Two stories, actually, or maybe
a pair of epic poems. “So far, Cole
has only been assigned to one PDS.”
Except for deployments, you
mean. Not like they’d send families
chasing their soldiers into Iraq
or Afghanistan. With the coming
draw-down, who knows where
he’ll go? Are you ready to follow
him wherever? Especially if you have
kids one day? It’s worth thinking about.
The military is a highly engineered
machine. It’s only as good as the sum
of its parts, however, and its parts
are fragile. But easily replaced.
Cole, fragile? Not so much.
But I’m not about to argue
the point. “Thanks, Mr. Clinger.
Guess there’s a lot to consider.”
I START TO TURN AWAY
Ms. Patterson? Er . . . Ashley?
You forgot this. He offers me
Cole’s poem. I’m sorry if I seemed
unsympathetic. This really is good.
Tell your boyfriend when he’s done
defending freedom, he really should
do something with his writing.
The tension between us dissolves.
“Thanks. I’ll be sure to let him know.
He’ll probably freak that I showed
it to you, but I really wanted to get
your opinion.” I reach for the paper
and our fingers brush, initiating
a totally unexpected electric jolt.
Holy crap! What was that? My hand
jerks back, zapped, and my cheeks react
with a furious blush—half shame,
half ridiculous lust for a man who is
my professor. A man who is several
years older than I. A man who most
definitely is not Cole. “S-s-sorry,”
I stutter. Stupid! What am I, twelve?
THE REAL QUESTION
Is, why am I apologizing? And,
to whom? Mr. Clinger smiles
at my obvious consternation.
Oddly, I smile back, despite
my discomfort at what just
transpired between us. Or,
maybe nothing at all did. Maybe
I imagined the whole thing.
But I don’t think so. There
is some weird chemistry here.
Travel safely, Ashley. Let’s find
a good time next week for you
to make up that test. By the way,
we’re moving to spoken word
poetry next week. Here . . .
He scribbles some names on
a personalized Post-it. If you have
a few minutes before I see you
again, check them out on YouTube.
He offers the paper, and I take it
gingerly, hope he doesn’t notice
the way my hand is shaking.
I glance at what he’s written.
“Oh, I know Rachel McKibbens
and Taylor Mali. Alix Olson, too.”
His grin widens. Of course
you do. Have a great trip.
I MANAGE
To make it through the rest of the day
without getting turned on by another
professor. Or fellow student, campus
policeman, or janitor. To be fair to myself,
it has been a few months since I’ve seen
Cole, but I’ve successfully sequestered
the thought of sex with him, or anyone.
Until today. But to say what happened
earlier meant nothing at all would be
a lie. In that moment, I wanted to fuck
Mr. Clinger. Jonah. That’s the name
on the Post-it, above the slam poets.
Some tiny, niggling splinter of me
was desperate to fuck Jonah Clinger
and all the rest of me believes that
shard is a no-good traitor. And tonight
that’s what I’m obsessing about.
Not research. Not writing the paper due
Wednesday. Not packing bikinis
and sexy nighties to wear for Cole. Nope.
Instead, I’m trying to drown every
recurring image of Jonah in a huge glass
of Chardonnay. Doesn’t seem to
be working. Maybe if it was tequila
I’d have half a chance. Instead, I keep
flashing back to ice blue (not golden) eyes.
I need someone to talk to. But who?
Darian, my forever friend, who’s likely
dumping her Marine husband for
a guy who’s definitely dumping his Air
Force–focused wife? Probably not
my best choice. My other local friends
are UCSD students with no military
ties. I already talked to Sophie today,
and got her to agree to watch
my apartment. After all the hype
I just fed her about needing to see
the love of my life before he leaves
for Afghanistan, how could I possibly
discuss the seedier side of my psyche?
Brittany, who’s all sass and easy sex,
no desire for commitment, ever (at least
until she finds someone actually worth
committing to?). Another wrong call.
I PACE THE APARTMENT
Putting out of place things back
into place. Tossing stuff that needs
tossed. Seeking order in disorder.
I dust. Vacuum. Clean counters,
sinks, and the toilet. At least when
I get back from Hawaii, everything
will be in its place and I can dive
straight back into my class work
without having to do this stuff first.
Finally, I refill my glass. Turn on
my computer. Cruise over to YouTube
and some of the best spoken word
poets in the world. I’m not familiar
with a couple on this list, but before
I’m through watching, I will be.
There is order in this, too. I can read
my poetry out loud, but this is pure
performance. Rhythmic. Bold. Passionate.
Sort of like great sex. The kind I’ll
have in a couple of days. With Cole
Gleason. Not Jonah Clinger. Stop it,
already. I turn off my computer, reach
for my pen and the notebook I write
poetry in. Find order in formal verse.
