News in Spanish, then nothing. Garbled evangelical rant broke through the silence, yet Clay still spun the dial, moving the needle through walls of eerie static and blips of fleeting, scrambled voices. Tri-state… cancer research…corn prices… He stopped somewhere around preset six when he finally picked up a solid signal. It was symphony, which was better than the sound of a rattling F-150 over corduroy gravel, but he soon remembered that all Yuppie music sounds alike. He turned the volume knob to overpower the hissing blast of the heater.
The world outside was no more than layered gray and black. The snow and sky, mailboxes and trees, all melted together until momentarily reassembled when struck by his passing headlights. He cracked his window and lit a cigarette. He inhaled quickly, exhaled slowly. Schubert streamed through the cab.
He passed a set of twin silos and turned into a gated drive, coming to a rest in his tracks from the previous morning. With a twist of a key the headlights died, almost symbolically with the silencing of the music. Save the tinking from under the hood, all returned to silence. He finished his cigarette in the dark, grabbed his flashlight and stepped into the cold. A trail of trampled brown grass and leaves led to a humble brush pile, under which rested Clay’s Conibear 220 trap. It was baited with fish guts and as he walked closer, he smelled the frozen, oily rot. He twisted his flashlight and grunted as he squatted. The trap was set deep. The dense beam bounced off bark and leaves before falling on a mass of matted, frozen fur, crimped between rust brown iron. It was too small to be a fox, but he still held hope for a coon or mink.
He zipped his Carhartt and wriggled into the blackness, arm extended, fingers searching frosted mud. In a desperate attempt to expedite the process, he swung his arm in small loops until finally landing, with a thud, on furry flesh. It was small-too small for a coon, too coarse for a mink. He sighed. Another damned possum. Cramped breathing was now replaced by muffled groans and curses. He wriggled backwards tugging on the carcass, uprooting the trap and thrashing through impeding twigs. Clumps of snow fell down his collar.
He inched out of the brush and rose to his knees, flinging the animal through the dark toward his truck. It spun for a moment before hitting a post near the gate. Though instead of the familiar, soft thwack he expected, it produced a clear, perceptible jingle – metal on metal. Clay scratched his beard with his meaty hand and dug in his pocket for his cigarettes. He smiled.
“Guess it wasn’t a possum after all.”

He stood over the dead cat, shining a flashlight at the ID tags dangling from the fraying collar.
“Delilah”
314 Rural Route 6
319-555-6311
Someone would be looking for it, and the creased, spiraling torso blatantly suggested the cause of death. He couldn’t leave it. The last thing he needed was another pissed off farmer’s wife flying off the handle about being humane and how we live in a modern world and what’s the point in trapping anyway and you know that was my daughter’s favorite cat. Not today.
He dropped it into his truck bed atop empty cigarette packs, shotgun shells and hamburger wrappers. The sun was a sliver on the horizon, silhouetting the distant tree line against an ashy-orange Midwestern sky. He turned the key and slammed the door.
******
The road curved around a grain elevator and slimmed to one dirt lane flanked by careening ditches. Clay slowed as he dropped off the gravel onto the unplowed path. Wind had filled any existing tracks with snow, leaving a miniature, white desert landscape sprawling before his clamoring truck. He rolled through the dunes blaring Bach. When he got to a solitary mail box he stopped and retrieved two damp envelopes. 10 Free Sunday Issues with 6 month Subscription! and a bill from Fox County Electric Co-op. A red stamp in the corner read FINAL NOTICE. He jammed them in his coat pocket and pulled into the driveway.
The yard was littered with tires and cinder blocks, rusted bicycles and piles of unknown matter covered with blue, vinyl tarps. An archaic tractor rested in a cluster of cedars giving the property an eerie feeling of finality. The Ford stopped directly in front of the porch.
“Dad! Getchyer ass up!” Clay stepped out of the truck, slapping the mail against his thigh. He hopped over a missing step and knocked twice before entering. It smelled of wet carpet and stale beer. Clay opened the fridge and scanned the shelves for something fresh. Stacked Styrofoam take-out boxes teetered. Mustard. Soy sauce. Vodka. He closed the fridge.
“Dad! Come on, I got your mail. They’re ‘bout to shut off your electric.” He listened for the familiar rustling from the bedroom, for the slow, heavy footsteps down the hall to the dingy bathroom. He listened but heard nothing.
“Dad!” Yelling louder now, he rushed down the hallway, shuffling his rubber boots through dirty laundry and empty beer cans. Family pictures hung crooked on the wall. Clay glanced at the 8x10 of his father, 25 years younger, standing on the roof of Aunt Brauer’s house smiling and extending a blurry, waving hand. He liked this one. It reminded him of the Dad of his childhood. The Dad who kept food in the fridge. The Dad who paid his bills on time. His dad used to be a good man, and he appreciated the reminder.
The bedroom door was closed. With a kick, it swung open revealing a thin, weathered mattress stacked on a box spring. The sheets were balled up at the foot, unmoved from the day prior. A poorly anchored ceiling fan thumped above, casting quivering light across floral wallpaper. Outside a dog bayed.
In the kitchen he found a pen in a drawer under the microwave and scribbled a note on a nearby, greasy, paper plate.
Stopped by at seven.
Have to go to work. Call me at the
grain elevator. Give me a list of groceries
you need and I’ll bring them by tonight.
PAY YOUR ELECTRIC BILL!!
CLAY
He set the note on the coffee table next to a soggy, butt covered TV Guide, overdue bill on top. The clutter was smothering. For a moment he considered cleaning, but rejected the idea when he saw a cockroach dart under a wrinkled receipt, taking refuge in the undergrowth of wrinkly magazines and sticky, crushed Dixie cups. He hurried toward the door, away from the squalor.
He pushed the screen and stepped out feeling liberated, like a prisoner of war emerging from a rat infested bamboo cage. The world was thawing and water trickled from icicles making trenches in the snow under the awning of the porch. The freshness of the outside air clashed with the stale thickness seeping from the screen behind him.
He stood on the sagging porch thinking of how long it had taken for this degrading transformation to take place. Ten years? Twenty? Had it always been this way, with layered, aging clutter? A raven hopped around an amputated truck bed behind a distant, sterile cherry tree. Soon, another pair glided from a looming oak, landing with a throaty grunt. They congregated like old women after church, belling and snorting as they circled a lumpy mound in the snow. Clay watched curiously as more birds floated in and intermittent cawing became a chaotic argument, a raucous conflictive dispute. He squinted and his head rolled to one side. His face morphed from childish curiosity to curled confusion. Concern. Disgust. Disbelief. He inched closer, cautious as though approaching an un-tethered, sleeping pit bull. The birds reluctantly scattered in synchronized pairs. He stared, rigid and blank, at what lay beneath.

