Hot Fudge Sundaes for Breakfast: With One Reason Not to Hurl Myself Off of the Roof of an Atlantic City Casino Parking Garage

By Kevin McConaghy

This book depicts only fictional people, places, and things. Any similarities between anything written on the pages of this book and any actual event that may have occurred since that moment when the first human indirectly crawled out of the ocean to proclaim him or herself the first King of Earth and began subjugating the “others,” is 100% coincidental. Furthermore, if you honestly believe that anything in this book is about you, then you are likely suffering from some form of schizophrenic or narcissistic personality disorder and need “help.” But for the sake of argument, I’ll play along with your delusional vanity. Let’s say that this book is 100% about you, like everything else in your self-deluding mind. So what! In a little 100 years, no one will remember that you ever existed! So stop whining about everything! All you do is whine about everything, and feel sorry for yourself! And if you actually think about it, the entire notion of eating a hot fudge sundae for breakfast is ludicrous anyway.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Mar 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483426815

Book preview

Author

BLOODY CHUNKS OF FLESH AND SPLINTERS OF BONE

S ometimes I can feel it spiraling through the air, a piece of hot metal, packed with explosives. It is an incoming mortar round launched from somewhere in the Baghdad Muhallas (Neighborhoods). I can feel the round bashing through my skull, and once passed through, detonating on the ground, and blowing my remains to pieces. A chill runs down my spine, and I consider turning back. I know, however, that I cannot. My laundry needs to be done.

I exit the building where I live with my laundry bag in hand. The building is an old, tan, two story structure, once used to house Iraqi soldiers. The FOB (Forward Operating Base) Eagle laundry point is on the other side of the base, about a fifteen minute walk away. The air is hot and dusty. The ground is dry and lifeless. I walk past a spot where a mortar round had impacted a few weeks prior, next to a now pockmarked wall. The thought of placing the bag of laundry over my head to somehow shield me from the impending trauma crosses my mind, but I dismiss it as silly. My pace quickens.

The laundry bag in my hand contains one fire retardant ACU (Army Combat Uniform), two sets of summer physical fitness uniforms, four pairs of white sox, two pairs of spandex, two brown t-shirts, one towel, and four pairs of boxer shorts. Someone once told me that the civilian contractors who work at the laundry point are paid $90.00 by the U.S. taxpayer for each bag of laundry that they clean. I don’t know for sure, though, because I have never been a civilian contractor working at the laundry point. What I do know for sure, though, is that on average, I drop off two bags of laundry each week. There are currently over 130,000 U.S. troops in Iraq.

I continue to walk quickly along the side of the pockmarked wall which shades the lower half of my body from the scorching sun. A chill again runs down my spine, as sweat begins to form above my brow. It would only hurt for a second, I assure myself. No need to feel this way. Just one momentary flash of extreme pain before nothing.

A Major approaches me from my direction of travel and we exchange salutes. Good Morning, Sir, I greet him, raising my right hand sharply, wrist straight and my fingers extended and joined, until the tip of my index finger touches the outer frame of the clear lenses of my ballistic eye-protection.

Good Morning, Staff Sergeant, the Major replies, reciprocating the gesture as our tired squinting eyes lock from behind the dusty clear lenses of our ballistic eye-protection. We are under orders not to wear shaded lenses in Iraq. Shaded lenses offend the Iraqis, or so we are told

Shaded lenses seem a rather trivial thing to be offended by in light of recent events, it occurs to me, as I continue on my journey. One of our company’s interpreters wears shaded lensed sun-glasses. She is an Iraqi who had lived, until recently, in the Dora neighborhood of southern Baghdad for her entire life. I once asked her why she insisted on offending her fellow Iraqis by wearing shaded lensed sun-glasses. She had no idea what I was talking about.

Some general, somewhere, disagrees with our interpreter, and generals are smart, or so we are told. Generals are graduates from schools like West Point. Someone once told me that West Point is one of the finest universities in America, on par with any of the institutions in the Ivy League. I don’t know for sure, though, because I have never actually graduated from West Point or an Ivy League School.

Our interpreter isn’t a West Point or an Ivy League school graduate either, so I pardoned her ignorance on the subject of the appropriate tinting of lenses. Maybe at West Point, they have classes on subjects like the cultural implications of the proper tinting of lenses. Maybe there are experts flown in, on the U.S. tax payer’s dime, from around the world to conduct lectures on the subject at the U.S. Army War College. Maybe there aren’t. What difference would it make anyway? I am a soldier, so I follow lawful orders, and there is nothing unlawful about the order to not wear tinted lenses, even when the sun is blindingly bright in the sky. When I start my own army, I can make my own rules.

I turn left at an intersection. As I continue to walk, the entire notion of starting my own army simply to be able to wear ballistic eye-protection with tinted lenses when the sun is blindingly bright in the sky suddenly seems hardly worth the effort. So you may never be authorized to wear ballistic eye-protection with tinted lenses when the sun is blindingly bright in the Iraq sky. So what? There are certainly worse things. For example, any second now your skull could be painfully caved in by an incoming mortar round!

Maybe when it finally happens, the pain won’t be so bad? Maybe I’ll even try and hold on to the pain, along with all of the terror that will result when that mortar round first makes contact against my skull. Perhaps I would even desperately cling to that brief moment in the infinite timeline of the universe, knowing that once it passes forever by, all that will remain of what was once me will be bloody chunks of flesh and splinters of bone, splattered randomly about, to later be shoveled up off of the ground and scraped off of the walls by my latex glove wearing comrades, before being placed piece by fly-covered-piece into red plastic bags, marked with a bio-hazard emblem, for transport to the FOB Eagle Aid Station.

