Spent Shell Casings

by David Rose

  “What’s up, man?” I extended with a handshake. “Thanks for having me over.”

  He paused and looked at his girl. “No problem.”

  “You just get back?” I found myself asking. It was sort of the standard ice breaker in those areas and times, and I knew wholeheartedly that I didn’t really give a shit either way.

  “Yeah, you?”

  “A few months ago. Happy to be back, around Fallujah got boring as fuck after Phantom Fury.”

  “Whatcha drinkin’, Dave?” His gal asked me. Her head was buried in their fridge, that firm, big ass in black slacks wiggling as bottles clanked from deep within a drawer.

  “We were there too, it’s where I got this.” He said, angling his head at me, making sure we saw the fleshy trench running from his jaw and up into his obnoxious haircut.

  My girl squeezed my arm at the sight of it, “It’s terrible, what you’re all put through.”

  “Mom, can we come out now?” pled a small child from an unseen location. I sat up straight. My girl squeezed my arm even tighter. A beer bottle was in my face.

  “Not yet” said her friend, handing me the beer. “Daddy’s Marine friends are still here.” Said Mom.

  Furtively looking around the place, as a hand rubbed my leg, I noticed some big differences between the guy in the family portraits hanging on the wall and the lobotomy patient now asking me what unit I was in. It all made sense, the whole thing. A hand crept northward up my thigh.

  Our hostess, as per standard operating procedure, had stowed her sons in a room, maybe a broom closet, while “Daddy’s Marine friends” were over.

  “Her husband is deployed” my girl whispered in my ear. I shook my head absently, trying to fight off the likely facial expression of an extremely insulted intelligence. “Does that bother you?” she asked.

  “None of my business, I guess.”

  Here I met an undefined moral conflict, however, made all the thicker as I realized how all people involved were somehow connected by the Culture of the Deployed.

  Before long we all made off to our awaiting beds. The fair-skinned, infidelity-prone, home owner guided her life-support system for cock to the master bedroom. My girl and I, however, were given one of the imprisoned children’s bedrooms. There are likely many who would concede that there’s something thrilling about throwing a stuffed animal off a bed to lay down an excited lover.

  We went at it; no condom, no pretense, no tomorrow.

  In the morning I awoke to rays of sunlight, peering out from between Spiderman blinds. Olive skin atop skin of ink and white, she smelled the way the wild orange groves did back in Florida—the ones I had found hidden in Wekiwa, after a faint rain and the sun had come through the patches of cypress canopy. Although I had a Lego digging in my hip, the moment of closeness was not lost. She awoke, and smiled with the half of her face not pressed against my chest.

  “Good morning, you animal” she said. Indeed. I climbed on top of her. She seized mine with her own, endearingly, and I almost came.

  Now. You. Me. Thrust—thrust—thrust—thrust—thrust—dig, dig, kiss and dig. The door creaked as it opened, and her face reacted in horror as her womanhood corresponded in a rapid demoistening. Then the shriek of a mortified boy emits up my back, crawling up like a damn spider.

  “Get out!” yelled out from underneath me. I tried to make my ass somehow disappear. The door shut. Any thoughts of my assistance in traumatizing a military brat any worse than he already was was soon squeezed out of me with tan legs, and tossed out of the room with a kiss.

  Avoiding a military brat of my own, at the last second, where my face looks like I’m having a stroke and I speak in some dead language, I pulled out and came on the Charlie Brown sheets.

  The breakfast after was as odd as one would imagine it. The boys were officially let out of the room. POWs65 seeing the sun for the first time in what could have been days, they walked cautiously, like dogs detecting a problematic scent.

  Chastised thoroughly for not being able to find one of my socks, I was finally able to get into my truck and get the hell out of there.

