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Chapter Thirteen Sub-chapter: Lost in the wilderness
“D.d.d. DO YOU LOVE HER!” She spoke then screamed it. Her voice was scratchy from apparently crying for hours while I slept.
And I awoke to her straddling me, in her drawers, and my .44 pointed between my eyes.
“DO YOU FUCKING LOVE HER!!!”
Her hand quivers for a second, a tear rolls off her cheek, and a flash of light wakes me from another nightmare.
As though having seen some of the shit I have didn’t be me enough of them, now my friggin’ sub-conscious was working me over as well! I’ve always found that the human capacity to torture ourselves is one of the mistakes God made. Or maybe it’s not a mistake at all. Maybe it’s a safeguard to keep us from becoming gods ourselves. She never actually woke me throwing a fit, and pointing a gun at my head. Though she probably wanted to a few times. For the time being I needed to worry about being a good Dad.
It’s said you learn best from the bad leaders because you learn how NOT to do it. As a kid I always tried to make my own Dad see me. That’s all. Well, of course, I wanted him to pat me on the back, say good job…some shit like that. He always watched the Patriots lose on Sunday, while he cooked Italian, usually pasta. The gravy (sauce to yooz that don’t cook in Boston) simmered all day. His secret was butter and sugar in it. [sorry Pop].
The other boys in my class played in the local Pop Warner football league. They were the Eagles. I tried out and made it. I got knocked on my ass once, and got up and slugged the kid upside the head. They put me as linebacker at first because of my bad attitude. Which they claimed was great for football. It turned out my size was a disadvantage. I was skinny and short; but I was fast so they put me at defensive end.
One game I remember in particular was against a team that had a female coach. A female coach! Imagine that! Of course we immediately looked upon that entire team as a gangload of pansies. Those pansies and us were tied with a few minutes to go. They were punting the ball, and the snap went over the punter’s head. He ran back to get it, turned, and got a chest full of me coming at top speed unhindered for fifteen yards. It was a picture perfect tackle. The crown of my head went into his solar plexus. I picked him up, and slammed him into the ground, landing on top of him. The ball flew out the second I hit him. My team picked it up, ran into the end zone, and we won. I knew the second I got up something was wrong with him. He wasn’t moving at all. He wasn’t in pain. He… lay there. I got on one knee to see if he was breathing, and it was barely. I ripped my helmet off, and while my side of the field was erupting in elation, cheering me as the hero of the game, the other team running to him. My heart broke right there. I won the game for us! I made an incredible hit, and tears were rolling down my face that I’d seriously injured another person. I was backed away by the refs. An ambulance came onto the field, they boarded him, and he was gone.
I was carried off the field by my teammates. I went to my Dad who’d been watching. I looked at him and he said two words, “Nice hit”.
And that was it. From that I took two lessons of life.
One, that regardless of what I did or did not do he could not be impressed by me.
Two- That if I play the game the way “they” wanted me to, and excelled at it; I would be inevitably left empty, broken, and filled with sorrow. But victorious. What victory held for me…I was never really a fan of.
Twoard the end of my Marine Corps career I really got into what’s known as whippets. How we did it was we got a towel, and a can of glade. My A-gunner introduced it to me. My platoon was the testing platoon for the 240 Golf. This is the machine gun in use now. It’s incredibly accurate so long as you’re a-gunner knows his shit. Mine was a hillbilly from the backwoods of southern Missouri, so he knew his shit. He filed the pin on his and my M-16 to make them fully automatic instead of bursting three useless ass rounds.
Hell, we even had the angle of the can down so as to NOT instantly freeze your throat. We drank quite heavily after I moved back into the barracks. It was at about this time I knew my marriage was doomed. I only wanted to do my time, get out alive and honorably, and go the fuck home. I had almost a year left on contract. They’d already figured I wouldn’t re-up, and that was kind of out of the question once I went AWOL. Fuck em… I learned what I’d need.
By now they had started allowing WM’s into our job. (Women Marines) The first couple screwed it up for the rest by fucking everything that moved. No not me.
There was one cutie pie with a really weird name that I’d gotten to be friends with. Named Sayward. Little blondie, from Ala-friggin-bama, and she liked the Insane Clown Posse. She drove me to the liquor store quite a bit. I once went there, got a shopping cart, and walked teh aisles looking for the bottles with the handles and flipped one of every one I saw into the cart. I spent... off hand I'd say I dropped $1000 on booze that night. It last three months with only me drinking it. I ended up with about fifteen bottles of plastic, and I also grabbed specifics. Such as the biggest bottle of Jack I could. Jack hooks a brother up, especially one that's in pain.
My wife wondered why I seemed to change once we got married, and she's always assumed it was because we got married or something. Nay lass. Even today she probably thinks something akin to that. No Ma'am. I'd experienced shit that no one's seen. I experienced a bloobath, and couldn't tell anyone about it. Not even her. It' skind of late to worry about ramifications from the DoD right about now. Besides, they've got bigger fish to fry.
I’d gotten a suggestion to watch a film named Trainspotting. I reminded some guy of one of the characters (Bigby I think) because he was friggin' crazy, and wanted to fight everyone. I was also told to rent Braveheart because the Irish guy on it reminded the same guy of me...
I also got a hold of a couple microdots. My room was set.
Large screen tv, surround sound with an insane bass, I sent my roomie out for a case of beer, and when he didn’t come back quickly enough I sent another. So, I had two cases of beer with my name allll over them, a handful of microdots, a chick who was insanely infatuated with me, and a room full of Marines watching me. They were watching me because they wanted to see me trip. And trip I did.
The film itself was cool. Didn’t care for the toilet scene, but hey. I had to piss. I hit the crapper, and as I sat I gazed down. I yelled at the top of my considerable lungs,
“YOU!!! YOU’RE THE REASON FOR ALL MY TROUBLES YA BASTID!!!!”
I was yelling at my penis. If it weren’t attached I’d have hit it. I looked to the door where a wooden face had appeared, and it said to me,
“Don’t ask me man I’m just a door!”
“fuck…” I got my shit together, and made the attempt to get back to my bed. I had to follow the entire perimeter of my room to make it, but I did.
They were all looking at me as if I were insane.
“Alex…? Who you yellin’ at man?”
“My dick.” I replied matter of factly.
This was received with a chorus of hysterical laughter. It’s funny I suppose.
Most of the rest of the story isn’t though. Those were happy times I suppose. Not happy per se, as in actually happy; but at least the pain didn’t cause insanity. So score one for the good guys, and my throat never froze, and that kid never played another game of football or anything else.