Perhaps each of the individual red bags containing the bloody chunks of flesh and splinters of bone that used to be me would be tagged individually for storage. Perhaps they wouldn’t. Perhaps, instead, each of the individual red bags would be carried through the Aid Station, as bodily fluids drain from the bloody chunks of flesh and splinters of bone that used to be me, and pool into defined points at the dangling bottom corner of each of the bags, before being consolidated together in a single black body bag.

I can hear in my mind the quick zipping up of the black body bag after the last of the red plastic bags marked with a bio-hazard emblems had been placed inside. I envision medics quickly loading the black body bag into a refrigeration unit, before the Baghdad heat can transform the bloody chunks of flesh and splinters of bone that used to be me into an offensive stench, detested and loathed by all, while awaiting the arrival of Blackhawk Helicopters to carry the stench away, forever.

My thoughts randomly turn to the United States Presidential Primaries and temporarily distract me from the thoughts of the violent death that will find me. Either New York Senator Hillary Clinton or Illinois Senator Barrack Obama will be the Democrat Party’s nominee for President this election. Both candidates are Ivy League School graduates. Come to think of it, every American presidential candidate from the two major parties since the 1988 Presidential Election, with the exception of Kansas Senator Robert Dole in 1996, has been an Ivy League school graduate. More specifically, they have all graduated from either Harvard or Yale.

Arizona Senator John McCain will likely become the Republican Party’s nominee for the 2008 Presidential election. Senator McCain is a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis, so his nomination will end the twenty year monopoly for Republican Presidential Candidates held by the alumni of Yale and Harvard. While Senator McCain didn’t graduate from an Ivy League School, someone once told me that Annapolis is an Ivy League caliber school, just like West Point. Someone once told me that graduates from Ivy League schools are smart. Therefore, regardless of who will be our next president, America will continue to be in the hands of the smart people, as it has been since 1988.

As I continue to walk toward the laundry point, I can hear the helicopters in my mind approaching in the Baghdad night. I envision the swirl of rotor blades kicking up dust, and tossing rocks, as the helicopters descend onto the FOB Eagle landing zone to receive the guest of honor for another Hero Mission. I can envision that black body bag, containing the bloody chunks of flesh and splinters of bone that used to be me, loaded onto a stretcher and then carried past a handful of my saluting comrades, paying their final respects, before being loaded into one of the helicopters bound for the Victory Base Complex in northern Baghdad.

A convoy of four Strykers is now coming toward me from my direction of travel. Each one of the monstrous seventeen ton armored vehicles is led by a dismounted Soldier. As the first Soldier approaches me, our squinting eyes lock from behind the clear lenses of our ballistic eye-protection, and we exchange nods. The Soldier wears the rank of staff sergeant sewn onto the cover of his helmet.

Someone once told me that each Stryker costs the U.S. taxpayer four million U.S. dollars. Someone also once told me that the Stryker is built in Canada, by Canadian workers. If the NAFTA (North American Free Trade Agreement) had never been championed by former U.S. President, and Cecil Rhodes Scholarship recipient, Bill Clinton, would workers in the City of Detroit, which someone recently told me is now home to an estimated one-hundred thousand homeless people, be assembling the Strykers instead? I wonder.

I can sense from the look of monotonous acceptance in the Staff Sergeant’s eyes that this is far from his first mission. Perhaps he is on his way to establish a traffic control point, I wonder. Or maybe he is on his way back from a cordon and search mission at the home of an insurgent? Maybe he is on his way to provide security at a local bazaar, so that shoppers can buy goat meat without having to worry about getting shot in the face by thugs? Maybe he is off to guard a school so that the children can learn in an environment free from explosions? Or maybe he’s returning from a quest to find the fountain of youth? What’s the difference? So begins the latest in a seemingly endless line of missions, bringing him one step closer to home, hopefully not as a Hero in a flag draped coffin.

The Staff Sergeant and I pass one another as I continue to walk toward the laundry point. My mind suddenly fills with visions of strangers saluting the flag draped coffin containing the bloody chunks of flesh and splinters of bone that used to be me as it is carried slowly, with dignity and respect, by six of my fellow Soldiers down a ramp off of the back of an airplane. Someone once told me that all of the deceased from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan first arrive at an airstrip in Dover, Delaware, in the dead of night to avoid photographers. I don’t know for sure, though, because I’ve never been a dead soldier from Iraq or Afghanistan. I’m fairly sure that it wouldn’t matter. I would be dead, after all, and soon packed into the cargo compartment of a commercial plane bound for home, while some of those seated in the aisles above me complain about the terrible inconvenience associated with having to take off one’s shoes for those mean TSA workers, who are just out to give everyone a hard time and trampling civil liberties, as opposed to making sure guns and bombs aren’t brought onboard planes by lunatics.

I continued to walk, as the first Stryker rolls past me. The FOB Eagle DFAC (Dining Facility) is now to my right, and the base’s ice point is to my left. A Soldier died at the ice point a few weeks back, after being hit by a mortar round. I don’t even know the Soldier’s name, it suddenly occurs to me. Should I? I’m not sure. Regardless, I suspect that over time, that Soldier will become another faceless statistic to all but family and friends. Eventually, those family and friends will die also, leaving no one to remember that Soldier who died at the ice point a few weeks back after being hit by a mortar round.

