story segment
Madame Python says: Well, Wicket, another unpublishable
story crossed my desk this week that I thought you might like.
Miss Cricket says: Py, I thought we agreed that today’s
segment would be about how mango puree is not an aphrodisiac unless you are
counting the studies that discovered that if you smeared...
Madame Python: That’ll have to be another day, Wicky. No fruity frolicking today. Today’s story is
right up your alley. It’s long, so I’m going to start right in. And this one
has a title:
Zero T-Shirt, 100% Fleshlight
I’ve been
sleeping with my t-shirt on for about 3 months now, two pairs of socks,
underwear, and two knit hats one on top of the other. I look like a cross between a guy from GQ magazine and a homeless person. Most of us are on a second deployment and we
look like it.
I got a
package from Anne’s mom today. My
mother-in-law can cook and she likes to send me these large chocolate covered
stick pretzel things.
“Cep’s got dog
shit again!” someone yelled when I opened the box. Five other GQ/homeless sorry asses took
almost all of my dog shit and ate it within 5 minutes. I still got mine though. I always keep a secret stash.
Anyway, today my
mind’s focused on going to Shandaiz’s restaurant - not on Saran wrapped homemade
snacks. Not my usual hang out, but today
is the day I’m going to tell the girl in there my name. She’s a state-side 10 and a
desert 15.
It started
when I stopped in the Shandaiz’s restaurant to duck out of the path of a sudden
dirt devil. When I was paying up, she
said that I seemed to have a southern accent.
Yes, I said I was from Iowa (which isn’t really south, but close enough
for making small talk). She was from
Kentucky. Horse country. She had been on a State Department internship
but had stayed a bit longer and was working.
She said she had been on the volleyball team at school and just couldn’t
find anyone to get a team together. She
fumbled my change when she was giving it to me. Flustered.
Eyes demurely looking down.
“We’ll have to
find you that volleyball team,” I said stupidly.
I didn’t go
back for several weeks, but when I did she remembered me. Her face lit up like I was the sexiest thing
she’d ever seen walking tall in a uniform.
It was like whisky warming me up from the inside out.
“I still
haven’t found people for my volleyball team,” she said. We talked a little. I went home and couldn’t sleep for 2 nights
in a row.
“You don’t
even know her name,” I would say to myself.
“It’s ridiculous. You don’t know
her. She doesn’t know you. You’re married. All you did was talk about a volleyball
team. You’re an idiot. You know for a fact that if you could have
Anne’s company for one hour – no, one minute – you would forget you ever even
saw this girl. That’s a fact.” But a part of me that had been asleep for a
long time had woken up. And it felt
good. And I just wanted to hold onto
that - all night if possible.
In the couple
of weeks that followed, my distraction was noted. I have great hearing. I picked up things like:
“Bicep’s gone
all quiet,” and
“Pounded his Fleshlight so many times it rotted his head,” and
“Oye
gilipollas, me robó tu mierda secreta.”
That would be Toe thinking that I didn’t know Spanish - as in: "Hey, asshole, I stole your secret shit." Later that day was when Toe lost track of his
lucky playing cards – which was a bummer for Toe because he plays a lot of
Texas holdem and is superstitious.
During a
morning PT, I didn’t need any special hearing skills to hear, “Get your mind in
the game you jack ass!” I had been
floating through another run and almost broke my ankle stepping on a big rock. Also, no problem hearing, “You’re going to
fucking get us killed.”
So no more dereliction
for me. No more volleyball team,
daydream, jack off, southern accent bull shit for me. I had a job to do. That is, until I saw her on the street a
couple days later and she embraced me like a long lost friend. The smell of her hair, the touch of her
breasts on my chest, the fact that she held me a little too long. It only took a moment and then she was gone,
but I was going to learn her name. And
she was going to know my name. Somehow I
was going to know this woman.
And she was a
woman. Long brown legs that must have
looked best in those short shorts volleyball players wear. Jet black hair sometimes tossed onto the top
of her head showing off her dangling earrings.
A silver ring on almost every finger and heels that had to have been
magic to have propelled her around the mean streets of our metropolis.
“I deserve to
be happy,” I reasoned. “I don’t know how
long I have on this earth. And I deserve
some happiness. And this girl makes me
happy. No one has to know about it. And it doesn’t even have to be anything. I just want to know her. I just want to see her smile at me. She makes me feel like I was numb and am
coming back to life. And I want to be
alive. It’s like water to the
desert. Like food to a starving man. I need this.
And anyway, I’ll be less distracted if I actually get to know her. That’ll be good. Better focus.” At this point, my every waking moment’s focus
was consumed by this beautiful creature.
“I have to think about how to see her.
Have to think about how to tell her my name. Maybe she’ll ask me for my name.”
Three days in
a row I drove past the Shandaiz’s restaurant trying to look in without being
noticed. Three days I tried to get my
courage up. Three days I kept twirling
my wedding ring. Now, no more waiting.
“Where are my
fuckin’ lucky cards pajeros? I’m going
to kill whoever has them,” Toe was saying.
“Sierra Tango
Foxtrot Uniform,” someone told him from across the B-hut, “Shut The Fuck Up.”
“Got a game
tonight, maricón?” I said. I knew he did
and normally I would be in, but tonight I was skipping the DFAC and was going
to see her. There was a bright moon
helping light my way as I headed toward the restaurant. I was 100% GQ as I stepped through the door. When her eyes caught mine, her face lit up
like I was somebody. She came across to
me like we were already lovers. I wanted to take care of her. I wanted to
caress that long black hair.
“You know,”
the southern bell looked up at me, “I don’t know your name.” She blinked slowly twice. “What is your name?” She put the tips of her fingers on my arm.
