As The Sparks Fly Upward

It’s 9:51 PM, Al Asad time, and I am sitting in my bed, a whole bunch of Spice Family pillows behind me (more on those tomorrow, just got ‘em today), staring and typing at my laptop. I cannot claim this to be a unique posture for me. My wife would out me on that one—our king-sized bed at home has been the birthplace of more than a few essays, papers, journal articles, and even a book chapter (from the fantastically popular “Encyclopedia of Respiratory Medicine”).

Well, here in Iraq, my bed has become much more than a place for sleeping, computing, and snuggling. Given that it takes up about 1/6th of my canister, this should not be surprising to anyone. But there is another factor which makes the bed even more of an all-purpose piece of furniture here in Iraq. I do have a chair in the room (as does just about everyone here), but it is of the only variety to be found at the PX: one of those foldout, canvas “captain’s” chairs, complete with the cupholder on the right armrest. These are great chairs for sitting and talking, watching a soccer game, or leaning back and watching a movie. In fact a few of us do the latter about every other night in the little alley between our cans, with the cool air and the sparkling desert sky providing us the perfect setting as we stare at the insanely large screen of CPT Baker’s laptop, and eat micro-pop. The folding chairs, however, are not the greatest place from which to eat a meal. The hammock-esque build of these things results in the seated party not quite being able to reach anything very far away, and not able to get enough leverage to spork the intended food item. So, I eat in bed. Gross, I know, but wait: it gets grosser.

Yesterday I went to the mess hall with SPC (that stands for “Specialist,” which is the title for certain 4th level enlisted personnel, the others being called “Corporals”) Holgate, an unfortunate kid who was supposed to be out of the Army months ago, but was “stop-lossed,” a word which means that the Army would not discharge him, even though he had completed his obligation. To add insult to injury, he was moved from his regular job (which had ended) into our clinic, where he currently doubles as front desk staff and manager of our “pharmacy closet.” SPC H’s prior job in the Army, the one for which he was trained, is as a cook. As we talked yesterday, we got onto the topic of foods we like, but nobody else does, and we found a common denominator: kippered snacks. If you don’t know what kippered snacks are, well, I don’t either, really, but I can tell you that they are some kind of fish, smoked, chopped up, packed in oil, and somehow squeezed into a can a bit longer and bigger than a sardine can. When the can is opened, the things stink to high heaven, and people actually get up and leave the room (not necessarily a bad thing). If all of this sounds really disgusting to you, congratulations. You are among the 96% of people in the world who would not eat a kippered snack if they paid you to. In other words, you are normal. But me, I like the stinky, smelly, oily, canned things, and so does SPC H. So when I had the truck for a few minutes today to pick up my laundry, I went by the PX on the way home, and grabbed five cans of kippered snacks off of the shelf where I had seen them, looking lonely, dusty, and oh so kippered, just a few days before. (Somehow, I knew that they would still be there.) When I got back to clinic, I gave SPC H a couple of cans, and put the rest in my bag.

After work, I hit the gym and worked out for nearly two hours, all the time thinking of those kips. I got back, showered, put on the PJs that Lorri sent me earlier this week, and sat on my bed, remote in one hand, and You Know What in the other. As I peeled open the sardine-like metal lid, I said the following to myself, almost aloud: “Erik, do NOT spill the kippered snacks on the bed. That would be very bad. Your little living space might not ever recover from such a toxic waste dump.” It was at about midway through that third sentence that I felt something cool on my leg. I looked down just in time to see it drip onto the bed spread. About 50 baby wipes later, and I now feel confident that I got rid of at least 1.3% of the smell of oily smoked fish. Only 98.7% to go! Ahh well, I wasn’t planning on inviting anyone over to my pad anyway. Time to call 1-800-MATTRESSSSS (the extra “s”es stand for “stinky salmon snacks”).

The weekend is coming up (here, actually, though I work on Saturdays, so it makes Friday night kind of irrelevant), and I plan to push out a longer, more cohesive entry tomorrow, but tonight it is late. For now, I will stew in my own kippered juices and fall asleep, dreaming of the following:

TEN THINGS I WILL DO WHEN I GET HOME

1. I will surf the web from the comfort of mine and Lorri’s king-sized, non-pungent Posturepedic. I will repeatedly click on the Wall Street Journal’s home page and marvel that it takes 15 milli-seconds to open up, rather than 15 minutes.
2. I will wander around town asking people to pronounce the word “potable.” If they pronounce it correctly, I will bestow upon them one Iraqi dinar–the old, worthless kind with Saddam’s picture on it, but still…
3. Our cupboards will be laid bare, and I will find something—anything—in them which is NOT “chunked and formed.” I will immediately eat that thing.
4. I will gaze upon the shiny, happy faces of my lovely wife and my precious, precious children. It will seem like an eternity since I have seen them, but also like only yesterday and that it the way that it’s supposed to be.
5. I will go to church, without a 9mm pistol strapped to my chest, and there I will be offered the sacrament by someone who, also, is not carrying a weapon. That I know of.
6. I’ll get in my car and drive more than 3.6 miles, which is the farthest I can go straight in any direction right now without running into the wire which borders our little “village.” Then, I will drive back home, and Maya will run out to meet my car when it gets there, so that she can hug me first. Never gets old, that last part.
7. I will get the largest cup in my house (maybe the horse bucket in the garage) and I will fill it with ice to the brim, and with filtered water from the little dispenser in the door of our refrigerator. Then, I will take a series of long, cool sips, and it will not taste even the slightest bit like dust or diesel.
8. I will head to Walmart and make my medics a care package, full of M&Ms and Chips Ahoys. When I send it, I will put all twelve of their names in the “address” field.
9. I don’t care if it’s raining, sleeting, snowing, hailing, thundering, or lightning-ing. I’m going swimmin’! I fully expect the pool to be green and more-alive-than-dead by that point (this will be September), but its dangerous algae levels notwithstanding, I’m getting in. Try and stop me.
10. And last but certainly not least: Group hug. If you’re reading this, you’re invited.