The second Stryker approaches me, led by a Soldier with a yellow bar sewn on the cover of his helmet. The yellow bar indicates that the Soldier holds the rank of a second lieutenant. He is probably the mission commander, but in reality, he most likely is in command of nothing.

Good Morning, Sir, I greet the Lieutenant, raising my right hand sharply, wrist straight with fingers extended and joined, until the tip of my index finger touches the outer frame of the clear lenses of my ballistic eye-protection. I look at his face, and he appears to be about twelve years old, on his way to play war. He glances at me briefly, before looking away. He doesn’t return my salute.

Is he required by regulation to return my salute while under arms in a combat zone and wearing a helmet? I couldn’t remember. I’ve been forgetting a lot, lately. There are too many rules in the Army to remember, and new rules seem to be added every day.

The Second Lieutenant likely recently completed college, and is likely an ROTC or a West Point Graduate. Now he has begun his commitment to serve his country, in order to pay back the U.S. tax payer for the cost of his education. Someone once told me that the standard commitment to serve is six years. I think that is what someone once told me.

The Lieutenant is not an alumni of Yale or Harvard, and therefore, apparently, will never be a President of the United States. Someone once told me that Army ROTC has been banned from Yale and Harvard for decades. I’m not sure that I believe it, though. Surely, so many President and Vice President Candidates since 1988, to include President George H. W. Bush, Governor Michael Dukakis, President Bill Clinton, Vice President Albert Gore Jr., Senator John Kerry, President George W. Bush, Vice President Dick Cheney, Senator Joe Lieberman and either Senator Barrack Obama or Senator Hillary Clinton, wouldn’t have attended such unpatriotic institutions. What kind of patriot would attend such un-American, troop-hating institutions? Certainly not future Presidents and Vice Presidents of the United States, who constantly profess their love for the troops by wearing yellow ribbon lapel pins on their suits.

The Lieutenant’s Stryker rolls past me, as my mind fills with images of childhood friends and family members paying their final respects to pictures of me atop a closed casket, resting on a stand in a funeral home. I am being hailed as a hero. A hero, for being blown to pieces on my way to drop off another allegedly $90.00 bag of laundry.

Washington politicians would definitely hail me as a hero, it occurs to me, as I continue to walk. Perhaps a senator or congressman, whose own children don’t seem to serve in the military for some reason, would even show up at my funeral to say a few words about how I truly represented the best and brightest that America has to offer. If that’s true, I wonder why Chelsea Clinton and President Bush’s daughters aren’t out here serving? Where are all of the war hero kin of Vice President Dick Cheney serving at? Surely, I’m not being pandered to, in order to drum up votes? Or am I? I ponder the reality that I may not actually be the best and brightest that America has to offer, as I look up toward where a small surveillance dirigible is hovering high above, tethered to an observation post by steel cables.

Someone recently told that the dirigible, in addition to its meteorological functions, has all kinds of high tech cameras on it. The cameras apparently can monitor activity for miles around, day or night. Someone also recently told me that an Iraqi man was caught on camera having sex with a goat. Why would anyone keep filming such a thing, or want to watch a man having sex with a goat? Is bestiality a turn on for some? Maybe some of my fellow humans at this very moment are masturbating to thoughts of Iraqi men sexually penetrating goats. Who knows?

What I do know is that I really don’t care at all about the Iraqi people or what they do with their time. The men of Iraq can rape all the goats they want, or maybe it isn’t rape at all? Maybe goats find the warm embrace of an Iraqi man to be very tender, and even loving? Maybe they don’t? I’ll never know for sure, because I’ve never been a goat who has been sexually penetrated by an Iraqi man. All I want from the Iraqi people and their goats is to leave me alone, because I really don’t care about the Iraqis or their shithole country. I often wish that Saddam Hussein was still around. The Iraqis behaved for Saddam, so they must have really liked him. Saddam must have been a real peach!

I make a right hand turn at an intersection, as the third Strykers rumble on behind me. There are a couple of trailers off to my left now, which make up the base’s phone center. Behind the phone center is the base’s PX (Post Exchange) complex. The PX complex houses a barber shop, a coffee shop, and the PX (Convenience Store) itself.

I once got a haircut at the PX barber shop shortly after I first arrived about eight months ago. The barber shop is staffed by local barbers who live in Baghdad. I sat down in a barber’s chair and the barber asked me in broken English if I wanted my head shaved. I answered, yes. I assumed that the barber would be using an electric razor, but before I knew it, he was shaving my head with a six inch straight edge razor. I was fearful that at any moment, the man would slit my throat. At that moment in time, though, I thought that it would be rude to flee. After he had finished shaving my head, I gave him a two dollar tip. I never went back.

Directly in front of me now is a shit-truck. Unfortunately, the shit-truck is moving slowly in my direction of travel. A putrid liquid drips onto the ground out of the opened end of a suction hose, rolled up and stowed on the back of the shit-truck. The hose is used by the shit-truck guy, who someone once told me is being paid by the U.S. taxpayer a six-figure tax free salary, to suck the sewage out of the many portable toilets around the base.

As the shit-truck rolls slowly forward in front of me, the dusty air behind it reeks of shit. This makes it a priority for me to get in front of the shit-truck as quickly as possible. As I pick up my pace to a slight jog and pass alongside of the shit-truck, visions of the shit-truck getting hit by a mortar or rocket enter my mind.

