get over it

two months.
sixty days.
and i was home.
san pedro.
residing inside my parents house.
drinking beer and jack.
watching tv:
paris hiltons vagina.
britney spears new tattoo.
george micheal gives a blowjob inside a public restroom.
change the channel.
CNN.
report about Iraq. troop casualties. quagmire. bush; the 'decider.'
then a quick update on the sunni triangle; fallujah specifically.
two months.
60 days.
fallujah. my home.
i comment something about it to my dad. most probably negative and self righteous.
he doesn't say much. just lets me talk.
smart guy-im sure i sounded like a fool.
but then, as i was injecting my social commentary, someone screeches out, "get over it!" the "it" being the War, of course.

"get over it."
"get over it."
"get over it."

fuck, i just got back.
numerous vulgarities bloomed inside my head.
wanted to blurt something out. but i didn't.
had to leave. VA appointment.
got in the toyota tundra supplied by my gramps and headed towards long beach.
driving over the vincent thomas bridge. now dotted with blue lights.
down ocean blvd.
men in power suits. they stare at the ground. oblivious.
women in starched mini-skirts. daggered high heels. angry faces. consumed with their cell phones.
past the bars on pine street.
past the buddhist temple on redondo; an old lady walking her miniature yorkie on the corner.
she grimaces at some unknown hurt. yanks her miniature mutt on a diamond encrusted leash.
red light.
my toyota tundra idles.
i wear black sunglasses that obfuscate my face.
they reflect dull in the longbeach haze.
they hide my eyes from the women i oogle.
pathetic, i know.
but what straight man doesnt admire the female form?
mormons?
jehovah witnesses?
so i watch the old lady and her miniature mutt sniff the buddhist temples grass.
a pink bow on its head.
circles an area. hesitates. circles again. stops.
looks around, self-consciously.
then squats and takes a big ass dump on the buddhist temples front lawn.
the old broad just up and leaves.
the tiny turd steams on the sidewalk.
green light.
make a left.
past the steers and queers and odd looking women who hate men and then a right at the brazilian jiu jitsu dojo (i think thats what they call it).
continuing down 7th street.
the black neighbor hood.
the mexicans.
near the donut shop in which my cousin found a roach inside his jelly donut, i make a left.
large white building jutting into the gray sky.
VA longbeach.
go in.
bunch of geezers with moto hats and pins on.
the few the proud.
semper fi.
semper paratus.
go army.
go navy.
a few old farts with VFW covers.
they come up to me. strained smile. "donate?" they ask.
"im broke man," i say.
"no problem young man," they say.
good people.
and i go up to the alpha clinic and a large gay black man takes down my name and tells me to take a seat, it'll be ten minutes.
i do.
several of the old farts sit too, watching montel williams interview a woman who was kept as a sex slave for eight months inside her boyfriends garage. she escapes. the boyfriend subsequently blows his head off. good fucking riddens.
watching montel i fail to notice the oldster who takes a seat next to me.
a smell.
disturbing.
piss. urine. shit. feces.
and tobacco. not the aromatic type either, but those cheap fucking dime store basics.
i turn and look.
who is this foul creature?
just an old man. he strains smiles at me. i smile back, my lip quivering.
i do a double take.
holy fucking shit.
he doesnt have a nose.
he doesnt have a nose.
i try not to stare. but im a jackass, what else was i gonna do?
looks like a character from he-man; skeletor.
skeletor incarnate.
puss drains down the hole in his face. yellowish brown. gravy.
continuing down his stubbled chin.
collects in the crease.
what a sad fucking sight, i think.
poor old bastard probably stormed the beaches at normandy and now he's sitting in this waiting room, stinking of piss and shit and cheap cigarettes.
boogers continue to roll down the hole in his face to his mouth, where he tongues the goo.
i think he might be nuts.
a name is called.
higgins or hilton or some shit, and skeletor gets up and strains another smile at me.
theres a lot of strained smiles at the VA.
he heads down the white hall. disappears.
thirty minutes later another old guy sits near me.
his body shakes.
he too smells of cigs, but not piss.
i think i smell beer.
his face is peppered with liver spots and wrinkles.
eyes like cocktail onions left out over night.
suddenly he reaches into his pocket. goes through some shit. then turns to me.
"you in iraq?" he says.
"yes. yes i was," i say.
he tells me about how fucked up the war in Iraq is. how bush is a dumbass.
i agree.
his name is ed.
he signed up after the "japs" bombed pearl harbor.
ed shows me a picture. black and white. frayed at the edges.
a young kid in fatigues, holding an m-1 carbine.
"you see this punk?" he says.
"is that you?" i say.
"youre goddamn straight it is," he says.
i pray he's not one of these angry veterans, hoping to vent his misfortunes on a kid like myself.
but he doesnt. ed just talks. and talks.
"this here was one scared sonofabitch," he says, pointing at himself back in 43. "wasnt more than 18 years old, and i shipped out with patton."
then he tells me about going up through siciliy, and past the rubicon.
he met montgomery once.
"what was patton like," i say.
"an officer; a real asshole" he says.
we both laugh.
"things haven't changed," i say. "they're still assholes."
so ed goes on for about ten minutes.
french hookers.
dickhead sergeants.
m-1 carbines vs m-1 garands.
then some heavy shit.
the dead.
the wounded.
the women and kids.
the liver spots on his forehead wrinkle, doubling over.
sitting there, next to this fragile old man, i look at the picture again.
so young; almost a different person.
his hair is greased back.
his smile is honest and loose.
his eyes radiate confidence.
a firm grip on his carbine.
i glance up.
ed’s hands are shaking.
his hair is white and brittle.
i think he is trying to smile, but the strain of life wears heavy on his face.
“youre an integral part of American history ed,” i say.
“who me?” ed says. “i was just doing my job, just like you kid.”
i agree.
we signed up.
we enlisted.
it was our choice.
ed retrieves his photo.
i ask if I can shake his hand. it is feeble, no longer the handshake of the young man I saw in the photo.
"mandia!" yells a small phillipina in green scrubs.
my turn.
i bid him ado, and he says goodbye and “Hoo-ah”.
walking down the hall i glance back towards ed.
the television is still on. montel is over.
CNN:
the war in Iraq is raging. reports of insurgents bombarding a small town named fallujah with rockets and mortars.
i see a Marine Cpl being interviewed.
a young kid. 18-24. confidence exudes from his digital desert uniform. tan colored helmet rests atop his head and his eyes still look moist in the dessert sun.
although the sound from the tv is blaring across the large waiting room, ed chooses not to look at it.
instead he sits, clutching his wallet.
when i go home i cant stop thinking about the men i saw at the VA.
old and brittle.
falling apart.
and i sit in my parents house in san pedro in front of the tv, CNN on mute.
images of arabs and marines and the dead.
frozen.

"get over it."
"get over it."
"get over it."