walk on the wildside

downtown L.A.

Echo Park.

sidewalks plagued by gum -- the pox; juicy fruit gone bad.

real bad.

taco bell wrappers -- greased up, blowing effortlessly, lost.

the girls -- they push their infants.

the boys are angry, searching for confrontation.

curb-side emporiums hawk faux fixings.

gucci and hello kitty blankets.

"it's like Tijuana," i say. "without the cripples and prostitutes."

maybe i just can't see 'em.

a lady crosses westlake blvd.

sporting a white tube-top and saggers.

she's on the "nod," wandering back and forth between the white lines.

cradling something -- @ first glance it's hard to see.

"she's got an iguana," Annika says.

"a fucking iguana?" i say.

she's right.

this tube-topped gal is tramping around with a giant reptile.

real green too.

splayed out -- it's tiny toes wriggle, desperately seeking solid ground.

but we have to turn, Langer's is close.

got good sangwiches.

pastrami-type.

so we spot it. right on the corner.

big christmas green, white script; cursive.

sign says to park in the rear.

my instinct says don't.

my instinct says bad juju.

the pedestrians filter past us as we decide.

do we park? do we go inside and have some sangwiches -- pastrami-type?

i see an African-American chap fit out in a wife-beater.

or v-neck.

but that's not the crux.

the crux is, he's mad. talking-to-himself-mad.

follow him with my eyes, periphery vision taking hold.

something i honed @ MCRD.

-- Marine Corps Recruit Depot.

matter of fact, this guy -- angry African-American male, looks like one of my D.I.'s.

he was a mean sonofabitch.

alcoholic too.

i hope he got help.

i'm straying -- Annika and I are rolling deep in the corolla, about to turn, dodging errant passersby, blasting Lou Reed, my hand clutching a little league aluminum slugger, hidden in the back seat.

"let's just go," i say.

a moment of hesitation -- juicy pastrami on our minds and...

we merge onto the 110 south.

back home to Pedro.

heartbeat steadies, the breathing becomes rhythmic and stethoscope ready.

i put the bat down and think about pastrami.

memory trigger

i was up near the front, walking through a palm grove near the tigris.

or maybe it was the euphrates.

high on the banks, above the flood zone.

with reeds and brown dirty water floating past.

few jarheads peeing.

taking a piss in the tigris so as to create fond memories, i suppose.

and up on the banks, this house, these little old ladies, and a small contingent of Marines were taking cover as artillery impacted all around.

it's an old story.

told many times before -- even in this blog, i believe -- years ago.

nevertheless, despite the little old ladies crying and sitting and looking up with their jack-o-latern smiles, i forgot an essential detail.

frogs.

frogs and dogs.

this house -- more like a compound, had a large pond that flowed down to the river.

down, down into the murky brown.

everyone knew their part.

Marines clearing the house.

little old ladies crying.

artillery whirring above.

i took a moment.

minute or two.

to bend down, look, and see these weird looking frogs.

big flat heads and grayish-green.

kinda like kermit.

a war-torn kermit, with black pin-head eyes and --

BAM!

a shot rang out.

and this dog -- your prototypical Iraq mutt, went skidding across a walkway -- wounded.

wounded and yelping like dogs so often do.

hauled ass across the grove, never to be seen again.

nobody cared.

me neither -- last of my worries in the march of 2003.

but later that week, or day, or month -- i dunno, things seemed to have blurred in these seven years -- but later, another shot rang out.

BAM!

i didn't see it. just barely heard it.

but another mutt got shot.

hell if i remember who the shooter was -- for some reason i keep thinking it was a zero.

some squid getting his licks in.

my master gunnery sgt. -- a damn good man -- told me a dog got it.

a dirty dead dog.

i was pissed.

but then again, i was always pissed.

anyways, we stopped on the outskirts of Baghdad, near a nice little house -- a Christian house, with crucifixes and Michael Jackson posters -- this kid; this Marine; this peasant with an M-16; heaved his boot into a pup's gut.

i mean -- didn't this guy read books or watch movies?

who the fuck kicks a pup during a war?

the bad guys...

weird.

seen alota dead people thus far.

dead and blown to shit.

hair and teeth and ears where they ain't supposed to be.

i checked this kid; this Marine; this peasant with a M-16; against our Hummer.

his face was gonna meet my fist.

but our Lt. -- one of the good guys -- interceded.

fist did not meet face.

i had forgot.

forgot about that entire incident -- until today.

a random conversation with Annika -- and i remembered.

a memory trigger, i guess.

and i wonder.

i wonder if i survive to be old n' gray.

wrinkled.

with my sword cane and comfortable shoes.

an old lady by my side.

and Sgt. Mandia -- just a few faded photos hidden away between the pages of Walden.

talking viagra and adult diapers.

i wonder...

will it happen again?

as the rain poured

we went below deck and hunted ghosts on the Queen Mary.

luckily, we only found one another...