If I were to meet my demise in such close proximity to a shit-truck, would my latex glove wearing comrades take the time to wash the shit and piss off of the chunks of flesh and splinters of bone that used to be me? I wonder. Would friends, family members, and politicians unknowingly pay their final respects to the closed casket atop a stand in a funeral home, never knowing whose shit and piss would soon join the bloody chunks of flesh and splinters of bone that used to be me, underground for an eternity amongst the worms and moles?

I have studied the shit-truck guy’s schedule, and observed over the course of the deployment that the shit-truck guy tends to pump the shit and piss out from the portable toilets in front of the building where I live twice a day, once at around 06:30 a.m., and again at around 06:30 p.m. Knowing the shit-truck guy’s schedule is important on days like today, when there is no water for the latrine trailers. When there is no water for the latrine trailers, the portable toilets are the only option available for the evacuation of one’s bowels and bladder. There are, however, two main issues that I have identified over the course of the deployment with using the portable toilets during the Baghdad summer.

The first issue with using a portable toilet during the Baghdad summer is the flies. The flies can be numerous, and I have observed over the course of the deployment that they tend to fly out from the shallow abyss of sewage concealed just below a portable toilet’s toilet seat. Once inside of a portable toilet, these same flies tend to land with their feces and urine encrusted fly feet on one’s head, arm, and on one’s lips. I believe that one must be careful to keep one’s lips sealed to prevent the more ambitious amongst the flies from entering one’s mouth.

The second issue with using a portable toilet during the Baghdad summer is the heat. The temperature during the summer rises in excess of one-hundred degrees by noon. I have observed over the course of the deployment that due to the extreme heat, the air inside of the portable toilets are often steaming with piss and shit water.

Because of the two aforementioned issues, I believe that it is unhealthy to be inside of a portable toilet when the desert sun is high in the sky, and the flies are thick, if it can at all be helped. Therefore, I make sure that on days when I am on the base and there is no water, to be at the portable toilets in front of the building where I live at around 06:30 a.m. I have trained my body to only have to shit once a day, at around 06:30 a.m., immediately after the portable toilets in front of the building where I live have been pumped out and sanitized with that magic blue liquid, which for a short time makes everything right in the portable toilet’s universe again.

Because the shit-truck seems to be moving at an idle speed, I quickly achieved my goal of getting in front of it. I guess the shit-truck guy is never in much of a hurry, because he is just on his way to vacuum the shit and piss out of another portable toilet. With the shit-truck now behind me, I inhale deeply the Baghdad air. The air is full of aromas produced by the base’s burn pit, and my lungs fill with a plethora of happy carcinogens. Suddenly, a series of three sequential dull tones sound out from the base’s public address system, causing me to instinctively drop to the ground.

Not now! I say to myself, as I roll to the side of the dirt road.

INCOMING! INCOMING! INCOMING! a recorded voice, generated by the bases C-RAM (Counter Rocket, Artillery, and Mortar) system, then immediately called out over the base’s public address system.

I look off toward a bunker about fifty meters in front of me, along the side of the dirt road. Someone once told me that most casualties from mortars and rockets occur because people run for shelter. Apparently, after a rocket or mortar hits the ground, shrapnel and debris is sent flying upward. Therefore, if one lies flat on the ground, even if a rocket or mortar were to impact a few meters next to you, as long as one wasn’t within the crater, one would be fine. This is what someone once told me, so I chose to remain lying on my stomach, with my face resting atop my laundry bag, and my hands over the back of my head.

As I lied flat on the ground waiting for the all clear alarm to sound from the base’s public address system, I suddenly became aware of the sound of the shit-truck rolling along the dirt road. I turned my head and looked at the shit-truck, now about thirty meters away, as it continued to roll. The shit-truck driver was apparently undeterred by the C-RAM alarm.

Suddenly, thoughts of the shit-truck getting hit by a rocket or mortar as it rolls past me at an idle speed filled my head. The thoughts are joined by visions of my latex glove wearing comrades shoveling off of the ground and into red plastic bags the fly covered, sewage soaked, bloody chunks of flesh and splinters of bone that used to be. I get up and run toward the bunker.

SYMPHONY OF THE UNIVERSE

I opened my eyes and was greeted by the tan colored interior ceiling of my car. Fragments of random thoughts swirled incoherently in my mind, as I made the transition back to a chilly consciousness. I instinctively fished my keys out of my pocket and inserted the ignition key into the ignition switch. I turned the key, and the engine roared to life. I then turned the heater on and adjusted the temperature to the highest setting.

My eyes locked on the dashboard clock which read 06:41. "Is it day or night?" I asked myself. I reached down to my side and pressed against a toggle switch on the side of the driver’s seat. As the seat slowly rose to an upright position, I stared at the concrete wall that my car was parked against. I turned my head left, and out of the window gazed upon a half full floor of a parking garage. Belize looks nothing like I pictured it.

I began to search the contents of my front pants pockets and produced one small blue tinted zip lock bag containing a white powdery substance, my cell phone, my bank debit card, and a wad of bills. I rested the items on the passenger side seat. Where is my jacket? I turned around and scanned the back of my car where a nearly empty fifth of vodka was resting against a blue vinyl covered King James Bible atop the back seat. I reached behind the backrest and secured the vodka bottle. Where the hell am I? I asked myself aloud, as I rested the vodka bottle upright on the seat between my thighs. I locked eyes with their reflection in the rear view mirror, but there was no answer. Man…

After a moment of self-introspection, I was immediately overcome by familiar waves of intense sinking feelings intertwined with tremendously painful pangs of guilt. Not this again! I turned the ignition key off and closed my eyes. No! I opened my eyes immediately back up, as the emotions intensified. Can’t do this right now. I looked to my right where a compact disk case was lying on the passenger side floor. I grabbed the compact disk case off of the floor, and then the small blue tinged zip lock bag. I dumped the contents of the bag out onto the top of the compact disk case and cut the powdery mixture into two giant lines with my bank debit card. I then rolled up a dollar bill and snorted half of one line into each of my nostrils. Collapse! I thought to myself, as I stared for a moment at the compact disk case’s cover art. I then finished the second line, already feeling much better.