******

“Brent?”
“Hey listen Clay, I’m swamped right now. Call me back in an hour.”
“No. Brent, I called because – “
“Clay, seriously. I’m about to walk into a conference and everybody’s waiting and – “
“Dad’s dead.” Spoken aloud, the words were abrasive and cold as though read from a police blotter or a morning situation brief. He felt he should say more or reword the delicate situation and present it again, more eloquently, but it was too late. 66 years of life had been concluded with two words. Two syllables. There was silence on the other end. “Brent, you still there?”
“Yeah,” he spoke quieter, with less annoyance and distraction. “I’m still here. What happened?”
“He got tanked last night and passed out in the snow. Froze to death. I found him this morning, by the cherry tree.” Clay turned from the receiver and took a deep breath. He was shaking.
“Well,” said Brent, quicker and less affected than Clay was expecting, “serves him right. We all knew it was comin’ and we told him over and over again. Dad, that shit’s gonna kill you! It’s gonna kill you, Dad! And now look. Now look, Clay! He’s dead and it serves him right and I don’t…” he trailed off, pulling the phone from his cheek. More silence.
“Listen, I haven’t called the Sheriff yet. I just thought you’d want to know first.” He needed to end this conversation and thought it best to use something official.
“Yeah. That’s fine. I’ll leave tonight if the roads are okay. I gotta go. Thanks for calling.” He hung up before Clay could respond, leaving him slouching to a dial tone in a decaying house. Dad’s dead. It jarred his mind once more, and then he dialed 911.
******
Oblong, lumpy tufts of white fell from the turbid sky as Clay slowly turned the dial of his propane stove just inside the barn door. He watched the blue flame grow until it tickled the bottom of the steel, wax-filled vat. The dirt floor was strewn with pots and pans stained with dye, tractor parts, soda bottles and tools. Antlers and dusty furs hung from the walls, linear and organized at one time, but now, crammed and overlapping like pins on a VFW hat. He wore a rubber apron over a torn flannel coat and stained sweatpants. His boots were unlaced. When he saw that the wax was liquefied, but not smoking, he dropped a bundle of traps into the vat. Six at a time, two minutes per bundle. He set his watch.
The smooth whine of an imported engine echoed across a barren bean field. Clay squinted through the mid-day sun to see his brother’s Mercedes rolling toward him, fluorescent-blue running lights gliding above his wet, slushy drive.
Brent stepped out wearing a black suit under a pressed, grey trench coat. He was just tall enough to look like an adult, but a bit too scrawny, Clay thought, to be taken seriously as a lawyer. He hiked his pants up at the thighs and tip-toed through the muck to the dryness of the barn. Once inside, he shook the melting flakes off his head and turned his attention toward his brother.
“Three and a half hours before your father’s funeral, and you’re in your barn playing Jeremiah Johnson. You never stop, do you?”
“You need something?” Clay looked at his watch.
Brent squatted and curiously inspected the vat. His smooth baby face reflected in the steaming liquid. “What is this stuff, oil?” He sniffed with petite nostrils.
“It’s wax. Seals any remaining scent left by previous animals. Come on Brent, you didn’t come here to talk about trapping. What do you want?”
Brent reached in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here, take this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a eulogy. Pastor Thom wrote it for dad. Said we didn’t have to use his if we had something better, but figured we wouldn’t. He wanted me to read it but I’m not going to. That’s your job.”
“Whoa, wait.” Clay looked up from the printout. “What’s that mean? I’m not reading this- how is it my job?” His watch blipped and he removed his traps, keeping his eyes locked on his brother.
“Oh get real, Clay. We both know Dad would want you to speak at his funeral, not me. Hell, I barely talked to the guy for two years.”
“Damnit! I knew it was gonna turn out this way. DAD WAS A DRUNK! Been that way for the past ten years. All the friends he used to have gave up on him and he gave up on us. He was the town boozer and everyone knew it, but they’ll be singing his praises today! Oh, he was a single father who raised two kids. He was a hard worker. He was a God fearing man.” Clay held his arms to the sky and waved his hands mockingly. “Just because he’s dead doesn’t make him a good person. He’s still worthless to me. I’m not reading a thing.” He turned the knob on the propane tank until the flames extinguished with a quick pop, and grabbed his hat from the nearby welder. He slapped it on his head and walked toward his truck. Brent followed.
“Come on Clay. What’re you doing? You have to start getting ready.”
“I’m not going, Brent.”
“What? No, you have to! It’s our dad’s funeral. You can’t just skip it like high school art class.” Brent stepped in front of his brother, stopping him. “So what now? You’re going trapping instead of your own father’s funeral?”
Clay skirted around him and hoisted himself into his truck. It turned over several times before starting with a gurgling explosion. He rested his elbow out the window and looked at his brother. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”
******

33 traps of various types lay hidden along the river valley of southern Fox County. Snares, foot traps and conibears baited with fish guts, sardines and dog food had been strategically placed over a six mile stretch of frozen farmland and muddy slough banks. Usually, Clay checked and re-baited around ten traps a day, saving the most lucrative ones for the days he felt particularly hapless. Today he would check them all.
He parked on the road and left his truck running. As he trampled through the grass and saplings toward his trap he imagined the funeral home – somber and perfumy . Organs on CD playing over mounted speakers. Strangers signing a guestbook. Quiet comments on beautiful flowers. Closed casket.
It was a nice service, they’ll say. The family seems to be holding up well and I wonder what will happen to his place? and Oh, what a horrible shame.
He got to a bank of a frozen stream and followed it north to a swollen, crumbling stump. He had hollowed out a small cavity angled into the ground, just large enough to fit a trap, and glazed it with salty fish – a hole which was now filled with a fat mass of writhing grey and black fur.
The raccoon had obviously bumped the trap while inspecting the peculiarly unnatural cavern. The iron was clamped diagonally across the shoulder and abdomen, pinching its right arm tight against a hip. Clay lit a cigarette as it struggled in short bursts of energy, pulling and pushing against the relentless, metal captor.
A small sandbar jutted into the shallow stream behind him where he found a smooth, oval stone slightly bigger than a brick. He lifted it above his head several times, gauging its capabilities. The raccoon lay still, recuperating from its futile fight-preparing for its next. Clay returned, stone in hand.
He was a good man they’ll say. Drank a lot though. The raccoon twisted violently, its skin rumpled and chafed against sinewy muscle. Clay lifted the rock. You know, he raised those boys all by himself. Worked his ass off for those kids. Hisses surged through yellow teeth. Lips curled and quivered. It’s a damned shame it ended that way. He used to be such a nice guy. He brought down the stone using both hands. Jaws clenched. Eyes open. You know, those kids were all he had. It fell with the precision of an awl, punching through and continuing into the earth, through the earth. He just let himself go is what he did. He was lucky those boys still helped him. Clay fell to his knees in the muffled forest. The animal twitched in the shadow of its executor. Then, all was still. It’s a damned shame it ended that way. It’s a damned shame.

