A distant falsetto from outside was chirping into Linwood’s motorhome. It repeated his name every few seconds, then came rotated with a soft knocking on the door of his rusting, abused Winnebago – a 1974 Winnie Minnie.
Pammy, his niece, was out early. Out in a howling morning winter wind, rousing her uncle, her face still smudged with sleep. She was calling him, over and over, to a retort of dawngray silence. That’s why she started knocking, despite the bad results of the past.
“Hey, sweatpea,” Linwood rasped, placing one bloodshot eye in the doorcrack. “Whatsup?”
The girl was full of stammers. All hatetobotheryous while scratching the toe of a fuzzy slipper across the dead grass. Linwood’s ex-wife, Monica, had just died. Passed way overnight in the hospital.
He curled his thick, beaten fingers around the edge of the fiberglass door and watched a strange swampbird rise up from behind Pammy’s house, arcing in slow motion through the thin sheet of fog laying against the roof. That’s the craziest bird, he thought.
“Damn,” Linwood coughed, shaking the door uncontrollably for just a second. “Sorry you had to get up for that, sweatpea. But thankya.”
“You can use our phone if you need to,” she offered, her eyes raking the ragged sliver of her uncle showing in the doorway. “When you need to. Dutch don’t mind. For now, anyway.”
She smiled like that had put things right. And maybe it had. For now.
“Thakya.”
Linwood closed the door and went straight for a cigarette from a dented softpack of Doral menthols. He brushed the filter over his lips and counted the seconds before he had another thought of any kind.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Last Day to Join the Army
I’m no Patrick Henry, but I considered joining the U.S. Army late last fall. I’ve now got less than 24 hours to join, or surrender, once and for all, the chance to serve my country. This is my last day of being 41 years old, the current cutoff age to enlist as a soldier.
I’m also no flag-waving, America First! zealot, but the idea of serving my country while we’re at war with Iraq (to some degree) and Afghanistan (to a large degree) was more than a romantic notion. It feels like an obligation, a duty.
But I’ll make this clear right now: I’m not enlisting, and I have tremendous respect and admiration for the men and women who have fought and served in Iraq and Afghanistan over the past six and seven-plus years, respectively.
By some estimates, more than 4,200 U.S. military members have died in Iraq since the invasion. Another 667 have fallen in Afghanistan during Operation Enduring Freedom. It’s the price we’ve paid since 9/11, whether you favor the wars or not.
But here’s the catch: I’m not what you’d call Army material. I joined the Air Force when I was 19, and never made it out of basic training (entry-level separation due to a medical condition). I never re-enlisted. And I’ve always held conscientious objectors (read: World War II’s Robert Lowell and Vietnam’s hippie hordes).
My announcement to my mother and mother-in-law, that I was truly considering going all Stripes with my life, elicited polite, muffled, but audible, guffaws. My kids took is seriously, because they could see I was serious. And I was. For a few weeks. Then reality kicked in.
I smoke two packs a day. I’m out of shape. I’d much rather read Lao Tzu than Sun Tzu. I don’t own a gun, have never (really) gone hunting, and I’m a raging liberal Democrat. But after 12 years as a journalist, and the newspaper industry in tatters, I was looking for a suitable, lasting, satisfying career turn.
And, like I said above, our country is at war and folks have been dying to support our nation’s ideals. I’ve had pangs of guilt, to be sure. But there are people better suited to carry out our mission of keeping freedom ringing (agree or disagree) than me. Lots of ‘em.
In summation, I guess I chickened out. Or wised up. (Agree or disagree.) I’ve kept my sermons consistent to my two sons, that we’ve had an awe-inspiring form of government in America (however imperfect) ever since patriots like Patrick Henry vowed to conquer the bullies of the world. I’ve also told my sons I’m not in favor of them joining the military during wartime, at least not until after they’ve received their lieutenant’s bars.
I’m down to under 23 hours now. Time’s going to run out on me, and I will always have a pang or two of regret, I’m sure. But at least I gave it some deep thought, right? I dunno. If nothing else, I gave a few folks a few good laughs. After midnight it’s all an afterthought, anyway.
I’m also no flag-waving, America First! zealot, but the idea of serving my country while we’re at war with Iraq (to some degree) and Afghanistan (to a large degree) was more than a romantic notion. It feels like an obligation, a duty.
But I’ll make this clear right now: I’m not enlisting, and I have tremendous respect and admiration for the men and women who have fought and served in Iraq and Afghanistan over the past six and seven-plus years, respectively.
By some estimates, more than 4,200 U.S. military members have died in Iraq since the invasion. Another 667 have fallen in Afghanistan during Operation Enduring Freedom. It’s the price we’ve paid since 9/11, whether you favor the wars or not.
But here’s the catch: I’m not what you’d call Army material. I joined the Air Force when I was 19, and never made it out of basic training (entry-level separation due to a medical condition). I never re-enlisted. And I’ve always held conscientious objectors (read: World War II’s Robert Lowell and Vietnam’s hippie hordes).
My announcement to my mother and mother-in-law, that I was truly considering going all Stripes with my life, elicited polite, muffled, but audible, guffaws. My kids took is seriously, because they could see I was serious. And I was. For a few weeks. Then reality kicked in.
I smoke two packs a day. I’m out of shape. I’d much rather read Lao Tzu than Sun Tzu. I don’t own a gun, have never (really) gone hunting, and I’m a raging liberal Democrat. But after 12 years as a journalist, and the newspaper industry in tatters, I was looking for a suitable, lasting, satisfying career turn.
And, like I said above, our country is at war and folks have been dying to support our nation’s ideals. I’ve had pangs of guilt, to be sure. But there are people better suited to carry out our mission of keeping freedom ringing (agree or disagree) than me. Lots of ‘em.
In summation, I guess I chickened out. Or wised up. (Agree or disagree.) I’ve kept my sermons consistent to my two sons, that we’ve had an awe-inspiring form of government in America (however imperfect) ever since patriots like Patrick Henry vowed to conquer the bullies of the world. I’ve also told my sons I’m not in favor of them joining the military during wartime, at least not until after they’ve received their lieutenant’s bars.
I’m down to under 23 hours now. Time’s going to run out on me, and I will always have a pang or two of regret, I’m sure. But at least I gave it some deep thought, right? I dunno. If nothing else, I gave a few folks a few good laughs. After midnight it’s all an afterthought, anyway.
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