As the sinking feelings and pangs of guilt started to retreat, I opened the bottle of vodka and took a sip. Sooner or later they always come back. The vodka was cold on my lips and sent a shiver down my spine. Where’s my passport? I asked myself as I thumbed to the center of the wad of bills and verified that they were wrapped around my driver’s license and also a business card. I studied the business card for a moment. On the upper left hand corner of the business card was written the name, Your American Dream Maker Mortgage Corporation. Centered on the card was written the name Donald A. Costa III, underscored with the title of Chief Financial Officer. I flung the card to the floor and then sat there for a few minutes, enjoying the warmth, while I finished the bottle of vodka.

I flipped on my cell phone. The panel screen lit up identifying that the day was Monday, and that the time was now 06:59 a.m. I was supposed to be at work in two hours. I totaled up the amount of cash that comprised the wad of bills to eighty-three dollars and then put it back into my pocket along with the debit card. I then opened the driver’s side door.

The door met with unfamiliar resistance as I pushed it open. Right! I thought to myself. I felt the door hinge against the front side quarter panel, making a loud popping sound before finally swinging open. Great! I got out of my car, and after pausing briefly to stretch, I checked my back pants pockets producing a gas receipt and a casino account card. The envelopes! I said aloud to no one as I kicked off my shoes revealing only soles. Where are the envelopes? There was again no one around who could answer. Fuck! I proclaimed aloud to no one, putting my shoes back on.

I ducked back into the car and removed the keys from the ignition switch. I then slammed the car door shut and walked to the rear of the vehicle. I opened the trunk door and scanned its interior. Inside, there was one duffle bag full of clothes, one garbage bag full of dirty clothes, a bass guitar case containing a semi-acoustic bass, a small orange box containing what remains of my childhood coin collection, and a backpack full of toiletries. I was missing an acoustic six string guitar. On top of the duffle bag, neatly folded, was my jacket.

I removed my jacket from the trunk and inspected its pockets. Inside the jacket’s front cargo pockets was twelve dollars in cash, a seven dollar coupon for a casino’s cafe, and the folded up front section of the previous Friday’s newspaper. There were no envelopes. Maybe they’re in the glove compartment! I thought to myself.

As I moved counter clockwise around to the passenger side of the vehicle, I couldn’t help but notice a sizeable new dent which was caving in the passenger side door. Wonderful! I thought to myself. I attempted to open the door so that I could check the glove compartment, but the door handle came off in my hand, and then fell to the ground making a metallic clinking sound. Yep! I moved around to the front of the vehicle where the passenger side front quarter panel was also smashed in. Good Job! I paused briefly to inspect the damage, while coming to terms with the reality that there weren’t going to be any envelopes in the glove compartment. Once again, all that separated me from sleeping on the streets was my car, which I was quickly destroying.

Feeling dejected after having had once again defeated myself, I returned to the rear of my car and slowly pulled the trunk door closed. I paused to collect my thoughts as I put on my jacket. Get something to eat and you will feel better. I reached back into my jacket’s front cargo pocket and produced the seven dollar coupon for a casino’s cafe. I then walked toward the elevators.

As I passed through the half empty parking garage, I noticed an early 1990s station wagon with someone sleeping in the back seat. Neighbors, I thought to myself. I made my way into the elevator and pressed on the button for the casino floor. Maybe I have some comp cash in my casino account, I thought to myself, as the elevator descended down from the seventh floor. And besides, a jackpot is never more than a pull away. After a few dinging sounds, the elevator doors opened up on the fourth floor. A man in his early thirties entered the elevator, and the doors again closed. After another series of dinging sounds, the elevator doors again opened. After you, I said to the fellow. The man responded with an unintelligible grunting sound, before quickly stepped outside of the elevator.

I followed the man down the hallway atop an ugly orange and yellow plaid patterned carpet. After about a minute, I turned right and walked into a glass encased skywalk. As I proceeded through the skywalk, I looked down at the light but steady vehicle traffic on the street below. I paused to watch what appeared to be an altercation, as two would be passengers seemed to be arguing over who would get onto a minibus. The altercation subsided almost immediately after another minibus pulled in directly behind the first. As the minibuses pulled away, out of the corner of my eye I noticed figures standing atop the parking garage, which rose high above the west side of the road below. I stared up at them, focusing on the kingly figures, proudly presiding over the morning commute.

Are those ones new? I heard a voice ask me from my left. I turned my head and standing next to me was an elderly woman, leaning on a walker.

I don’t know, Ma’am. I replied. I’ve never noticed those two atop the parking garage before.

They’re pretty, the woman said, as she continued to look up toward the heavens.

Seven o’clock on a Monday morning and leaning on a walker in this place, I thought to myself. She’s alone in the world. Good luck now, Ma’am! I said to her, before resuming my journey through the skywalk.

You too, she replied.