Not So Jolly Now

It was a dry, scorching day in Al Anbar, Iraq. We had been tasked to hold a blocking position on a busy road in east Fallujah. Another unit was conducting a day long raid and we were to prevent any insurgents from entering or exiting the area. Sounds exciting, right? That's what I thought too, until the seventh hour of not seeing a single moving vehicle - insurgent filled or otherwise. I did, however, unwillingly shoulder another daunting task; fending off annoying Arab kids.
They came in scores, babbling shattered English with their hands in the air, screaming, "I lob you meester. O zey khan you see!" and asking to trade ridiculous items like bowls and sticks for laptops and rifles. It was tolerable for a little less than 12 minutes. Then, as the crowd of smelly, brown adolescents grew to mob standards, my teammate and I decided to launch our own mission; Operation Jolly Rancher.
It started by simply loading Jolly Ranchers ( 5 pound bags were issued to our team by the corpsman to maintain blood sugar levels) into our slingshots (issued to us by our unit for warding off wild dogs) and launching them as far as possible. The intention was to get 100+ kids to sprint 120 yards to find a single Jolly Rancher buried amongst the trash and debris of the breathtaking cityscape. It didn't work.
The crowd was growing and we needed to think of something quick. I looked down to see a tall Iraqi boy holding up a pencil.
"Meester, meester, give me money Amerikhan, I give you peeyencil." He wriggled through the crowd as though his idea trumped their persistent yelling, begging and bowl-bartering. His eyes were fixed on me. I watched him carefully as he pushed closer to the vehicle. I was amazed at his confidence and faith in the practical value of his pencil. Just as he opened his mouth to pitch his deal once again, a super sonic, grape Jolly Rancher whizzed through the air and impacted with a fleshy slap just below his left eye. I turned to see my teammate, Paris, standing on the hood of the vehicle, freshly fired slingshot still in hand.
"All right you little pricks!" he yelled. "Who's next?" He loaded another Jolly Rancher. "Watermelon this time, assholes."
We split the bag. He took the right side of the truck, I took the left, and together we unleashed assorted flavors of pain and carnage. It was like a parade gone horribly wrong. Within one minute, the road was just as void of pesky kids as it was of terrorist filled getaway cars. I felt kind of bad, still do. Kind of. But we did what we had to do. All is fair in love and war.

Richard’s Auto Body

I don’t know what draws me here. Every time I enter, I’m flooded with fear and guilt like the body shop itself rests on an ancient burial ground and my presence alone is enough to summon demons and bad karma. But I always stay until sunset, giving me just enough time to sprint home before my dad’s Audi putters into our driveway. I can’t read the clock, but I know I have plenty of time for conducting business.
I suppress the mental images of my father’s furrowing brow and angry beard scratching as I make my way through the body shop, toward his office. The flimsy sign on the door reads Employees Only. I push the door open and stand on my toes to hit the light switch, careful not to flip the one on the left which controls the air compressor. With a clink and a hum, the fluorescent bulbs flicker on, revealing the vast, comfortable mysteries of my dad’s business.
It isn’t so much an office as it is a walk-in closet tightly crammed with filing cabinets and a desk. Crooked, framed pictures of Dad smiling with nameless clients and their priceless cars clutter the walls. A stack of outdated NHRA calendars threatens to topple from a shelf above my head, but years of lacquer overspray have forged it into an indestructible tower. The tiny room is cluttered and unkempt, subtly harboring the secrets of being an adult, and more importantly, being my dad.
I climb to the padded seat of the swivel chair where, after a few silent, fluid spins, I get down to business. The surface of everything is covered in a thin layer of Bondo dust and empty paper coffee cups litter the desk. I’m careful not to disturb much as I open the top drawer of the nearest filing cabinet labeled BILLS. I search through tubes of insta-weld and putty knives before finding a suitable estimate book with plenty of carbon paper left.
A yellow phone sits on a stack of tri-county phonebooks. It is spattered with colorful blotches of paint and pink repair putty. After disconnecting the line, I pick it up and press it to my ear with a shoulder, allowing me to talk and write. I speak with a man about repairing his nineteen-something Ford. It’s always a rare car, irreplaceable to the customer- which is why they choose Richard’s Auto Body. I use words like quarter panel and after market parts, ambiguously describing the method I will use to repair their one-of-a-kind vehicle.
My cursive is no more than crooked, chaotic lines with violent, swooping tails dancing across the page in peaks and troughs. I stop every few seconds to lick the pen tip, though I don’t understand why. I inspect my work as I hang up the phone with another satisfied customer. It’s scribbled and illegible. I smile.
“Yup,” I say aloud, “Just like Dad’s.”

Go to any backwoods honky tonk south of the mason-dixon line while any Merle Haggard or Charlie Daniels song plays on the jukebox and you will hear it screamed above the drunken crowd no less than half a dozen times. The South Will Rise Again! It is the rebel rousin' cry of Dixie and the southerner's claim to fame. After last weekend, despite my personal views on the south and the people unfortunate enough to have been born here, I believe they have the capabilities of doing so.
It started with a car accident. My friend and I were half way through a bottle of Vodka and quickly working our way through two dozen chicken wings when I heard the inimitable sound of colliding vehicles. I haphazardly dropped my chicken on the plate, carefully set down my glass of vodka, and ran outside to see two, mangled, smoking, fluid spewing vehicles sitting feet in front of my lawn. I heard moaning, so I made my way across the pavement to see if anyone needed the assistance of a shirtless, unequipped, half drunk, barefoot, stay-at-home dad. Surely they would.
They didn't.
But I did call 911 and stayed for moral support, doing my best to calm the drunk driver of the crushed car and tell him he needed to sit down and apply direct pressure to his head. He didn't listen and thought it best to simply walk home and let the police take care of the accident. He made it a little more than eight feet before tripping over the curb.
Next came the elderly mother and middle aged son from the smokey depths of the car, reeking of freshly deployed airbag and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Judging by their slurring and arm gestures, I determined they were locals. Judging by their breath, they were also drunk. I guided them both to the curb, and once again cajoled them to apply pressure to various leaking ports on their heads and faces. It was to no avail because who did I think I was, I aint no doctor and I aint even got no shoes on. Silly me.
I was juggling now. The dispatcher on the phone wanted more detailed information, the elderly mother was crying and screaming "what do I do?" into the night sky and the man in the grass was attempting to crawl away. Just when I thought about bidding the whole thing farewell and returning to my abandoned vodka, I saw the glorious, flashing, red and blue lights of an undercover police car approach the chaos. I cautiously pranced around glass and antifreeze toward the man stepping out of the jeep. I thought it odd that he was wearing civilian clothes, but I assumed he was off duty and proceeded to give him a rather in depth situation report. I rambled on about the severity and number of injuries, who was driving and how I believed it all happened. I caught my breath and waited for him to jump into action. He didn't move.
"Well, aren't you going to go over there?" I said after several seconds of him standing on his tip toes to get a better view of the steaming wreckage.
"Oh, no" he said, quite matter-of-factly. "I'm not a cop, I just have this flashing light on my jeep and figured I would come down and sit here to keep other cars from crashing into y'all 'till the cops show up."
It took me several seconds to absorb this, and even then, I had to break it down into more digestible niblets.
He isn't a cop.
He isn't even a volunteer firefighter.
He's just a guy.
With a flashing light.
And a jeep.
Okay, I understood now. All except for WHY THIS GUY HAD A FLASHING LIGHT ON HIS JEEP! Who were these people?
I had little time to dwell on the matter before a truck full of men with unusually large goatees pulled over asking if everyone was okay. They piled out of the extended cab and accessed the tool box in the bed. Out came flashlights, a first aid kit, various tools, blankets and even a few road cones. After all, you never know when you may have to be solely responsible for directing traffic. I wondered how long it would be before someone pulled the jaws of life out of their trunk. I gladly afforded them the spotlight and, after getting my lukewarm drink, played the less demanding role of a spectator from my front yard.
Nineteen agonizing minutes after the collision, the police and fire trucks arrived at a perfectly organized scene. There were cones, triaged patients, jeeps with flashing lights, and someone even found some emergency flares to keep traffic at bay. It was the most organized citizen response I had ever witnessed. There was no panic or bickering, and everyone knew what to do, as if they practiced monthly drills and ran through equipment check lists every morning.
So the next time I find myself in Dukenfield's bar watching two swaying, fifty year old men stand and salute the confederate flag while wailing that the south will rise again, I'm going to take their word for it. Mainly because they scare me, but also because now I know if they really wanted it to happen, they have enough shit in their trunks to get er' done.

