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ext. - al nasiriyah - mid-morning

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we hold a large American flag between us.
still creased. rectangular boxes.
red. white. blue.
stars.
all that shit.
alvarez takes the picture.
we stand in front of a destroyed t-71 tank-soviet type.
smolders. Iraqi's bake inside.
im in a daze of sorts.
still buzzing from the caffeine. the copenhagen snuff; long-cut. the pilfered Iraqi cigarettes. the 72 hours without sleep.
it saturates my system to create a bizarre reality.
Superimpose: "Iraq, the Mini-Series."
Starring (in no particular order):
Vehicle Commander; the All-American.
Gunner; the irascible tattooed Grunt.
A-Gunner; the gung-ho immigrant.
Driver; Mr."By-the-books."
and guest appearances by Bing West: the affable embedded reporter. and the Dead: mostly Iraqi.
it is cinema at its best. pure imagery.
bodies tell the story without uttering a single word.
no exposition.
no voice-overs.
no deus ex machina.
scenes of brutality.
roadkill. staged. scattered about. fleeing. frozen in time.
young guys. like me. maybe you?
mustached. some kids. some women. i try not to look. can feel them seeping in. working their way deep into my brain housing group
locked away.
just waiting. just waiting.
we read a subtitle in the sky: "outskirts of town"
a muddy field.
LCpl. 3 Battalion, 1st Marines.
US Marine. dead.
we see him limp.
and it starts to sink in. our cast, including Bing, are really getting into their roles.
cutting out the air. off script. becoming second nature.
the ancient warriors in our DNA, slowly claw to the surface.
years of shellac, applied directly to our backs by women and effeminate men, begins to crack. muscles fill with blood.
something glimmers beneath all the whitewash:
a pugio dagger; a bolt-action Springfield rifle; a B.A.R. light-machine gun.
we are the Roman Legion. we are the Doughboys. we are GI Joe.
we are the bain of every hippie that ever drove his daddy's car from berkley to san fran international and spit on us.
-but back to the LCpl.
his boots. they hang out doc's vehicle. tan and worn. issued in camp horno.
maybe he stood behind me at the casting call?
did i brush against him as we waited for craft services?
don't really know the kid.
perhaps a flashback is in order?
-unfortunately the footage has been lost.
i still think of him, though.
late at night.
or when i come home from school.
wish i could just insert a DVD, instead of constantly having to regurgitate my bio.
i dont tell it well. i should write it down sometime. practice it like the rest. but i dont.
-i digress.
too many preachy commercials nowadays, dontcha think?
ext. - al nasiriyah - outskirts - mid-morning
a Peugeot.
white and orange.
LCpl tucked away.
im still folding the LT's flag.
we come to a herringbone.
wait for orders.
the XO of 1st marines, a stand up gent, notices something.
movement.
close on - white/orange Peugeot.
bodies crumpled atop each other. something stirs.
slowly.
like a slug buried in mulch, a hand slimes to the surface.
life.
guest appearance: ubiquitous Iraqi family (unpaid extras).
int. - Peugeot - mid-morning
father. mother. child.
we investigate.
father: dead. cold to the touch. blood congealing in his face. pupils dilated. relaxed. (those are the eyes of the dead).
mother: hip blown off; in shock. blood soaked. non-speaking role.
child: just an infant. leg chewed by a 25mm.
i remain composed. must not cry.
-think “on the waterfront.” Stieger and Brando, back seat of the taxi. “I coulda been a contender…”
the XO calls for a medi-vac.
i volunteer: litter bearer.
i get mom.
a robust woman. well-fed. knotted black hair. matted with blood. vacant stare. shirt ripped, big breasts flop about. large and firm. purple nipples. i look away, embarrassed.
the indignities of War.
ext. - al nasiryah - mid-morning
a blackhawk dissolves into the picture. a static negroid blob in the dust storm.
we have to move.
i grab mom. she looks up at me; through me. a faceless Grunt.
a wet day. mud and slime and hay and we all trudge through it; a Marine looses his boot in the process, wind cuts into our faces from the bird.
the back hatch lowers.
cha-chung!
we file in.
yell in bursts. the suction of air distorts our words.
the air-wingers direct us: put the woman there.
child here.
but then
i trip.
fall, actually.
mom falls too.
she has remained without lines prior to the medivac scene. now she howls in pain.
-residuals are owed.
she focuses her anger at me-the Roman Legion. the Doughboy. GI Joe.
like a wounded afghan hound, she yelps an animal plea.
"waaaaahhhhhhhh!"
guttural. inhuman. pain pure, primal.
havent heard such a wail since.
i pick her up. place her into position.
i wait with her. chopper vibrates erratically.
she’s very young to play this role of mother. can’t be more than 18.
a peasant. farmer. simple broad.
i try to assuage her pain, but what the fuck am i gonna do?
smile ? say its going to be alright-the Marines have landed?
who's writing this shit??
someone calls my name.
"mandia, get the fuck back to your vehicle!"
give her once last glance.
shock has set in. she is quiet. serene. morphine takes root.
wider - blackhawk thunders off
fade out.
maybe she died en route. i dont know. she lost alota blood. the deep rich arterial type.
and like the LCPL, i think of her sometimes.
at night.
or after school.
wish I had the footage.
maybe there was one of those superimposed headings at the end i missed.
like in “animal house.”
explaining what happened to her.
where is she now?
did her precious little daughter survive?
does she sit up at night too?
thinking of me?
or that overcast day in 2003?
a song plays.