After emerging from the skywalk, I was immediately drawn to an escalator by a sign indicating that at its base was the casino floor. I proceeded down the escalator, but quickly was blocked by two gentlemen in their early twenties standing shoulder to shoulder. Too young to be so lazy! I thought to myself. After completing my descent, I stepped off of the escalator onto the moderately populated casino floor. It’s seven in the morning on a Monday. Who are all these people?

I scanned to my left and right as I passed through a sea of slot machines looking for a casino account kiosk. I then spotted my objective and approached it. I swiped my casino account card at the kiosk and entered my pin number. Unfortunately, my comp cash account balance was at zero. Slightly disappointed, I continued my journey through the maze of slot machines and gambling tables until I finally reached the exit to the boardwalk.

Once outside, I paused atop the boardwalk to check the time. My cell phone indicated that the time was 07:08 a.m. So here’s the plan. I thought to myself. Walk over there to the casino café and grab a bagel and an orange juice. Then, get on the road and stop at the Atlantic City Expressway Rest Area where you can shave and wash up. Then, head to work and you can…

Excuse me, Sir! a man’s voice called to me from behind, interrupting my planning. I turned around and was face to face with a middle aged looking gentleman. On his head he wore a weathered blue baseball cap. On his chin was an unkempt smattering of greyish stubble. Around his shoulders he wore a gray windbreaker above a faded pair of blue jeans.

Can you spare a few dollars? The man continued. You see I… He continued to speak, and as I looked into his eyes, I was suddenly overcome with a sense of foreboding. A chill shot down my spine as I realized that there appeared to be nothing inside of this man. His eyes seemed windows into some completely hopeless void. He continued to speak, but I couldn’t concentrate. His words seemed a demonic garbled steady stream of nonsensical babbling.

Is he possessed? I thought to myself, overcome by a sudden panic. Surely this gentleman hadn’t always been a complete fuck up!

…a bus ticket to get back to the port authority and…

This is going to be me! I’m a falling-apart-1989-Cadillac away from this being fucking me!

The man finished making noise and we both stood there staring at one another for what seemed an eternity. So…can you spare a few dollars? the man finally said, breaking the silence.

Here! I replied, struggling to speak. I nodded over toward my right and reached my arm forward with the coupon in hand. The casino cafe… He accepted the coupon, but didn’t say a word. I then turned around and walked toward the beach access ramp, passing by a homeless man who was bundled up in a blanket, lying atop a bench.

I climbed over the wooden ramp built atop the dunes and walked down onto the beach. I noticed a few other people wandering the beach as I trudged over the sand toward the shoreline. In front of me, waves sent by the mighty Atlantic were crashing violently down upon the beach, sending the sea ferociously toward me, before quickly losing momentum and retreating back again. I reached the sand just beyond the limits of the shore break. I then paused, as a new sun peeked up from beneath the horizon.

I stared for what seemed an eternity, paralyzed and captivated by the beauty of the morning sun as it slowly formed a half crescent above the horizon, and emerged to usher in this brand new day. This is the same sun that the Indians stood here looking at when Julius Caesar was conquering Gaul, I thought to myself, as my mind suddenly began filling with seemingly deep thoughts. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man approaching my location. He was walking slowly just beyond the shore break. In his hand, he carried a metal detector that he rhythmically pivoted from left to right over the sand, searching for something.

I looked again at my cell phone. The time read 07:23 a.m. I had to be at work in one hour and forty-four minutes. As I gazed one last time upon the day’s young sun, it seemed utterly absurd that work should even matter. But it does matter! I thought to myself, as the seemingly deep thoughts began to intensify in my mind. Go!

I turned my back to the mighty Atlantic. I then trudged back through the sand toward the boardwalk, my pace quickening with each step. I reached the wooden ramp built atop the dunes and walked back over it, onto the boardwalk. To my front was another homeless person, sitting on a bench and leaning hunched over with a coat draped over his head. The homeless are the ones who are truly free, another seemingly deep thought dinged in my mind. Suddenly, random seemingly deep thoughts were dinging uncontrollably throughout my mind. Can I travel faster than the speed of light and see back in time with a telescope that’s even faster… Fran’s nipples are a bit off centered, to be honest…The detector waved to the rhythm of the symphony of the universe…Why not steroids for the old lady with the walker…If we keep sending satellites into space, the planet will get lighter and lighter and the moon will eventually break free…If I can always subtract one, how does anything ever happen…

I walked back through the casino entrance and made my way back through the maze of gambling tables and slot machines. A celebratory group howl sounded upward from a group of gamblers surrounding a craps table as I passed by, electrifying the air.

Coffee! Soda! Juice! I heard a woman’s voice call out, as I continued to walk. Coffee! Soda! Juice! I heard the woman’s voice again, beckoning to me like a Siren’s call to some doomed sea captain. I followed the voice through an aisle between two rows of slot machines and there she was, walking swiftly in front of me with a drink tray in hand. Coffee! Soda! Juice! she called out again, as I closed in on her.

Excuse me, Ma’am…Did I speak that? The woman kept walking and turned right, around the row of slot machines. She should be modeling…I reached the end of the aisle and made a left, unable to focus, as my senses were overloaded with dinging noises and flashing lights.

Coffee! Soda! Juice! I heard her voice again.

I hurried through the maze of slot machines as I became aware of the chorus to the Train song Calling All Angels booming throughout the casino. I was overcome by a sudden irresistible desire to sing. I screamed along to the song as I approached the escalator from earlier. I stepped on the stairs as my thoughts detoured to the drink girl. I began laughing uncontrollably. She couldn’t hear me! I ran up the escalator steps, but had to pause when I was suddenly overcome by laughter. She should be modeling, but she’s here!

