after all these years, still dig it

pearl jam
"daughter"
reminds me of someone that's gone.

"tomorrow," on its feet

short play i wrote called "tomorrow."

performed @ Lebanon Community Theatre in Pennsylvania, 2008. 

starring Brad Hartman and Haley Johnston. directed by Scott Harmon

great job!

little old ladies

it was on the edge of the Tigris.

a hamlet. old, perhaps ancient. and we halted in place; food and drink before Baghdad.

set up the C.O.C.

-combat operation center.

dug in as the sun dipped beyond the horizon.

360 degrees of security.

240 machine-guns; S.A.W.s; frag grenades; new batteries for our night vision; and yer basic grunt, m-16 greased and ready.

the Zero said the town was cleared.

only friendlies, but he wanted to make sure.

assembled the usual suspects: the Texan; s-3 rogues; Arab translator; and several shit-bird Lance Corporals.

-all trigger pullers.

we leave, armed to the teeth. overkilled on grenades, ammo, and honed K-Bars.

CONTACT RIGHT:

B.M.P.

-russian troop carrier. gutted. 

still smoking. 

a round detonates from the heat. some pens and pencils. a button. a shred of clothing. food.

still smoking.

wondered what became of the poor bastards manning this beast. found 'em a short time later.

pieces.

teeth.

molars.

a canine.

pieces.

holy shit.

we push on.

an abandoned bungalow. we enter. walking into someones bedroom. a large mirror. clothes scattered here, there. 

stones lined up along a window sill.

"prayer stones," says the Texan, digging through clothes.

"ey look-a Pepsi t-shirt."

he shoves it into his cargo pocket.

i take a stone. clay or compressed sand. maybe lime?

dunno, but i still got it. 

we leave the bungalow and head towards another.

empty too. 

kinda. 

parakeets. budgies. dozens. blue and yellow and green. chirping away like there wasn't a War on. 

-the nerve.

some lay rigid on the cage floor. 

try to take a few out. free 'em, right?

soon as i grab one-CRUNCH-sonofabitch clamps down on my ham hock like it's going outa style.

deep and gnawing. it hurt. so i left the cage open and headed towards the river.

past a palm grove that obscured thousands of enemy artillery rounds.

-future I.E.D.s.

dates cling tight and leathery high up in the trees. their tops seared by rocket fire.

a Mailer novel, i think.

"Naked and the Dead."

and then we saw 'em.

little old ladies. white flags in hand, waving, forcing smiles.

ugly as sin. teeth yellowed, missing. breath: a pungent combo of garlic and ass.

such an ugly place; Iraq, i think. 

the translator asks them their business here.

-salvaging personal items.

where were the men?

-the men were gone. maybe dead.

were the men soldiers?

-no, just men.

"fuck saddam," blurts one of the old ladies.

i laugh. "yeah, fuck saddam."

the other Marines clear the house as the interpreter and i watch the old ladies.

"sit down," i say.

they sit.

we fix our m-16s in their general direction. one of the ladies shoots me a nervous smile. i counter with the same.

'no more saddam," she says.

"yeah, no more saddam. bush now." i say. smiling.

how absurd, i think.

these little old ladies sitting down, semi-automatic rifles pointed inches from their heads, on the order of a 23-year old punk.

-me.

and it ain't unique. no. nope. not even fucking close.

holding semi-automatic rifles inches away from little old ladies heads' is S.O.P.

WWI; WWII; Korea, 'Nam; Storm, and now me. Iraq.

looking down at them. homely and scared. just living their lives on the Tigris. something that's been done for a millennia. 

KA-BOOM! impacts. outgoing. no. incoming. no...

i dunno.

WHOOMP! WHOOMP! WHOOMP!

Huey's pile past, sucking air.

can only imagine what's going on in these little old ladies heads'.

tell myself they'd slice my throat given the chance.

given the knife. given the opportunity.

and this is why i have to point my semi-automatic rifle inches from your head, ma'am.

i'm sorry. honest. it's all just so ugly.

but can't apologize now. nope. maybe someday.

when it's settled down and there's a starbucks on every corner. 

someday.

i can explain why i treated you like a dirty dog. but not today. 

today is War. 

today the Legion crosses the Rubicon. 

and my burden is staying alive.

a sound.

glass shattering. falling. 

doors kicked in. wood splintering. pots and pans tumbling, rumbling.

a sickening feeling surges out my gut, up my esophagus-causing me to suck at my teeth. 

"hurry the fuck up!" i shout.

they do. they come out; the Marines, one by one, smiling, pockets full of souvenirs.

KA-BOOM!

direct hit! the Tigris explodes; spraying water high, falling in droplets-heavy. mist suspended in air.

another impact. pounds the earth. the ground rolls like an earthquake. something beyond a single man's control and it's goddamn scary.

WHOOSH!

oh shit. and the fear sets in.

outgoing? no. incoming? no...

panic. the little old ladies get hysteric.

running in circles. really. like chickens, sans heads.

they pepper our translator with questions.

"who was firing?"

"what should we do?"

"where do we go?" 

"what is all this?"

but we don't stick around. 

we have no answers. 

double-timing past those first bungalows, i see the parakeets. 

still inside their cage. chirping. 

eating seed as the world detonates around them.

sure must be nice.

my first paid writing gig!

well it's true: gonna be remunerated for my writing.

another step. 

closer. 

although i did win some dough for playwrighting contests in the past,

this just feels different.

and i gotta thank Judith Royer; Loyola Marymount University professor extraordinaire for bringing me into this project.

she and her comrades received a grant to chronicle "Soldiers' Stories." 

won't be writing about myself-thank god; think i've milked that cow for what it's worth.

instead, i'll be interviewing a Vietnam Vet and creating a dramatic monologue of sorts to be performed @ theatre's in and around Los Angeles. 

to be honest, i'd still do it if i didn't get a lick of cash.

figger it's training. drill. 

jordan wasn't born great. neither was magic. 

or Milius. Hemingway.

steps.

and hell, i love hearing about the past.

of men and women and their stories.

their hopes, dreams, experiences. 

and of War.

how it shaped them.

this country.

the world. 

-seeds of future screenplays.

can't wait to start.

my script won!

"get some"
wrote a script about an 18-year old Jarhead; Pvt. Barnes.
his mission: destroy the enemy planting I.E.D.s on donkeys.
yet, all he wants, is a confirmed kill.
okay, okay, i understand there's no such thing as "confirmed kills," anymore, but hell; it's a movie.
nevertheless, the script was chosen out of the entire U.S.C. Film School (546 contest).
$10,000 budget.
crackerjack cast and crew.
director: christine berg.
producer: gerard mcmurray.
two professionals.
two highly motivated individuals.
and i guess that's what it takes.
skill/passion.
and a little LUCK.
check out the brochure christine made for the script.
and some pix.
good shit.
very good shit.

the fear...

obama.
mccain.
same guys ,different suits.
but this is truly creepy.
sing for most dear leader...

fade in

ext. - al nasiriyah - mid-morning

View Larger Map
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.