Loser

Lisa leaned in and let her husband light her lucky strike as he lathered her legs with lotion. He lethargically listened to her longings and loathings, her likes and laments while lubricating her large, lumpy, lower limbs with Lubriderm. Her locutions left him longing for liberation from her lap of luxury, from loads of lust that lacked the lubricity needed for even a loose lay. Laughter, love and loyalty had all become lucid lies lost in a labyrinth of laxity, and lately he had become lazy. He looked at Lisa as she lipped her lucy on her lilac lounge chair. She was a lush and he loathed her for that. He looked away as he lathered more Lubriderm.

Nationalism and Vietnamese Cashews: An Interview with Today's Marine

He smirked when I asked him for an interview. I might have interpreted it as a smirk of arrogance had I not known him better, but I understood there was an element of appreciation involved and I believe he knew exactly why I chose him.
He kicked back in his chair, turned his cell phone off and opened a can of cashews, anxious to get started. He had the appearance of a cliched marine; tattooed arms, hair cut high and tight, and even as he reclined, his stature was that of an alpha male, ready to take charge of even this interview if needed. But these aren't the qualities I cherish in him, for there are more marines that fit this description than don't. I chose him because, despite his appearance, he isn't a jar head. He speaks with compassion, eloquence and disregard for social norms (and a few expletives thrown in here and there).
I readied the tape recorder and waited for him to chew his mouth full of nuts. With a fluid flip of the wrist, he packed his can of Skoal and eyed me with anticipation. "Well," he said, "let's kick this shit off."
What made you decide to join the Marine Corps?
I always wanted to be a marine, since I was a child. I joined to help cultivate my ideas and concepts of the world by, well, going to war. That's sick, but that's why I did it. I thought it would influence my artwork too, but it's kind of ironic that I don't even do art anymore. I don't think anymore, I can't speak anymore, I just do what I'm supposed to do, and I'm satisfied with that.
You've just returned from Iraq-how do you think the media is doing at accurately portraying the truth on this ever changing conflict?
The media is made for sensationalism. They aren't going to show the truth because the truth doesn't always sell. They are going to report on what gets the most ratings. They don't show us getting the locals their irrigation systems back, or the city sanitation programs we created. They won't show that shit.
Are the Iraqis ready to take over and do this thing themselves?
The lower echelon, where the boot hits the pavement, is not that bad. Some of those guys are shit hot, I mean, they suck, but all in all they aren't that bad. Now, the officers however, are horrible. There was an incident where we found out a lieutenant was holding water and not giving it out to the troops and he would cut their rations in half and hoard them for himself. There's a lot of corruption and shit, and I think if there was one bad, coordinated attack by Al Qaeda-or whoever the flavor of the week is now- they could easily decimate a company of the Iraqis.
How concerned are the American troops for the rebuilding mission in Iraq and the well being of the Iraqi people?
It's all about the individual. After being in a bad firefight or hearing about your buddy getting killed, you don't give a fuck about them. You lose all your motivation and you're like 'fuck everybody. Fuck the Iraqi Army, fuck the Iraqi people, I don't give a shit about this mission.' I think the new guys that are fresh into the country care, but they eventually end up not giving a shit either. The officers want peace in Iraq and to appease the population, but the problem is that the officers aren't the ones watching their buddy get their head split in half. They don't have to be worried about IEDs, snipers, booby trapped doors or some shit head hiding behind a pile of clothes with an AK. They're worried about policies.
With approval ratings for Bush at an all time low, how do you separate what you are tasked to do from what the American people are unhappy about? Do you ever feel like their discontent is directed your way?
Listen, I know, in this war, we aren't fighting for freedom. We are fighting for corporations. I don't separate their discontent from my job. Take this can of cashews for example. They were bought from wal-mart-the global symbol of Americana, but look here...they're from Vietnam. Had thousands of troops not died in Vietnam, maybe we wouldn't be eating these cashews right now. I'm not fighting for freedom, I'm not that naive, I'm fighting for god damned cashews.
What news channel do you watch?
I prefer PBS because they try to be unbiased, but I end up watching whatever they show in the chow hall, which is mostly FOX NEWS. So yes, I watch FOX NEWS. After all, I am a right wing, republican, neo-conservative, goose stepping, neanderthal that fights for oil.
Is there any one dominant memory of your time in the Marine Corps?
When I busted my cherry. My first fire fight. I had just gotten into country-it was my first day there- and within forty-five minutes we were under fire. This was my first foot patrol...ever. I could hear the rounds going over our head and all I could think was 'Oh my God, these faggots are trying to kill us.'
Do you think the American people truly support what you do?
The American population has the attention span of about two hours, just long enough to watch a movie. They watch Saving Private Ryan and they see a beginning and an end and the war's over and every one's happy. A few people die but it's all good. But with this conflict, they're not seeing a conclusion so they're getting bored and frustrated. When we first invaded Iraq, everyone was pro-nationalism, every single house had a flag or ribbon in front of it. It was all 'fuck Arabs or whoever the enemy is' but they realize now, there is no quick resolve. I think the reason most people support the troops is because it's taboo not to. I don't really know, or give a shit if people respect us or not. It doesn't reflect on our paycheck and you still get your cashews.
Are we ever going to establish true democracy in Iraq?
Their religion comes first. Before their family, before their career, and definitely before the government. As long as they feel that they are defending their religion, the government will always be on the back burner.

