Something people say, over there: War is Hell, but you can get used to anything. They'd say this and laugh, but it was that kind of laughter, like, Holy shit we are sad. I never felt sad, over there. Afraid, sure. But I was specifically molded for war. War is my only purpose for being. My speciality was going down into holes and pits or climbing into crevices looking for traps and things. Mostly I just ended up fighting snakes and spiders. I'll admit, some of the guys--the regular humans--in my unit treated me like a joke. But you know when they stopped joking and laughing? Every time I crawled out of the crack in a cave wall dragging a dead poisonous snake behind me.
People at home seem to have the idea that it's all desert and caves and everything over there, but a lot of it is actually very beautiful. We came across this kind of pond on patrol one morning, just as the sun was coming up. We'd been out all night, trekking around, and we were tired and beat up, so we took a second to sit here and rest. There were some little fish in the water. Some of the guys had a good laugh, like they were going to use me as bait to do some fishing. I laughed along, like a good sport, but then walked right up to the edge and stared down into the water, like, come and get me fish. O'brien, he tried to pull me back, but I just stared at him until he backed off. Every single man in my unit was and will be a brother to me, and like all brothers sometimes you have to stare them down and hold your ground to win respect.
That was my last mission before I rotated home.
This is me and my brother-in-law at my welcome home party. My sister is a name tag, and she's always been a real rebel so of course she went outside the plastic world and married a glass. He's an all right guy, I guess, but a bit of a lush (as you can see). He spent the whole night thanking me for my service and talking about how he would have loved the opportunity to serve his country if not for some problem, a little crack or something in his base. I get that from people all the time--excuses. I guess I shouldn't be judgmental, though.
Like lots of guys, coming home has been a tough transition. More problematic for me is my size and that the bazooka is literally molded to my hands. I tried to get a job with an exterminator--given my experience killing spiders and snakes it seemed like a sure but--but no one would take me on. What if a possum eats you up, they say, that's a workman's comp claim I don't need. My sister got me a job at the grocery store where she works, guarding the fruit from customers tempted to snack while shopping and then not pay for whatever they ate. You'd be shocked at how frequently this happens. People think anything not individually bagged is up for grabs, I guess. I guess it's all right, as far as jobs go, although there are times when I catch someone picking at the grapes and I wonder, 'is this what I was fighting for, really?' This one lady, I caught her snatching them right out of the bin and tossing them into her mouth, and when I called her on it she had the nerve to say 'Your word against mine, little man.' I told her, 'I don't need a mouth, I've got security cameras,' and she backed down. The store doesn't even have security cameras, but she didn't know that.
My sister set me up on a blind date, which I was pissed about. Well, kind of. Yes, I'd like a companion, you know? It's something I've thought about a lot, settling down. But getting set up...well, it made me feel like kind of a loser, to tell you the truth. Like, my sister has to meet women for me? Anyway, this is her. She's a lid, her name is Patty. When I asked her to meet me for coffee I had no idea she worked at a Starbucks, so that made me feel like an asshole, but she was pretty cool about it. One thing I liked about her, she didn't ask me once about the war or the service or anything. She was the first person I'd met since I got back that didn't say a word about it.
Our second date, she asked me to go to this convention with her. Patty's into kind of nerdy stuff, which I'm not but I wanted to see her again so I said I'd go. It was pretty strange, seeing people get all worked up about make believe. Like, you know, I've killed a hundred snakes and a million spiders, it's hard for me to lose myself in fantasy. Even weirder was the people who showed up in costumes, who ran around like they were characters in comic books and shit. These guys, they had this whole choreographed routine with dialogue and everything. Made me a little sick, honestly, seeing war played like a game. Patty, to her credit, picked up on my mood pretty fast and pulled me out of there. In the car she apologized and said she hadn't considered that maybe something like that would bring up bad associations. We kissed for the first time that night, when she was dropping me off, and after that we just sat in her car for a while, talking. She asked me if I ever thought about getting surgery, to free my hands up, and instead of answering I kissed her again, which she seemed to enjoy. She invited me in, but I didnt want to move too fast, so I said goodnight and went back to my place.
What I didn't tell her...what I never told anyone until now, is that seeing that little battle played out didn't bring up bad memories. No. It made me homesick.
I have a hard time sleeping a lot, to tell you the truth. It's hard to get comfortable in a bed, first of all, when you're used to sleeping in someone's pocket. The night after that second date with Patty I tossed and turned like crazy. All I could think about what that weird homesick feeling, which was scary, and that kiss, which was even scarier.
I called Patty the next day and she didn't pick up or call me back. Called her again the next day, and the day after. I got all worked up, worried that I'd blown it. Maybe I'd misread the signals when we kissed? Maybe my bazooka poked her head? I tried not think about it, but it just gnawed at me. She didnt want to see me again, fine. But she could at least tell me why, right?
I'm not proud of what I did next. I was so anxious about the whole thing, though. I went by her house. Drove by two or three times before I worked up the nerve to actually stop the car and walk up to her door. Finally, I did. Parked the car across the street, got and out walked up her drive, and as I did I saw her door open...
...and this guy, this smiling son-of-a-bitch, walk out. I just froze. That's not true. I fingered the trigger of my bazooka. I thought, well, he's got to go. But of course, I didn't actually shoot. He walked up to me and smiled, and when he got up close I saw what a normal, happy guy he was. Wearing nice clothes. Probably on his way to a legitimate job, where no one ever bickers with him about grapes. I stood there and thought, she deserves someone she could have a life with. Someone happy. Someone who can hold her hand in the movie theater without the threat of accidentally firing a bazooka shell into the screen and killing everyone.
I don't know if I'll ever feel normal, if I'll ever feel like I fit in here. If here will ever feel like home. Maybe it would be easier if I got that surgery, lost the bazooka. But I don't know if I'll bother. I wouldn't know what to do with my hands.
Words by Batten/Images by Gardner
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