Are you alright, Sir? A security guard asked me, as I reached the top of the escalator. I nodded in his direction and continued to laugh uncontrollably. I then walked back into the glass encased skywalk, where I paused again to look down at the vehicle traffic below.

What the fuck is the point? I asked myself, as I stared down at the traffic of the morning commute. What can any of you accomplish? I then looked back up at the statues on the roof. There were two of them looking down from their perches high above on the roof of an Atlantic City casino parking garage. I stepped quickly forward, suddenly overcome by an overwhelming desire to join them.

I exited the skywalk and made a left. As I walked, I suddenly became very conscious of the beautiful sea of orange and yellow plaid patterns swirling on the carpet below my feet. How beautiful, I thought to myself, as I watched the patterns dance. There is no time to waste!

I began to run toward the elevator, as I heard a voice from somewhere behind me yelling, NO RUNING! SIR! NO RUNNING! SIR!

Fuck them! There is no time to waste! I reached the elevator and hit the up button. The elevator doors immediately opened, and an elderly couple walked slowly out of it. You need to do steroids! I said to the couple, as I stepped inside of the elevator.

What did you say? the elderly man barked at me, as I pressed the button for the top floor.

Steroids! I repeated myself, as the elevator doors closed before me. I began my ascent, and after a series of dinging noises, the elevator doors parted. I stepped outside into a small foyer. I opened another set of doors and was greeted by the moist salty air as I stepped out onto the roof of the Atlantic City casino parking garage.

There you are! I said to one of the kingly statues that I had seen from the skywalk below. He just stood there atop his perch stoically, his back toward me, with his right arm extended straight out over his boardwalk kingdom. I approached the concrete wall which separated me from my fall. I leaned over the wall and looked down upon the street twelve stories below. It had been so obvious all along, I thought to myself. Death isn’t the end! I looked down to my left at the skywalk. Death’s the skywalk. I then looked back down upon the vehicle traffic of the morning commute below. Death’s the gateway! Away from our prisons of pointless monotony!

As I stood there along with the statues at the top of my world, for the first time in my life everything was completely clear. There was suddenly only the energy of my newly awakened consciousness, yearning to be united in a beautiful union with the eternal energy of all that was, is, and ever will be amongst time and space. NIRVANA! My mind screamed. Nothing more in this space! I felt the energy of a newly awakened consciousness imprisoned inside the physical constraints of my body yearning for freedom, so that I could return once again to the eternal energy of all that was, is, and ever will be amongst time and space. I’m going to explode! All that separated me from the nirvana was one last physical act, to hurl myself off of the roof of an Atlantic City casino parking garage.

I looked back down at the vehicle traffic below and heard the honking of car horns playing their small but important part in the symphony of the universe. Like the triangle players, I thought to myself. My new level of consciousness began to transcend my being as I stepped up upon my tippy tows and prepared to climb atop the wall. At that very moment, upon achieving perfect harmony and equilibrium with the universe, I heard the loudest and most unpleasant sound no doubt ever made in the history of the playing of the symphony of the universe.

A seagull cackled, and again, I was overcome with uncontrollable laughter. The bird sounded as if it was channeling some sort of demonic harbor seal from the depths of hell. Where is it? The seagull unleashed another chorus of obnoxious shrieks, on par with that car alarm that wakes one up in the middle of the night that the car’s owner always seems to sleep right through. It’s gone again! Then suddenly, I became very aware of the salt air. The air felt moist and chilly upon my skin. I placed my hands in my jacket’s cargo pockets. I then leaned back over the wall to look down again at the street. From somewhere, another car began to honk, as the seagull cried out again. It’s the same thing. The symphony of the universe!

I backed away from the wall and looked over at the kingly statue as the seagull cried out again from somewhere below. My fingers began rubbing against papers in my pocket. I became fixated by the paper’s texture. THE CORPSE OF A TREE! My mind screamed. I immediately pulled a newspaper from my pocket and held it before me. THE FLESH OF A TREE! I screamed. I dropped the newspaper immediately on the ground, where it began to unfold and flutter. Its soul is now free! I stared at the newspaper as it continued to flutter about, making a crinkling sound. The soul of a tree! As I continued to stare, one word amongst the print began to leap out toward me again and again and again. Iraq…Iraq…Iraq… I began to laugh again uncontrollably. IRAQ! IRAQ! IRAQ! I screamed. I couldn’t stop laughing as the seagull again cried out from someplace below.

THE MIGHTY MEN OF CIVILIAN GARB

I was on day eleven of deployment leave from Iraq. After spending one week in New Orleans, I traveled to New Jersey to visit my family. My sister invited me out for dinner at a sushi style restaurant that one of her friends owned on Long Beach Island. Lots of celebrities eat here, she said to me, as we entered the restaurant. Well, celebrities have to eat too, I thought to myself.

The restaurant was very small inside, with only a couple of dozen seating areas. I never understood how restaurants like this could possibly make enough money during the three month tourist season to really make it worthwhile, but I guess that’s why I’m not a businessman. Our father joined us bringing in a twelve pack of beer cans which the waiter placed awkwardly in in ice buckets designed for bottles of wine. Get whatever you want! Don’t cost nothing, my father said to us, which was his way of communicating that he was buying.