In a Perfect War

The singeing smell of burning trash and sewage permeated through every sour alley way and filmy window throughout the city. Black, sludgy puddles reflected the setting sun like pools of mercury as our convoy rolled past the market district of Musayyib. Shop owners frantically slung chains through welded loops and studs in order to make it home before the call to prayer. Within minutes, the once bustling streets were occupied only by mangy dogs searching for any remaining bits of falafel or kebab. I couldn't help but wonder if Iraqis had a secret ability to morph into canines, for they never made a simultaneous appearance. As soon as the arm waving, beard scratching men disappeared while your back was turned, the dogs emerged through ravines and gutters to scope out the situation and watch without persecution. The fact that the two mammals smell almost identical only fueled my suspicion.
We rounded the corner and continued down an alley bleeding with anti-American graffiti. All doors were shut and the radiant orange blanket of sunlight was fading into a dingy grey, foreshadowing the ominous coming of night. I stood in the turret and scanned the rooftops, thumbs resting on the split trigger of my .50 caliber machine gun in anticipation for that first snap of a round or reflection from a distant Dragunov scope. Scenes from popular war movies swirled through my head while images of bloody ambushes and fiery explosions coaxed me to stop pondering why I enlisted for this bullshit and pay attention to my surroundings.
We passed a small building with a roof of grass, mere inches off of our right side. The mirror almost scraped and I turned to ensure all of the bulky, unnecessary, (yet government mandated) equipment bolted to each side of the vehicle passed without harm. I had taken my hands off of my weapon.
I never heard the muzzle blast but the gunner in the vehicle behind me said it came from somewhere near the school. It didn't hurt, in fact, I didn't even know I had been shot until I felt the slick liquid soak my sleeve. I stared in disbelief. Florescent pink paint was everywhere. He must have been using extra large balls-the kind the Geneva convention wouldn't let American troops use because of the confusion it creates from not being able to identify the exact point of impact. Insurgents used them in lieu of marksmanship training-if there's paint everywhere, they thought, we would assume it was in a vital area. I didn't assume shit. I stripped my gear and meticulously fingered through the latex sludge, searching for any remnants of crispy shell.
The UN Impact Official scurried to our truck, fumbling with his camera and various clip boards to document and officiate the exact point of impact. The scene was chaotic and marines were scrambling to find the sniper. It was all a blur. I was still coping with the realization that I could be going home. I was careless and I let my guard down, let my Marines down, let my country down. I would be revered as a hero at my homecoming, but my conscience would always tell me otherwise.
I prayed for an arm shot as I climbed out of the turret to assume the Vitruvian position. I could deal with two months of combat disqualification, but going home was not an option, not until my year was up. The UNIO snapped a few quick photos and asked a slew of questions in a sharp Dutch accent, most of which I couldn't answer because it had all happened so quickly.
What were you doing at the time of impact?
Where on your body did you feel the impact?
Are you physically injured in any way?
He scribbled down my answers on his UN clip board and immediately accessed his bag for a small, black wand. With a flip of a switch it hummed into service emitting an eerie blue aura. It was a density light, designed by the UN to make locating the prcise impact point easier. He slowly passed it over my paint spattered body, stopping occasionally to jot more notes and berate me for touching the paint before he arrived. Areas of thick paint coverage absorbed more of the light and showed up brighter with spatter and over spray absorbing little to no light at all. The brightest glow came from my flank, just below my arm pit. He sympathetically shook his head and lifted my arm to expose the jagged pieces of a shattered shell. I wanted to spit in his face and demand he do it again. I wanted to tear up his papers and throw his clip board into the shitty sludge flowing from the nearby drain, but I knew I was done. There was nothing I could do.
I handed my weapon over to my team leader and apologized. He lit a cigarette and said a few words about war being a bitch, all the while keeping a hurried lookout to the street lights and desolate alleys of the now darkened city. He was anxious to continue the mission, I knew, so I turned and reluctantly accepted defeat.
I climbed into the back of the UN van thinking of home. What would they think? Should I tell them the truth, or fabricate a heroic story of bullet barrages and valiant devotion? The air conditioner was cold. I reclined the seat and took a deep breath to steady my twitching hands and quivering lip. Outside, the convoy rolled on without me. It was hard to see them go, but at this point, it was beyond my control. The wheels of fate were turning, and now, I was just along for the ride.
I closed my eyes to rest and tried to think optimistically. "Well" I said aloud, while making myself comfortable, "I guess it could be worse."

Leaves of Grass...and Bunny Blood

The grass was long and they were kind of in a little divot and they were scared and crouching down into little balls and I couldn't really see anything in front of me and I wasn't really paying attention anyway so it really wasn't my fault if you think about it.
Who am I kidding? I'm a murderer. I'm a heartless sadist with no respect for life and I'm a damned murderer. I buried my head in my hands and fell to my knees amidst a Gettysburg of wet grass cakes and bloody tufts of rabbit fur. Memories of my childhood flanked my brain with images of cute, floppy-eared bunnies clicking and popping behind my eyelids like an old projector. My third grade class pet, Bugsy, was crying and remorsefully shaking his head for his slain cousins, scattered in pieces throughout the crab grass. All the beautiful images of Peter Rabbit I remembered from story books as a child were immediately tainted by spiraling entrails and spattered blood, all flinging from a pair of whirring, razor sharp lawnmower blades located somewhere off the page. The Easter Bunny himself made an appearance, crawling towards me with no back legs like a zombie from a cheap b-list horror flick.
I shook the images from my brain and regained composure, glancing left, then right to ensure none of my neighbors saw my temporary yet traumatic breakdown. After brushing the grass off my clothes I took one more look at the carnage that lay before me and reluctantly realized the task at hand. After all, I got myself into this mess and now it was time to assess and clean up collateral damage. There was no repair involved. I could not right this wrong- only clean it up.
My stomach was churning when I exited my house holding a trash bag. I felt I should be wearing a navy blue windbreaker with yellow CORONER or CSI printed on the back to declare that I was obligated to be there and not some finicky lawn enthusiast callously picking up rabbit pieces to keep stray dogs from dumping in my yard. Fortunately, the pieces were indiscernible and even with my eyes closed it only took a few minutes. Rabbit fur is unbelievably soft.
I bowed my head and said a few words before dropping the Glad bag into the trash bin with a mushy thud of a finale. It didn't quite bring the closure I was looking for and I knew it would take some time for my mental stability to make a full comeback. I wonder if Medicaid covers Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

The goose

We smoked cigarettes and walked through the park but she wouldn't hold my hand because it wasn't true love in her mind only the love that makes people think the world is perfect and she knew the world wasn't perfect so she said our love wasn't perfect even though it felt that way. We came across a goose in a bush on a nest of eggs and she hissed at us loud and angry and her head went up down up down up down and she wanted to chase us but she didn't want to leave the nest alone because no one likes to be alone. Not even geese.

GOD HATES PROTESTS

The media was all over it. Every page of the Jacksonville Daily News was strewn with articles, opinions and pictures featuring the ominous Westboro Baptist Church, and the whole town was roaring. I never would have imagined that a small fundamental establishment from rural Kansas could inspire such a momentous event. It was asinine, it was overrated and it was raining, but there was no way I was going to miss it.
When I arrived the police were lethargically directing traffic to circumvent the protest, yet most cars were just driving in a continual loop in order to keep their prying eyes on the radical signs being waved just blocks away. "God Bless IED's" said one sign, dipping and bobbing above an inaudible, chanting head. Another read "God Hates the USA" and "There are No Heroes." Those who didn't drive walked and waved small, hand-held American flags to protest the protest and it ignited a small urge in me to add one more tier to the protesting hierarchy and really confuse people. The emotions were high and the screeching tension that hung in the air was almost as loud as the chaotic, unsynchronized screaming from both ends of the barricades.
This was seemingly the most influential moment in Jacksonville's history. A relatively small group of people from thousands of miles away entered the all American town of Jacksonville, home of Camp Lejeune Marine Corps Base, waving their wacky anti-military signs and claiming that their God hates practically everything, including Marines. I knew deep down I should leave before the bullets started flying and I got hit in the face with a riot grenade. But the rain and the tears kept me there, observing for as long as I could before being corralled by the police to the nearby parking lot.
Honestly, I didn't give a hoot about what Westboro Baptist Church thinks about people or whom they think God hates. I wasn't offended or angry, but I went because others were, and in human society, the open practice of these emotions is few and far between. We are smothered in manners and etiquette and fake enthusiasm and political correctness so much that to see someone flip the bird in public or scream a string of swear words is invigorating and refreshing. I became saturated with the moment and quietly stood while others frantically made red, white and blue figure eights in the rain as though to create a small vortex to carry away the evil church goers.
The protest finished without a single drop of CS gas being released and all eight protesters went back to Kansas unscathed. I heard the protest protesters, however, complained of sore wrists and scratchy throats. Such is the cost of freedom.