  There were a few more rendezvous, all progressively going the same direction—downhill. Come to find out, being even remotely apart of her daily life came with a swarm of annoyance. Reigning supreme was her pit bull, a spoiled creature that rivaled a Saudi prince who’d demanded to sleep in her bed and would whimper and howl if locked out. I once waited for her to go take a piss. Grabbing the controller for the dog’s electric collar, I proceeded to juice that rodent until her bathroom door cracked opened. I met her ten year old son too. This meet was actually a sigh of relief. It confirmed her story that she was separated, rather than pulling any antics learned from her friend. Be that as it may, her kid was as pleased with my presence as he would’ve been if locked out of his room and had his sheets jizzed on.

  The final meet was sexless and brief. Her son’s dad had filed something, hurting her purse in the process apparently. “I fucking hate men!” was the last thing I heard, as I egressed from her tantrum. Once back in the barracks, I logged on; there were messages in the inbox.

  16

  CLEAN AND GREEN VS. THE GOTH

  WINTER 2003

  One random Orlando night, while on leave, myself, my dad, a good civilian friend of mine went to a local pool hall. Owned by a friend of my dad’s, I had played in the vacant lot behind the bar as a kid, cautiously pilfering through the encampments of the homeless and chasing around a flock of peacocks that had congregated there for as long as anyone could remember. This was the kind of place that Quentin Tarantino would salivate over when scouting for shoot locations. Placed in the deep shadows of a thicket of oak, it sat happily on the border of where two trailer parks met with the furthest shores of a little southern ghetto.

  To enter the bar, before walking through the first set of double doors, one would pass a hedge row. Here a group of men, years later, would hide out to mug drunk patrons. I recall the one night when my friend and I encountered this group. They came out of the shadows the same way moccasins come out of their nests—quickly, but only a short distance. They assessed my friend and me. At the time I’d just gotten out of the military and was roofing houses. There is something about “I work fifty hours a week running terra cotta tile up a ladder with guys with 110% Peckerwood inked on their back” that apparently screams “fuck with the next guy.” My buddy was no slouch either, though slimmer than me and void of much of the underworld dealings that I had accrued. He and I had just finished reading the Black Medicine series and were anxious to try some tricks out on someone.

  A few nights prior, after all the bars had closed, we found a man sleeping in his truck outside a day labor office. Figuring it a great chance to practice some jiu jitsu and maybe even some takedown defense, we asked him politely to exit his vehicle. After much coaxing, we convinced him we just wanted to borrow a lighter. His intuitions correct, the moment his back was turned I drunkenly went in for the takedown. Perceiving a savage robbery, his fight-or-flight kicked in with enough adrenalin to slip out of my hold and run madly into the street. He immediately flagged down a passing cop, resulting in our most frantic egress.

  Anyway, these muggers, possessing those innate analytical skills that human predators often do, retreated back to their bushes and shadows. About twenty minutes later, after my cohort and I had worked ourselves into a good game of pool, a group of three came bursting in, blood spewing from one of their heads, claiming they had been beaten and robbed.

  I recall the taste of satisfaction and pride; years of the hard road had etched itself onto skin and demeanor, and those muggers had seen it. I was all the more tickled that the victims looked like the soft white kids that spent a month’s pay at FUBU, all to be decimated by the very street arch-type they so desperately tried to emulate.

  So, passing the hedges, passing a first set of double doors, traversing a tiny room, and then a second and final set of doors, patrons find themselves in s
omething like a larger version of Moe’s tavern off The Simpsons. Shit like Patsy Cline and Jim Croce playing, while rehabilitated hookers turned pizza joint managers sit next to the disheveled forgotten, crawling out of society’s bilge to occasionally suck down a few cold ones.

  On the night in high remembrance, we all walk in and to my delight I hear some heavy metal playing. Directly in front of me was the back of some colossal beast dressed in black, with hair of equal pitch, ending below the shoulders. The bar itself had multiple fronts, and at the one closest to the doors, he was the only person occupying an entire bar-face. People weren’t displaying any outright fear per se, but the wide berth given to him as he banged his head and pounded the bar was instantly noticeable. He wasn’t terrifying by any means, the way say a junkyard dog is; rather he was that dog with beady eyes that everyone was trying to guess if it has rabies or not. Although mostly looking straight down at his crossed forearms resting on the bar, he soaked in all the attention from the cautious can collectors and check cashers scurrying about his periphery.