She blinked again.
I looked down
at her innocent face. I was all warrior, honor, respect, band of brothers, mud
and grit and fidelity. You could hear
the slamming of a car door. The scrape on a skillet in the kitchen. I took her
fingers off my arm, looked her straight in the eyes and lied. I said, “It’s DH.”
“DH? What a funny name. What does that stand for?”
“Devoted
Husband.”
My eyes must have
said it all: not now, not ever, sorry, wish I could help you, someone else is
going to have to be your friend, someone else is going to have to help you with
the volleyball team, someone else is going to have to protect you in this
strange place, I’m done.
She looked at
me as if I had backhanded a puppy. The
blue heels clicked around the corner into the kitchen. I heard the faint scratch of a cigarette
lighter and a murmured, “Prick,” and then, “Damn it,” with less Kentucky horse
country than Brooklyn deli shop accent.
She was composing herself and coming up with Plan B. Didn’t know I had dog hearing.
A chair
scraped on the tiled floor and I realized I could see the moon shining through
the thin curtains.
“Prick. Damn
it,” I thought to myself, “Prick-damn-it.
Well, I’ll be God damned. I’m a
Prick-Damn-It. I’ve always wanted to be
a Prick-Damn-It. I bet I’m the very best
Prick-Damn-It in this whole God damned town.
I got an Eagle Scout based on a Prick-Damn-It project. Future interview: ‘Tell us about yourself.’ Well, first of all, I’m a born and bred
Prick-Damn-It.”
I walked out.
When I showed
up at the compound, I whipped Toe’s lucky playing cards at him hard. He caught them mid-air and only shot me his
famous toothy smile. Later, I discovered
the rest of my mother-in-law’s care package had been raided. Son of a bitch. But I was in time for the game and was up
when I got out.
That night, I
took off my t-shirt. I’ve got some scars
front and back. The largest scar is
across the bottom of my bicep – like a tattoo showing off my guns. Doesn’t matter. The guys that gave me these scars got way
worse.
I put Anne’s
t-shirt across my pillow. It has long
since lost her scent, but it’s soft and it’s hers. And I got into bed letting the sheet touch my
skin so that I could imagine that it was Anne touching me. I was cold.
I didn’t care.
“Hi,
Anne. This is your Prick-Damn-It husband
checking in,” I said silently to her t-shirt.
“You always said I was an asshole.
Turns out you were right. I got
your mom’s care package today. I told
you that she’d come to love me. Thanks
for your letter. Things are okay. I gotta tell you, honey, that sometimes I
can’t miss you because it hurts too much.
I gotta shut that down for a while so I can survive. I can’t be thinking about you 24/7 because
I’ve got to focus on what’s in front of me – for my sake and the unit’s sake. But I’m gonna tell you right now, I miss
you. I need you and you aren’t here. And that pisses me off.”
I put my hand across
her t-shirt.
“Thanks for
holding down the home front for me. I
know you’re doing a great job and I know it is hard. Do me a favor and eat one of Sonny’s onion
burgers for me. I know you hate them,
but I’m about to die over here if I don’t get some real food. Send a picture like you did when you and Mom
went downtown. Listen, there’s a big
moon out tonight. Like I always do I
sent my love up to the moon so that when you see the moon tonight, my love can
come back down to you. You look at the
moon tonight, baby, and know that I’m sending my love down. Good night, Anne. I love you, baby. And baby, I’ve got all the Prick-Damn-It you’re
ever going to want, right here.”
And then
A
mortar screamed overhead and smashed a huge whole in half of Disney spewing
chunks of asphalt 300 feet into the air. Bicep stayed with Anne’s t-shirt. A
goat took a wrong turn in the old mine field and bits of goat and mud rained down
on the B-hut. Bicep stayed with Anne’s t-shirt. Someone with a grudge
overturned a porta-john with a Sargent Major still inside, the DFAC alarm went
off and the Big Voice said, “Anyone in a bunk right now, get up!” Bicep stayed
with Anne’s t-shirt. Then an MRV wrecker backed into the water tower and it
buckled to the ground. As a wall of water rocked the B-hut, Bicep’s roommates
poured inside.
“What the
fuck! We usually get sniper fire, too. We gettin’ gypped,” complained Riley.
“No, we ain’t,”
corrected Cobb, “Toe’s about to have Skype sex with his girlfriend and we all
gonna watch.”
“Move over,
Riley,” said Bicep, “I get my usual spot.”
Miss Cricket:
Madame Python: What?
Miss Cricket: It was a very sweet story until you ruined it
with the goat bits and water tower and things, Py.
Madame Python: It was so sappy, Wicket, I could hardly
stand it. Ack! Ack! I don’t want to read about people doing the right thing. I
want to read about people doing the wrong thing. I want to read about people
making bigger mistakes than I’ve ever made.
Miss Cricket: [pause] Yes, well, thank you, Py for bringing
us this sweet story. Any last words, Py?
Madame Python: Thanks, Wicky! I just want to tell all you
servicemen that you just chuck your Fleshlight in the stewardess’ garbage cart
when you get on board in Frankfort. You come and see Madame Python and, if I’m
not in Mumbai, I’m gonna show you how you don’t need no stinkin’ Fleshlight.
Miss Cricket: [cough] We support all our service men and
women both here and overseas.
Madame Python: Yes, we do.
Miss Cricket: Py, get the back of your finger out from
between your teeth.
Madame Python: Wicky, which is your favorite branch of
service? I like…
Miss Cricket: God save the Queen.
Madame Python: Yeah, her, too.
Copyright 2013, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved
image credit: http://www.peocscss.army.mil/PMMRAP.html