Napenthe

The goose bumps came in waves. Partly from the brisk air, but mostly from awe. It was my first true sensation in days. It was real, honest and pure. I was always amazed at how something as discomforting as the cold could be so deeply comforting to the soul. The last remnants of dusk were fading when I lifted my fist, thumb extended. I didn't expect anyone to pick me up- on this side of Milwaukee after dark they rarely did. But the thumb was more an expression of liberation than of desperation. Each time a car passed i was born again; new, fresh and untainted by a boring life of confinement and conformity. I was learning to trust myself, to take comfort in my capabilities of living on the street.
As I trekked, the streets got subtly narrower, the buildings larger and the air thicker. Weedy, gravel strewn shoulders turned into sidewalks and once speeding cars now trudged from stoplight to stoplight. My heart raced. I was entering the city. I passed a street sign that read South Second Street and realized that I was in this exact spot seven hours earlier, en route to my apartment, driving an Audi and wearing loafers with a periwinkle tie. Now I was back, but as the same person only in physical form. I had returned to this street as a man who no longer thought in terms of company policy but survival and instinct, a man who must survive on common sense rather than dollars and cents.
A cop passed, but paid no mind. Horns chirped. Steam rose. The colder air blew in from Lake Michigan and stung my face as I crossed the pavement east to Buffalo street over the Menomonee River towards Lincoln Memorial Park. I knew the cold would likely have thinned the drifters there, filling the shelter beds with emaciated bodies and all too often, crying babies. The weather was not conducive to amorous couples either, which made life a little easier for those willing to brave the temperatures for what was always just one more night.
I stopped at a convenient store near a car wash. The bars on the windows comforted me. Not for their security value, but for the opposite. They reaffirmed me that I was not secure. I was out of my comfort zone and vulnerable, yet only now did I feel truly alive. I retrieved a sports bottle from my pack and filled it up with water from a public restroom. After forcing myself to drink half of it, I refilled it and stepped inside. I bought a pack of cigarettes and three Snickers bars from the portly woman behind the counter, leaving me with less than two dollars. After tucking the candy bars deep in my pack, I stepped out into the night and lit a cigarette. I only smoked on weekends.
The lamps dotting the lake shore were visible now, jutting above the linear rows of oaks and maples which lined the manicured lawns of the park. My backpack was weighing on me and for a brief moment I considered resting for a bit, but decided against it-pain was real and I appreciated that. A chain link fence and a tree lined ravine separated me from the park and the bank of the lake. After a less than subtle scan for police, I ran to the NO PARKING sign across the street and searched the ground. A well worn divot, just to the right of the fence post allowed just enough room for me to slide under. My pack went first. Then, like a fleeing hare, I squeezed through, belly down. I wondered if others were using it too, for it felt bigger than before.
A cautious stride through the dry ravine brought me to the edge of the park. It looked desolate and empty, but I knew better. Donny was out there, I was sure of it.
I crossed a large field of brown grass and followed a walkway towards the lake shore. There were three red lights on the distant lake but they weren't moving . Maybe boats. Probably buoys. The park lights were too bright to see the stars but the air was crisp and dry so I knew they were there. The park was always better in the winter. It was quiet and peaceful with no teenagers throwing footballs or riding skateboards. The baby toting parents were in their warm apartments and townhouses arguing or making love. The winter left in the park only those who had a parasitic relationship with it. Those who, without it, would not survive.
I came to a large cement fountain, drained and unused for the winter. There were public restrooms and benches nearby along with several picnic tables. I sat down and lit a cigarette. Smoking had always been appealing to me and I always felt exotic with a cigarette between my lips. The seductive swirling and dancing of the smoke warned that something was being destroyed, that a physical form was being altered. It was merely a novelty act, however, lasting only until Sunday night, when I myself would change forms, and would usually throw half a pack away.
I watched for Donny, waiting for him to come strolling down the walkway with his humble stride, five gallon bucket in hand. I didn't bring my watch, I never did, but I knew it was getting late and I was starting to worry if Donny had already come and gone. I was considering leaving when I heard a flinty voice behind me.
"Did you bring my damned candy bars?"
I smiled. "Always a kind word." I said while turning to face him. He was silent for a moment.
"Well?" said Donny impatiently.
"Well what? If you held up on your end of the deal, then yes, I did." I waited to open my backpack until I saw him access his notorious bucket. He pulled out a small notepad and flipped through the tattered paper. After finding several pages he was seeking, he tore them out and brought them to my bench.
"Here you go." he said, towering over me in a cloud of freshly exhaled smoke. "These are some of my best ones yet. I wrote 'em twice so you could have your own copy. Feel privileged, they'll be worth something."
"I do," I said while unzipping my backpack. "thanks." I flicked my cigarette and put the poems in the bag, swapping them for the snickers bars. He never let me read them while he was around. He said it made him feel arrogant.
Donny put the candy in the bucket and sat on the other side of the picnic table facing me. He sat in silence, looking out over the park. He was a towering man in his mid forties who spoke with a stringent Wisconsin accent. His canvass coat was tattered and stained around the cuffs with bulging pockets. Although he was thin, his stature was that of a mason, broad and compact and he reminded me of my father without the undertone. Maybe that's why I liked him so much. After several minutes of silence he spoke.
"How come you aren't stayin' in a shelter tonight? It's cold."
I shrugged my shoulders. " I don't know, probably for the same reason you aren't. I hate the damned things."
He smiled but held his gaze on the scene behind me. Sometimes I felt Donny believed one should talk only when he could improve the silence, but other times I wondered if he was simply used to having no one to talk to. Every conversation with him had a slightly uncomfortable yet refreshing sparseness to it that I learned to embrace. I usually let him speak first. He pulled a pair of wool gloves from his coat pocket and worked them over his hands, wriggling his fingers for the final adjustment.
"You staying here tonight?" he asked.
"I suppose. Got nowhere better and it's getting late. I need my beauty sleep you know?" He chuckled and I felt obligated to join him.
He stood up and lifted his bucket. "I'm staying in the dugout if you want to come. Should be empty." He didn't wait for a response, he just started walking. I threw my backpack over my shoulder and followed, as I always did. We walked in silence.
I noticed that Donny's sleeping bag was already laid out when we got to the little league dugout and I realized that he was already settled in before he came to meet me at the fountain. I cleared the floor of sunflower seed shells and gum to lay out my sleeping bag. Like Donny, I wasted no time shimmying in. I lit another cigarette and waited for the familiar wheezy snores that usually come soon after his retirement. No Goodnights or See You In The Mornings were in order. Only sleep. Several minutes passed, but they never came. Instead, through the blackness, he spoke.
"Where do you go during the week?"
I froze halfway through a drag of the GPC.
"I know it's really none of my business, and you're entitled to tell me to screw off, but I've always wondered why you only come around on the weekends."
I searched the recesses of my mind for a a suitable answer, an answer that I had rehearsed many times before, one that would both satisfy his curiosity and convince him that I truly was homeless as I claimed to be. He had caught me off guard and I was panicking. I had no response. For a moment I considered telling him the truth. I considered telling him the real reason I was sleeping in a public park on a Friday night when I could have been getting blitzed in a bar or fast asleep in a warm bed. I considered it, but instead I said nothing. My cigarette burned out before I finally concocted a plausible response about an imaginary family member who lived in nearby Muskego. It was all in vain, for as I prepared for a convincing delivery, a barely audible, wheezy snore escaped Donny's sleeping bag. In a muffled sigh of relief, I gently pulled the fabric over my head, careful not to wake him.
I was ashamed of allowing myself to be caught off guard. I had to be more careful. I knew he would ask again in the morning and I would be ready. I would lie. I couldn't bring myself to tell Donny that the result of his life's misfortunes was no more than my twisted idea of a weekend getaway. He would tell the others and I couldn't deal with that. There was no way I was giving this up. I needed it. I thrived off of it. I would lie for sure.
The wind lulled enough for me to hear the waves breaking on the lake shore as I curled into the fetal position. I started to drift off but caught myself. I wanted a few more minutes with the night. My time was limited and would end too soon. Monday would come and I would drive my import car with heated leather seats and satellite radio back into the realm of Blackberries and weekly expenditure reports. Monday would bring me back to my cubicle where I would catatonically stare at numbers until it was time to go home to frozen dinners and a lullaby of late night television. I needed every minute of reality I could get. At that moment I was living for something. I was experiencing emotion and sensation. Reality in its most carnal state. Existentialism at its best. I absorbed it all as the cars hissed by on the nearby highway. A rogue breeze swept through the dugout, stirring leaves and wrappers, as if to once again remind me of its presence. Yes, I was cold, but as comfortable as one man could get.