  We posted up at a corner pool table.

  “If there are any Christians in here, you better cover your fucking ears!” The big Goth had made his way to the jukebox.

  We were in need of some drinks. I was basically there to watch. My buddy and my dad were both amazing pool players. The most entertaining aspect about it, however, was while my buddy got consistently worse the more he drank, my dad got consistently better. At a few pitchers in, some sort of competitive equilibrium was established and it became a worthy spectator’s sport.

  Naturally then, it was my job to get the beer when it was needed. There was a clear open space at the bar. More than that, though, there was a clear opportunity to test fate. I figured what the hell, and perched right next to the Goth, back on his stool head-banging and pounding the bar with his fists. Upon closer inspection, he looked to be Puerto Rican, hair shining due to the sweat, over six feet tall, about 250 pounds, and sporting (among other things) a USMC tattoo on his arm. It was one of those classic barroom moments, right out of a western—the slow, upwardly rotating glare from his glass to my face.

  I rarely found clothing or anything traditionally regarded as “style” that I really liked, or fit me well. For whatever reason, the Marine Corps undershirt, coming in olive drab, known commonly as the skivvy shirt, fit me like a glove, and I would proudly wear them whenever and wherever. It always made me feel like Henry Rollins in his video for “Liar.” For some reason. Originally seeing the video in seventh grade on a Beavis and Butthead episode, I was struck profoundly by the synthesis he emitted: military, punk, tough nerd, and animal. I guess I fancied myself all those things too, and I always liked flying a barroom door open sporting the OD66 green. This night was no exception.

  The Latino, gothic, one-man show growled at me, “You in the Corps?”

  The challenge was something palpable—thick enough, in the space between us, to register on a high school chemistry weight scale. Like two mountain goats, or tomcats outside your window at 4 a.m., or some species of aggressive seal, a confrontation seemed imminent.

  One of the more interesting facts about Marine culture is the complex web of who deserves an ass beating, and when. In the same day, hell, the same bar—a group of boots can get their ass kicked by some seasoned grunts for wearing too much USMC propaganda out in town. Some other boots kick a civilian’s ass for not knowing the difference between Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom. The grunts then beat up some POGs, and then finally the POGs, boots, and grunts join forces to beat the shit out of the civilian reinforcements that arrived to avenge their friend’s ass beating an hour prior.

  With this in mind, the meeting of two Marines in a seedy bar is not necessarily one of certain merriment and brotherhood. Civilians tend to get tripped out by this, and all I can offer for an explanation is a fierce proprietary nature.

  “Yeah man, stationed in Lejeune, home on a 96.” I said.

  “Right on. . . brotha.”

  The bartender brought me my pitchers, looking at the other guy out of the corner of his eye. I left with a nod and returned to our corner. While away, my dad apparently had to take a piss and had disappeared in the cigarette smoke at the far side of the bar.

  Maybe one Slayer song later, the abrupt squeaking of bar stool legs, rubbing against the tile floor, hit my ears. A hammer fist against the bar and then the yell of “All right, Marine! Front and fuckin’ center.”

  I had no idea what compelled me exactly, but I found myself marching like a zealot to the stake. It was on. Stupid violence. The thought of the battle was exhilarating. “St. Vitus’ Dance” by Sabbath was at its half way point. Gloomy, powerful riffs wrapped themselves around my arms and legs. I didn’t know what to expect, other than a glorious and vicious scrapping it out of two generations of bar-fight aficionados. He had slid the stool back, walked a few feet toward me. . . and then stopped. Just the moment prior to planning that first punch, the one you hope goes right down a motherfucker’s throat and sets you up for the glorious sit-on-chest-and-punch-face-until-tired, just before that moment I saw the shots he had set up on the bar.

  His scowl had turned into goofy grin. I was taken aback by the childlike way his cheeks fattened and his toothbrush commercial smile emerged from his outlaw beard.

