to approach a single one.

-

Rabbit called me as I was on my way home, with the morning slowly encroaching. Rabbit is one of those girls that build walls around themselves and sabotage their relationships for fear of being hurt. Her relationships invariably fail and she keeps an emotionally uninvested guy around to distract her in her downtime. It's one of those downtimes again.

Apparently, this weekend was prom weekend for some high schools. Her younger brother attended his prom and proceeded to go to an after-party, where he got trashed and couldn't drive himself home. She asked if I could help pick him up and drive him in his car home.

I rendezvoused with the both at a diner, where I switched cars and drove the kid's car back to his parents' place. Then, I hopped in Rabbit's car, but instead of going back to my car, we decided to go to her apartment instead.

There, I found my cojones.

I also found whiskey dick. To be wholly correct, it wasn't exactly whiskey dick per se. I managed to get the erection, no problem. The problem was in the delivery.

I don't know what it is about alcohol, but I've always known it had an effect on a person's sexual performance. Up until last night, those effects had always been desirable. I don't know or care about any of the scientific explanations, but for me, consuming alcohol into a mild drunkenness helps my endurance. My guess is that the alcohol slightly numbs the senses so I'm able to continue a while longer before orgasm. In fact, I enjoy having sex for the first time with a girl under the influence. It helps my performance, and after the first time, you're really not as nervous or excited about it the second time.

But last night, the effects were far from desired.

I'm not a marathon runner. After about twenty minutes, I started to worry. I wasn't getting that tingling sensation where I know I can jizz at will. So I started to work harder. We switched positions and I took the reins, and I fucked the hell out of this bitch. I couldn't understand it. What the fuck was wrong with me? How was I sober enough to drive a car and yet too drunk to come?

I don't know how long we were at it. I lost feeling in my left leg after some time, as if blood circulation had been cut off. I tried everything; I sped up my breathing, I tried to hold my breath, I imagined porno filcks, I yelled at her, spanked her ass, pulled her hair, we switched up positions at least half a dozen times. When I gave up, the sun was coming up, we were drenched in each other's sweat, she had an almost frightened look on her face, and we had both stopped any talking or moaning or making any noise at all, just hell-bent on reaching the promised land. I could not achieve coital ejaculation.

Needless to say, we did not have morning-after sex. And I did not stay around for breakfast.

Smokin' Aces

The restroom at the bar was one the cleanest I've seen, for obvious reasons.

::::::

Now I'm thirteen, smokin' blunts, makin' cream
-Notorious B.I.G., Respect

::::::

I had plans, y'know?

Drive down to the Austrian border with my boys, Stabbs and Cowboy, and check out the Eagle's Nest. If you haven't seen Band of Brothers, the Eagle's Nest was the Nazi Party's present for Hitler on his 50th birthday. To get to Hitler's lodge atop of Mt. Kehlstein, visitors enter a tunnel dug out of the mountain and ride an elevator up. The view's supposed to be spectular--the Eagle's Nest overlooks a range of mountain peaks and lakes in the Alps.

But you make plans, wake up early on a weekend morning, pack your day-bag, walk out the barracks door, and see sheets of rain coming down. Overnight, the mild Bavarian summer becomes a storm that's forecast to stay wet and chilly through the weekend.

Our plans shot, we resort to doing what millions of other Americans did: we watched Spiderman 3 and bitched about how much of a letdown it was. Except, we're cavalry scouts stationed in Germany, and to catch a Hollywood blockbuster on opening weekend here, you gotta ride almost an hour to the city and pay 8 euro ($11). We felt entitled to movie genius, and instead, we got something a little less bad than Snakes on a Plane.

Since we were in town anyway, we roamed the streets until we were so hungry that we agreed to go to a bar + grill named California. We passed up on it at first, figuring we should be hitting joints serving German dishes instead of those with poor imitations of American food.

I started off with a mojito--which I'd been craving all week and couldn't make for myself because the commissary/grocer on post doesn't sell mint leaves--then ordered some pasta dish that was expensive and bland, but who really cares when it's 1721 and they haven't eaten all day? What rescued the meal was the Cohiba. I'd seen a picture of a cigar on the menu, so after the waitress took our orders (which for me, means pointing to a random line written in German that reads vaguely like English and praying that it isn't actually man-sausage), I flipped to the page with the cigar, and motioned with my fingers while asking, "'Schuldigung, Kann ich habe eine zigarren?"

She nodded and disappeared. Two seconds later, a waiter in a vest showed up with a cigar menu. We scanned the list for some Cuban cigars, and my friends got Montecristos. "Cohiba, robusto," I said.

The waiter came back with our cigars, wooden matchsticks, ashtrays, and a guillotine-style cutter. Cowboy had never smoked a cigar before, so Stabbs advised him: "You wanna cut on the closed end, about a quarter of an inch from the tip. You gotta light it like this. Blow on the end and keep rotating the cigar until the whole end is lit. Put that end in your mouth. Puff, like you're kissing the cigar. Pull the smoke in your mouth but don't inhale it. Keep it in your mouth until you can taste it. Then you can let it out. Yeah. How's it taste, man?"

"Like coffee beans," Cowboy said. "Only lighter. This is kinda nice."

"Better be nice," I said. "Cost me 20 euro ($27) for this one."

Then he coughed, "Fuck, swallowed some."

We laughed, and spent the next hour puffing away.

I'm not a cigar aficionado. I don't have a smoking jacket or a humidor. I just wanted to try a Cohiba because it's Fidel Castro's personal brand. For decades, the Cohiba brand was available only to Castro, the highest members of the Cuban communist party, and of course, personal guests and visiting foreign dignitaries. In the 80's, he opened the brand up to the rest of the world, and for a premium price, everyone could enjoy the same cigars that the dictator of Cuba did.

Cuba produces the best cigars in the world because of its tradition, expert rollers, and the exquisite tropical climate required to consistently produce the top-quality tobacco needed for fine cigars--in fact, like fine wines, premium cigars are known for both their label and vintage. The leaves are cured and fermented for up to 5 years before they're even rolled, and connoisseurs further age finished cigars in their humidors for months before smoking them. If Cubans are cigar nobility, then the Cohiba is king.

My robusto's taste was subtle, woody, with a hint of roasted coffee beans. And it got better, more complex and spicier the longer I smoked it. The Cohiba didn't produce as much smoke as the Montecristos did, and it's smell was wonderful. I was so relaxed with the alcohol and tobacco, I didn't care that my plans for the Eagle's Nest was shot on account of the torrential rain, or that plan B with Spiderman was equally disappointing. And even though the Cohiba cost more than my meal and drinks, it was well worth the price.

We stop by a tobacco shop on the way back onto post, and I bought 2 Cohibas and 2 Montecristos. I don't make very much, and in due time, I will bleed for my money, but what's the sense of working hard if you never get to play?