No Correct Turn on Red

"It's just a light" I tell myself, yet my hands become cold and clammy and my face as white as the line on which my front tires rest.
"Red arrow means DO NOT TURN."
"Red arrow means DO NOT TURN."
"Red arrow means DO NOT TURN."
I say it aloud to calm myself as the cars behind me honk in blatant disregard for the law. They swerve around my vehicle and eye me with flaring nostrils, occasionally yelling obscenities as they pass. I slouch in my seat and stare at the red arrow, disgusted with the power it has on me.
"Hey asshole! Turn right on red!" yells a bearded construction worker as he menuevers around my vehicle, leaving me to stare at a HOWS MY DRIVING sticker on the bumper of his F-250.
Red arrow means DO NOT TURN. I want to scream it out the window to every ignorant turd that squeezes past my silver Pontiac sphincter. Instead I just continue to slouch, waiting with increasing anticipation for the arrow to turn green.
A small bead of sweat rolls down the center of my nose and falls to my chest. My insides are screaming GO! JUST GO!
My fingers start tapping the steering wheel.
GO! JUST GO!
My jaw begins to tremble and the tears build in my eyes.
GO! JUST GO!
I have had enough. I look left for oncoming cars and slowly lift my foot off the brake. My car creeps forward as I clench the steering wheel. Before turning I take a deep breath and accept the agony of defeat, realizing that I have let pressure from others make my decision. I tell myself I have failed as I look up one last time at the vicious, malevolent, unforgiving.............green arrow.
My chest swells with pride. It's all about self discipline.

Math, Math, Math

I recently learned that there are quite a few primitave tribal peoples across the globe who only use the numbers one through four. To them, every mathematical measurement beyond that is considered unnecessary and excessive. I often day dream (usually while my college algebra professor is lecturing about imaginary numbers or cubed roots) about how magnificent life would be without the antagonistic, omnipresent demon we know as math. I can imagine it now; students in first grade, maybe kindergarten, covering a three or four day section on math which would consist of the numbers 1-4, how to write them, how to say them, what chronological order they belong in, and then move on. A bit of reiteration would be needed annually,of course, but after the fourth grade I'm certain most students would catch on.
The human race would undoubtedly miss out on many opportunities which advanced math skills makes possible, however, (i.e. a monetary system, any construction abilities beyond the fabrication of grass huts, any industrial capabilities beyond chipping flint for spearheads, et cetera) but oh what a small price to pay for the emancipation from the the slavery of mathematics. no times tables (beyond 2x2), no algebra, no calculus, no trigonometry, and most importantly, no statistics. I personally would opt for a grass hut, a livestock trading system in place of the dollar, and a donkey instead of a Pontiac if I could only forget about those math credits needed to graduate.
A man can dream, can't he?

Bukenfields

It was a 10:47 on a Tuesday night when Rick walked through the tinted glass doors of Bukenfields and stomped the snow off of his Caterpillar boots. He searched the bar for Gale, and after spotting her at the far end near the Kiwanis gum ball machine, he pulled up a seat.

Gale- "What are you doing here?"
Rick- "Same thing you are."
Gale-"It's Tuesday night Rick, how'd you ever convince Tammy to let you out of the house?"
Rick-"That bitch is done with me."
Gale-"C'mon Rick, you say that every week."
Rick-"I mean it this time."
Gale-"You meant it last time."
Rick-"Why you talking 'bout Tammy? I came here to get away from her."
Gale-"Fine."
Rick-"Want a beer?"
Gale- "Got one."
Rick-"Want another one?"
Gale-"Sure."
A moment of silence passes while Rick digs in his pocket for a ten. After ordering two PBRs, he turns back to Gale.
Rick-"You look nice tonight."
Gale-"Shut up you ass."
Rick-"You do."
Gale-"I said shut...up."
Rick-"Fine. How's Paul?"
Gale-"Working."
Rick-"He's always fucking working"
(Gale shrugs her shoulders while finishing her first beer.)
Rick-"You need a good man Gale. Someone who'll take care of you."
Gale-"Ha! Like you?"
Rick-"yeah like me."
Gale-"You're a damned wreck Rick."
Rick-"Still more of a man than he is."
Gale-" I thought I told you to shut up."
Rick- "Fine."
(Another moment of silence passes while each drinks their beer and watches the silent episode of M.A.S.H playing on the tv above the liquor shelf.)
Rick-"Hey, wha'dya say we go somewhere quiet, just you and me."
Gale-"Rick, give it up."
Rick-"you don't think I'm sexy anymore? Is that it?"
Gale-"It was one time Rick. One time!"
Rick-"Fine"
Gale-"Fine"
Rick-"I'm going home. Tammy finds out I'm gone, I'll be dead."
Gale-"See ya Friday."
Rick-"Yeah, see ya Friday."