SLOW BURN
by Ashley Patterson
What happens to kisses never kissed—
those we pretend not to have missed?
Do they fall from our lips and settle, silt,
compress into fossils, layered in guilt;
Do they crumble like wishes, their magic lost,
or wither and curl, seedlings chewed by frost;
or perhaps they take flight, buoyant as screams,
to tempt us again in the heat of our dreams.
What is the ultimate cost of kisses not kissed?
What becomes of passion we choose to resist?
Does it sink like hope on a cloudy morning,
mire us with doubt, muted forewarning;
Does it rise from the groin, seeking the brain,
creeping like quicksilver, vein into vein,
to bewilder, an answer we cannot discern,
or smolder, a candle condemned to slow burn?
What can we say about passion dismissed,
or the import of kisses consciously missed?
Scorned passion is truth we’re doomed to forget,
kisses wasted, the weight of final regret.
Rewind
IN THE DAYS
Right before Cole
shipped out
for his first Iraq tour, his enthusiasm
was almost contagious. Almost.
When he’d call, he’d talk about
a hundred klicks (military speak
for kilometers) a minute. Fallujah,
here we come! Get ready for a major
ass-whooping. Did you hear about
that sonofabitch suicide bomber
at that funeral? Crazy bastard!
If he harbored the tiniest hint
of fear, he never confessed it,
and it never, ever showed. In fact,
he felt immortal. Untouchable.
The way he’d been trained to believe.
Personally, I was thrilled for him.
Petrified for me. Fallujah.
I did my research, and it scared
the crap out of me. When this
whole Iraq mess started, Fallujah
was, according to everything I read,
the “deadliest city” in the country,
a stronghold of insurgency, and
who knew, exactly, who the bad
guys were or where they hid
their weapons? When coalition
forces first went in, casualties
were assumed—and that included
civilians. Bombs aren’t selective.
And grenades truly are colorblind.
Killing women and children
is not conducive to goodwill.
It took years to rebuild, and
by the time Cole arrived in Iraq,
the corner had been turned.
That’s what they were saying,
and I clung to that. Cole and his
buddies, however, were primed
for a fight. And that worried me
more than the very real threat
of IEDs or stray bullets. The peace
that had been forged was fragile.
Depending on who was doing
the talking, the silence in the streets
represented a suffocating culture.
The Iraqi police force was no kinder
to Fallujah citizens than U.S. soldiers,
looking for trouble where perhaps none
lurked. Or perhaps it did. The situation
was confused, even if it wasn’t chaotic.
WHEN COLE ARRIVED
In the Anbar Province, communication
became less frequent, and actual calls
were rare. He did send fairly regular e-mails
from Camp Fallujah’s Internet café.
At first, they were tinged with excitement.
YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE THIS PLACE. IMAGINE
A GHOST TOWN. TOMBSTONE OR SOMETHING.
ONLY IT’S A GHOST CITY. MOST OF IT HASN’T
BEEN REBUILT SINCE THE 2004 OFFENSIVE.
IT LOOKS LIKE A BUNCH OF STONE SKELETONS.
BUT, SOMEWHERE IN THE GUTS OF THOSE
RUINS ARE FUCKING INSURGENTS, BUSY
BUILDING IEDS AND POKING THEIR HEADS
UP JUST LONG ENOUGH TO TAKE POTSHOTS
AT US. BY GOD, WE’RE GOING TO SMOKE
THE MOTHERFUCKERS OUT AND SQUASH
THEM LIKE HORNETS. AND IF THEY’RE PISSED
HORNETS, SO MUCH THE BETTER. ON ANOTHER
NOTE, PLEASE SEND SOUR CANDY AND CIGS.
DOESN’T MATTER WHAT KIND. I CAN TRADE.
LOVE YOU. MISS YOU. I’D SAY WISH YOU WERE
HERE BUT I DON’T. TOO MANY PERVS AROUND.
AS THE WEEKS WORE ON
E-mail often became gripe mail.
The Fallujah action had slowed
in the months before Cole’s unit
arrived. Courageous Marines spent
less time actively being brave and
more time training Iraqi policemen
to handle local issues. The city
had been divided into walled-off
sections. The locals were required
to travel by foot and show military-
issued ID in order to move between
neighborhoods. As Cole wrote,
WE MAN CHECKPOINTS AND KEEP
CURFEWS AND HELP REBUILD
INFRASTRUCTURE. ALL OF US ARE
JONESING FOR ACTION. AIN’T HAPPENING.