The Sound Of Silence - Simon & Garfunkel

and an old Marine sits up in bed.
he lights a cigarette.
fade out.

the plan

it was more like a ploy to get me home early.
almost worked.
had the recommendations.
the transcripts.
the required writing samples.
EVERYTHING.
via the internet i investigated USC's screenwriting program.
googled the faculty. their work. past students. achievements.
on the ball to say the least.
but i didn't get in.
another four months in the desert.
i was pissed.
but i did get a personalized letter from a gent named Howard Rodman.
told me to keep on, keeping on.
and i did.
through the disheartening gulags of community college.
the tedium of gay-lesbian-transgendered-bisexual-metrosexual-women studies-animal liberation-algebra for the mildly stupid, required classes of LMU.
and i wrote. a lot.
and read. a lot.
and i'm still writing. and still reading.
hell, i've only been at it three years.
wasn't raised in the theatre. parents never did take me to the opera. or read gothe to me before bed. barely graduated high school. operated exclusively on cliff notes. failed english and math. was the antagonist of nearly every teacher i came in contact with.
needless to say, i was a major fucktard.
never even read a book until my senior year; "catcher in the rye."
first play @ 27; "the importance of being earnest."
and now, well, i'm just an infant.
balancing.
gaining ground.
learning to stumble. busting my nose on occasion.
but yesterday,
i walked.
down the little shaded mazes of the University of Southern California--the same walkways John Milius, George Lucas, Robert Zemeckis, Judd Apatow, Ronnie Howard, etc, etc. walked.

classes start monday.
here we go...

my boots

are tan, weather worn, unimposing.
they've seen a lot.
at times i think they've seen more than me.
marched in step on camp hornos parade deck;
trudged up the uss pearl harbors ladder wells;
dried and cracked in the kuwaiti desert;
soaked through with rain on the streets of fallujah.

one boot has a large dent in it. still rubs awkward against my big toe, makes just an impression to let me know its still there.
forget how i got it.
maybe an ammo can fell on it.
the soles are gnarled smooth. the grit of multiple naval carriers and the heat of the middle-east, creating a lacquered sheen..
some deep cuts are there too.
i know how i got those.
i did it.
i did it with my k-bar five years ago.
on guard duty.
it would be late, quiet.
the world ceasing fire.
then after sharpening it, id test it out on my tan rubber sole.

within the creases of the boot, underneath the beige laces, still covered with iraqi dirt, resides a dog tag. it is dented and dirty and has my name on it, my social security number, blood type, gas mask size, and tells my captors im in the United States Marine Corps.
got quiet a few dog tags floating around.
once had free reign of the dog tag machine at the school of infantry.
that was after my first tour.
thought i was shit hot. a salty dog.
and i walked through my old barracks, passing young Marines, fresh from boot camp, still looking scared and apprehensive.
i liked these kids.
joining after sept 11 2001, these guys actively choose to go to war.
something akin to the old timers after pearl harbor.
romantic patriots.
these kids.
18 year olds.
and i shuddered, thinking about the rabid jihadists they would eventually have to face.
about how their faces would look when they finally realized: this is war.

the prose you've read about in "farewell to arms;"
the jingoistic bullshit they lionized in boot camp;
the crap they protested against in the 60s.

don’t know why I wear my boots anymore.
just do every once in a while.
i mean i dont get all dolled up in my dress blues and march around my house, barking orders at imaginary subordinates. recite lines from 'taxi driver' in front of a full length mirror.

but these boots, they’re mine.
they’re all that I have now: memories.
because im officially out of the marine corps. no more inactive reserve. no more threats of being activated.
no stop-loss.
im a civilian.
a common joe looking in on an alien world.

ulysses, tortoise type