...one ticket to Moscow...

16 MAR 2010

I just ran into a buddy of mine.  He just got back from the shit.  He told me it was hell, man.  At one of their transit stops, he said their air conditioner broke down.  There wasn’t anything they could do, so they just had to sweat.  War, man, it changes you.  Nobody can come home from that OK, and if they do, I don’t think I could trust’em, man.

OK, enough of that, else my father sends me an angry message.

There have been reports of improvised explosive devices, some found, some detonated.  And there’s been some small arms fire too.  Mostly rock throwing though.  My team hasn’t seen any of that yet.  And, no matter how many times they ask me, I don’t know if we will.  The consistency of my ignorance hasn’t deterred their questions any.  Their parents too, got a round of Q&A with me at our farewell ceremony.  I didn’t have any answers for them either.  I get through most of these moments with a sympathetic shoulder shrug.  Not unlike the look I give poor little puppy dogs in a pet shop window, when I know I have no intention to buy one.

The only answer I’ve offered to the pooches, coupled with my typical nonchalance, is the utterance of “50-50”.  Either they’ll see our withdraw and try to take advantage, or they’ll see our withdraw and rejoice; once again minding their own business and focusing on the normal qualms of life—do I need a new roof, do I show my family enough attention, my goats look hot and tired, and so on.

An interesting note of happiness, our two weeks leave dates have been posted.  My team goes off some time in September.  That’s a long time from now, I guess.  But I try to look at it as, “I’ve never seen New York City in the fall.”  So there’s that.

They tell me the leave process has changed a little since my last go around; all you have to do is walk into the airport here and name a destination, and poof, you have a ticket.  I’ve been thinking about showing up at the counter in a suit with black out sunglasses, with a handcuff briefcase labeled Top Secret, money and fake documents all bulging out the seams.  I would say, in whatever Russian accent I’m able to muster, “Hello, I need one ticket to Moscow.”  And then five or so of my buddies could run in with full battle rattle, rifles pointed, and I would say to the agent, “And I am in a hurry.”

That would most likely result in my second detention in a foreign country (if you can count Canada).  I imagine some Government desk jockey looking over some classified report with my name on it, shaking his head and thinking, “What an idiot.”

- The Exodus