This was originally posted to Iraq the Purgatorium, February 10, 2008. If the author should happen across this reprint, I only have six words to say - dude, stay safe and come home.
I'm out and walking about, back to the same grind, the same routine, the skipping record patrol patrol pa-pa-patrol trol trol trolllllllllll. It's a nice day, perfect weather for suicide vests, they warn. Don't let 'em too close.
And there I am, climbing across the ramp while it's still lowering, the big green monster shitting another soldier out onto the streets. We walk along the road, and I start to wonder just what the fuck we're supposed to do if someone IS wearing an S-vest. You can't get the people far enough away.
What, the whole point is to not let them kill you with a point blank explosion? To just take a little less and still come out chewed up? Give me a fucking break.
I'm watching everyone. Hey dude, unzip your jacket, pat yourself down. You're already close enough to vaporize me anyway. I know there is no point in doing what I'm doing, but I do it anyway. Because I'm short now. They say this is when you get complacent? No way, not me.
A car turns onto the road towards us. I stand in the road with my rifle at the low ready, cigarette smoke burning my eyes, and I shake my head no at him. Then I gesture that he can either turn or turn the car around, but he can't keep coming this way. Some other guy shouts something to our interpreter. It's ok, I'm told. Let him come.
He pulls up to the house in front of me, his house. Where his little girl has been waving from the gate for the past few minutes. I look like the uptight asshole, but I don't care much. I'm short.
I get tired of the crowd of young boys hanging around me, chittering at me in Arabic, asking me for things. "Yalla, emshee." Go away.
I'm scanning roads and windows and rooftops and intersections and people and everything I can, even though I know that if something were to happen, the odds of me seeing it coming are very slim. The growing sense of desperation and survivalism is directly proportionate to how much time I have left. As my time elapses, my paranoia amps up exponentially, until I'll hop on that bird a shaken, sweaty, blood-shot eyed, frayed out mess, slumping my ass into the seat. Exhaling like a hurricane and then gut-laughing like a fucking madman.
I'm short but I'm not stupid.
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