  Unfortunately for him, my dad, who had apparently also heard his perceived challenge from across the bar, had procured a girthy pool stick and was steadily making his way toward the guy’s back. He had confidence in his son, sure. But a little assist wouldn’t hurt. With stick in hand, like a ninja wielding a katana, my dad had his eyes set right on the back of the guy’s head, which on the other side, unbeknownst to Father, displayed the face of an Italian merchant, gracious at the sight of his first customer of the morning.

  Forced to morph instantly from “combat mode” to “preventing my dad’s certain death mode,” I smiled, laughed and grabbed a shot glass.

  CEASE FIRE!

  What transpired was a night of banter that ended up in a bear hug and lamentably a few “oorahs” from my new friend.

  Months later I found out that my parents went back to that same bar, met him again, ended up giving him a ride home, and he cried on my mom’s shoulders about god knows what, asking her if he could call her Mom.

  17

  EMAILS FROM THE AL ANBAR

  As the son of the willfully, technologically regressed, I’d never used email prior to deploying; possibly setting me apart from the millennial brood more than any other attribute. While tackling the quandary of logging on, saving contacts to a newly discovered address book, and replying, I emailed multiple people back in the USA about multiple things. Due to operational tempo, emailing was a sporadic event. Below, as a select sample, are three emails per month of my OIF IIB deployment. The recipient(s) have intentionally been left anonymous. Looking back through these, I’m tickled by their youthful nature, the telling infatuation with books and music, and left proud of who I was. Yet it’s impossible not to acknowledge a shadow that exists atop a portion of these messages. Deeply insecure while highly motivated made for an interesting early twenties.

  These emails are in almost pure original form, edited minimally only when grievous grammatical errors occurred, likely due to being rushed out of the Internet centers and/or pre-discovery of spell-check.

  9/17/04

  Just read your emails along with Chris’ and Kim’s. I’ll write kim back later when I have more time. i’m writing you for the purpose of giving yall some levity due to the fact that Fallujah is getting some intense media attention. i’m sorry but we are directly ordered not to tell anyone anything about what’s going on here that the cameras don’t or won’t film, so you won’t hear much from me again. I’d rather keep you informed, I think it is a more comforting tool than lies or silence, but it’s for our own operational security and I agree with it. I don’t have anything to tell you except I’m here and I’m going to be here for awhile.
Take care and I’ll write again pretty soon.

  9/25/04

  That’s interesting about Greg’s birthday bash, you’ll have to keep me informed. I haven’t been able to go to the gym in 5 days, I know that sounds like a funny complaint being in a combat zone but never the less it’s here and I want to use and abuse it. We’ve been busy and the tempo is getting exciting. 2 years of baseball practice and I’m on the diamond. I’m always adjusting shit and trying to better myself but I’m almost always left with the humbling, but smile -producing fact that alot of these guys are better than me at most of this, my times up and I gotta go.

  9/26/04

  We kicked ass today, found over 100 lbs. of explosives and ran over 300 cars through check point. I’m pretty tired but I’m going to the gym after this. It’s 8:56 pm here and I’ve been up since 8 am yesterday. We did good and some big wigs were impressed with the platoon. You need to brace yourself, if the power still on the tv is going to be spitting out some intense shit. I don’t mind that yall pray for me but I don’t really care either. This stuff has become so job-like and programmed that we think too rational to sympathize with praying loved ones an ocean away. I emailed laura and kim , I tried chris, but his address is weird. I just recently fell in love with the song by neil young, that starts off “my, my, Hay, Hay,” and says rock n roll will never die” a lot. I bet kim or jake know the song.

  I don’t know if I told you this but oct. 1, dana and kate each receive their dozen flowers along with my address.

  I’m not saying this to dramatize or sound all out there or even make you more aware, I just think you need to know that something’s at a boiling point but instead of being weak and insecure chose to be confident in the situation, god knows I am.

  10/03/04

  This is the first day where I didn’t want to be here, temporarily, me and my team leader really got into it, in each others’ face and cussing a storm. It’s due to a lot of inner team conflict that isn’t worth writing about.