One Nation, Under Gaud

The waiting room in the doctor's office was empty, save a couple of middle aged women thoroughly indulging in the latest issue of a celebrity tabloid. The date was September 13, 2001 and America had yet to absorb the reality of what had taken place two days prior. I was anxiously awaiting the nurse to call my name when I heard one of the ladies strike up a conversation. I could have predicted that it was going to be a personal opinion of who was responsible for the attacks or an extreme discussion on what we should do in retaliation, however nothing could have prepared me for what oozed out of her mouth.
"You know," she said, "I wouldn't be surprised if China was responsible for this." She said it quite matter of factly, as though this was something we had all been thinking, yet no one had the audacity to say. "Maybe they are getting us back for dropping that nuclear bomb on Pearl Harbor."
It took me a couple of seconds to register what she had said, a couple more to decipher what she had meant, and one or two after that to pinch my arm to assure myself that I was, in fact, hearing this perversion of American history. Part of me wanted to kindly sit down and give her a brief but adequate lesson on geography and world affairs. Another part of me, however, wanted to less than gently remove the tabloid from her hands and replace it with an encyclopedia.
The nurse entered and softly called her name. As the woman stood, my still lingering bafflement from her previous statement was immediately replaced by sheer amusement. Sprawled across her sweatshirt in cross-stitch fashion were huge, red, white and blue letters, reading AMERICAN BY BIRTH, PATRIOTIC BY CHOICE.
It was then that I realized people were creating a new, modified version of patriotism that does not involve pride in American heritage or history. This was a glamorous, shiny new patriotism of pop culture that hatched over night, spawning tawdry bumper stickers and a spike in Lee Greenwood CD sales.
True, pure pride in America had seemingly been replaced by gaudy glam and sparkly jumpsuits. In an effort to project the qualities of a strong, unified nation, the American people dove head first into a trend of billboard loyalty and emerged covered in rhinestones and pinwheels, never stopping to think about the very ideals they were on the verge of mocking.
Just as individuals were adorning themselves with the flare of nationalism, businesses were jumping on the star spangled bandwagon as well. Car dealerships and furniture stores across the the country launched unprecidented "patriotic blowouts" and "all American" sales to appeal to the mind set of consumers. To be considered un-American was an economic death wish for any company, and compared to what it would cost to erect an American flag beside those golden arches or Texaco star, it was a death wish that was easily avoidable.
The warping of the meaning of patriotism is hadly a new concept. The elegant songs and recruiting posters of World War One depicting Johnny going off to war with a gleaming smile and a rifle portrayed a true patriot as someone who was a true warrior. It was replaced, however, with the brute, ruggedness of World War Two posters urging American families to be patriotic by growing their own vegetables, working hard on the home front and buying war bonds. By the time the conflict in Viet nam was under way, many young Americans had dreams of starting a revolution in an attempt to uphold the image of a true patriot who made a stand for what they thought was right.
The difference between these extremes is sacrifice. Standing up for what is right is not a requirement often considered by supporters of so-called patriotic American ideals. We can simply wave miniature flags in figure eights, buy and display limited edition Bald Eagle commemorative coins and wear Old Glory on a wind breaker to prove we are worthy citizens of this country. Without victory gardens, food rations or a draft, we have all but lost the idea of sacrifice for the support of America, the idea of true patriotism.
Ever since I walked out of that doctor's office on that September morning, I have thought about the woman who, apparently, made a choice to be what she believed was patriotic, yet woefully uneducated about the country she professed to love. I often wonder if she has taken the time since then to sit down and develop an understanding of what it is about America that makes it worth taking pride in. I wonder if she now realizes what she said that morning was a disservice to every other American who has made a sacrifice, in any way, for this country. But even more so, I find myself wondering if she ever got rid of that horrid sweatshirt.

Music to my Ears

Our tan utilities were covered with a white film of salt from an accumulation of days worth of sweat and the bags under our eyes were of a dark purple as we rolled into the base in the desert moonlight. I could hear it in my head already, even before the sacred tunes were present. They were dancing around, lulling me into a hypnotic trance as I swiveled in my turret. After days of anxiety, stress, pressure, violence and fear, I longed for that drug. I longed for that intoxicating effect, the escape. I longed for music.
Ever since I was four years old, bopping around the house to my mom's eclectic collection of cassettes, I appreciated what music could do for a person's soul. I realized Christmas Eve just wasn't complete without Bing Crosby desperately trying to convince Doris Day to stay in "It's Cold Outside" and spring cleaning would not have been possible without the Beatles' melodious slaying of Rocky Raccoon. My love for music was being forged and, unbeknownst to me, ingrained in my mind as on of the most important ingredients in whom I would become in the future.
By the time I reached high school, my taste for music was changing almost as often as my shoe size. In a small midwestern town, at seventeen, it is socially intolerable to listen to anything other than country music, so I set out on a solo mission to find what music truly spoke to me. What I found was a colorful lesson in history, ethnicity, expressionism, creativity, and human nature. After years of listening to every type of music possible and absorbing as much information about that music as I could, I soon found that the challenge of finding what music I liked changed into finding a type of music I didn't like. Soon, I became infatuated. Every bad test grade was remedied by the rebellious harmony of Jimi Hendrix's screaming guitar. Every pain caused by the rejection of a girl was alleviated by the soothing whine of Neil Young. I spent many wild nights wailing in unison with Hank Williams III and just as many lonely nights with his grandfather. To me, music was as close a companion as one pubescent boy could get. It was a friend who understood exactly what I was going through, who organized my scattered feelings into something I could understand and allowed me to vent without saying a word. It was a voice that said exactly what I wanted to say, in a manner in which I only wished I could say it.
As hard as surviving high school was for me, I knew making it in the real world would prove even harder. While going through a fit of heavy metal and masculinity, I decided to temporarily delay this responsibility and join the Marine Corps. Within one year of enlisting I was walking off an airplane into the blazing summer heat of Iraq. I had left my family. I had left my friends. I had left my life. But I had brought my music, and other than my rifle, this was all I truly needed.
In a war where so many things were difficult to understand, music offered my fellow marines and me one thing that truly made sense. It offered a means of relaxation and escape from a highly stressful environment. On many occasions, speakers blasting an array of music from multiple tents masked the crackle of a distant firefight or outgoing artillery. Even choir-like outbreaks involving several marines were not uncommon when a radio was unavailable.
We were not alone in our passion for music as a distraction past time, it seemed. During a patrol in the small town of Mussayib, we stopped by the local police station to gather some intelligence on the local situation. There was a cluster of young police men in the lobby, gathered around a small black and white television watching a game of soccer. Cigarette smoke was thick and frying chickpeas sizzled over the sound of mild conversation. Suddenly, a young man entered the room with a stereo. With a push of a button the room rumbled with cheers and the previously docile men, who were once lounging and smoking were now writhing to the ouds, rebabs and cymbals of the Arabian song.
"No dance?" asked a young uniformed man, dancing with half a falafel in his mouth and a cigarette in his hand. It was then that I realized music speaks a universal language in which everyone is fluent. It crosses borders and cultural barriers, oceans and continents, and it compels bodies of all colors to dance and sing as one.
I left that police station with a smile on my face. Not only from the image of dancing falafel boy, but because I knew exactly how every person had felt the moment that music filled the room. For a brief moment, music had created a perfect utopia, where we all understood each other and religion and politics were unimportant.
We drove down the highway toward base as I swiveled in my turret and hummed under my breath. As the silver moon rose above the horizon, the music began to quietly play inside my head.