He complained a lot that first swing,
but I was happy to hear casualty
counts for his unit remained steady
at zero. Once in a while, an e-mail
would hint at ugliness. HAD A LITTLE
EXCITEMENT. CAUGHT TWO DUDES
TRYING TO PLANT AN IED. WE BLEW
THAT MOFO SKY HIGH. ALMOST FELT
SORRY FOR THOSE HAJJIS THOUGH.
THE IRAQIS HAULED THEM OFF OUT
OF SIGHT. CAN’T SAY FOR SURE BUT
I DOUBT THEY MADE IT TO LOCKUP.
SOME TIME LATER
I became aware of free press
stories leaking out of Iraq. Stories
about detaining Sunni Arabs
for no other reason than that’s what
they were, and locking them up for
months or more, no judge, no jury,
not even a day in court. Sometimes
their families didn’t hear of their fate
for a very long time. Sometimes
they just disappeared. Other stories
made it very clear that all the American
goodwill we saw on videos—delivering
boxes of food or handing out candy
to children—was tolerated, not
celebrated, as we in the U.S. believed.
Tootsie Pops and MREs hardly
compensated for destroying
the Fallujah economy or executing
its men. Farmers and storekeepers
often met the same fate as tried-
and-true insurgents. But, who knew
who was who? Especially with
the growing Awakening movement—
former insurgents bought off by the U.S.,
in the hopes that three hundred
dollars a month would temper their
extremist ways. The Awakening forces
were paid to patrol neighborhoods,
help with the rebuilding, and maybe
do a little spying. It didn’t make them
love the Americans any more, but
they didn’t care much for al Qaeda,
either. In theory, the idea worked well.
In reality, it was working to a point.
Except, what if it wasn’t? Iraq is a land
of tribes, and as more and more sheiks
signed on to the program, infighting
was unavoidable. Not only that, but
with millions in aid pouring in, every
tribal leader wanted a piece of the pie.
And, as Cole wrote, WHO KNOWS IF ALL
THESE DUDES ARE REALLY SHEIKS OR NOT?
SEEMS LIKE HALF OF WHAT WE DO IS TRYING
TO FIGURE THAT OUT, OR KEEPING SUNNI
HAJJIS FROM MURDERING SHIITE HAJJIS OVER
WHO GETS WHAT. GODDAMN. WHY DON’T
WE JUST LET THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS KILL
EACH OTHER AND BE DONE WITH THIS MESS?
It was a mess, but less a mess than
before the surge that made it a mess.
At least, that’s how the brass saw it.
AN UGLIER MESS WAS BREWING
In the years since the 2004 siege,
Fallujah doctors had seen a huge
swell of infant mortality and serious
birth defects, including a two-headed
baby and too many born paralyzed.
Breast and brain cancers increased
fourfold, childhood cancers
twelvefold, and leukemia cases
skyrocketed to thirty-eight times
usual levels. Not only the sheer
numbers, but also the speed of this
rise was reminiscent of another
&nbs
p; wartime nightmare—Hiroshima.
Scientists went looking for reasons.
What they found—evidence of white
phosphorous, napalm, and uranium
in civilian neighborhoods—would
cause enough of a stir that denial
was useless. The blame rose higher
than the offices of military brass.
It went all the way to the boardroom
of the Commander in Chief and his
advisors. By that time, the grumbling
had long since begun that the war
in Iraq was a sham, a fabrication.
Six months before the initial invasion,
Congressman Dennis Kucinich took
an unpopular stand, saying there was
no credible evidence Iraq had weapons
of mass destruction, nor provided aid
to al Qaeda, either before 9/11 or since.
And, “Unilateral action against Iraq will cost
the United States the support of the world
community.” Eventually, even our staunch
ally, England, would lose respect.
I was still in high school then and, though
I heard plenty of antiwar sentiment
coming out of my parents’ mouths,
I had more important things on my mind.
Cheerleading. Honor choir. My latest crush.
Those are what I worried about.
Not invented excuses for a war on
the other side of the world. I would
never have predicted it would mean
one damn thing to me in the future.
But as that long, gray autumn
of 2007 wore on, I couldn’t help
but wonder if what we were accomplishing—
or not—was worth sending our warriors,
especially one of them, into harm’s way.
I COULD BARELY WATCH THE NEWS
The casualty count kept rising.
When they added up the number
of dead U.S. soldiers in December,
2007 would go down as the deadliest
year yet in Iraq. Sometimes I didn’t
hear from Cole for days at a time.
Though I did my best not to think
about what that might mean,
I would flash on possibilities,
none of them good. I was back in
school, and at the time still thought
I’d be an educator, so I was student
teaching part-time. Nothing like
helping first graders learn to spell
and add to lift the focus off oneself,
at least for a little while. Though
I didn’t mention it to Cole (a rabid
Collateral Page 9