My sister ordered various small plate appetizer dishes, all of which came out from the kitchen looking very ornate, with beautifully placed garnishes. I was conflicted on whether to eat from the dishes, or hang them up on the wall. Everything was delicious, although the portions were very minute.

I looked around as our waiter drew a beer can out from the ice bucket and refreshed my wine glass. The clientele seated at the tables around us resembled caricatures out of some exclusionary blue blood country club. They were all dressed perfectly, wearing what appeared to be the latest designer fashions. Many of the woman had expressions on their faces suggesting that they smelled some offensive odor, that only they could sense, and as a result had every right to be rude to the wait staff. The puckered expression on many of the men’s faces suggested that they may have been sucking on lemon chunks.

As the waiter cleared the appetizer dishes, a man approached the table from the kitchen and my sister stood up. Please don’t get up, Jess, the gentleman said to my sister.

Hello, Jean, she said, sitting back down. You know my father, she continued, as my father shook his hand. And this is my brother, Kevin.

The Army guy, Jean said, turning toward me. Really nice to meet you, and thank you so much for your service! I really love all you guys, he continued, as we shook hands.

Thank you, I said, never really knowing what else to say.

Order whatever you want, Jean continued. Your money is no good here. I just have one request for you.

Oh, and what is that? I asked.

I want you to kill one of those fuckers over there for me, and bring me back the round casing, Jean replied. I hate those MOTHER FUCKER…

Great, I thought to myself, noticing that all of the bravado was bringing me the unwanted attention of some of the blue bloods who were beginning to stare. He just couldn’t have left it at thanking me for my service. I have to listen to the ramblings of another one of the mighty men of civilian garb.

…take one of those hajjis out into the street, put a gun in their mouth, and blow their fucking brains out… As Jean continued to ramble on like a big tough guy, it was hard to not notice that he appeared to be in his late thirties.

Perhaps I should mention to Jean that the cutoff age to enlist in the Army now is forty-two, I thought to myself, nodding politely with a smile on my face.

…all fucking animals and we need to… Jean continued.

We, I thought to myself. The 9/11 attacks happened a little less than seven years ago, so if he is so passionate about killing the hajjis, why hadn’t Jean joined the Army already? I wondered, as Jean continued his manly diatribe.

Those people are all animals, and we should nuke that place back to the Stone Age!

We, I thought to myself. What’s with this We shit all of the time out of the mouths of the mighty men of civilian garb?

Ok, I said, with a polite smile. After all, I was my sister’s guest and I didn’t want to be rude. Besides, Jean was buying me dinner, so why not play along. I’ll see what I can do.

As my father and sister continued to converse with Jean, I suddenly felt uncomfortable and wanted to leave. Here was a man who I had never met before asking me to take another human’s life so he could have a round casing. People are so fucked up! Does Jean really think that I am some sort of blood thirsty, knuckle-dragging, savage who wanders the streets of Iraq in search of victims to murder so that mighty men of civilian garb like him can have a round casings to show off to their fucked up friends? What kind of person would even want such a thing? After again thanking me for my service, Jean returned to the kitchen. We finished our meal with no further outbursts of bravado from mighty man of civilian garb Jean.

After saying goodbye to my father and sister, I went to a deli to get something to eat. That yuppie food small plate bullshit tastes good and all, but it’s all the size of a half-dollar. I departed the deli with an Italian hoagie, and got back behind the wheel of my mother’s car.

As I ate my dinner, I stared out of the window at a steady stream of vacationers across the street entering and exiting a large surf shop. From somewhere, a seagull called out as children laughed and adults smiled, all worries gone. A fat man wearing a Hawaiian shirt, tan shorts, and sandals, holding hands with a blonde haired woman, easily half his age, with a towel wrapped around her waist and a string bikini top barely concealing her ample chest, walked down the street toward the bay. The sun slowly descended and would soon disappear under the western horizon to close out another perfect day in an Ursula Le Guin type Omelas.

As I finished my sandwich watching the steady stream of vacationers continued to walk west toward the bay, I began to hear a clinking sound in my head. It was the sound that small, hollow metallic items make when they fall randomly down from above and land upon a metallic surface. I immediately started the car and quickly drove away, toward nowhere in particular.

JUST SIXTEEN CENTS

A ll Echo elements, Three-Zero, I spoke into the hand-mike which was lodged in the eternal webbing of my helmet against my left ear. Respond in sequence when you’re up. Over.

Three-One, up, Sergeant Franklin replied.

Three-Four, up Specialist Gallagher replied.

Three-Seven, up, Staff Sergeant Gant replied.

Roger, I said, removing the hand-mike to the satellite radio from its holder and raising it up to my right ear. Calling in SP time now.

The FM radios that we used for internal convoy communications primarily operated based on line of sight, making the satellite radio the only reliable way to communicate with Liberty Base, the call sign of our task force’s TOC (Tactical Operating Center), once outside the walls of FOB (Forward Operating Base) Alexander. The satellite radio was also used by all of the other NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) elements operating within southern Afghanistan, so using it required some common sense. For example, it would be quite poor etiquette to call in a radio check while a Dutch paratrooper was calling in a medevac request, so that someone’s son or daughter, desperately clinging to life after sustaining some combat related trauma, could be evacuated by helicopter to a field hospital.

Traffic over the satellite radio had been uneventful over the past few minutes, so I decided that it would be safe to conduct a quick radio check. Liberty Base, Echo Three-Zero, I spoke into the satellite radio hand-mike. Radio check, over.

Echo Three-Zero, Liberty Base, the voice of the RTO (Radio Transmission Operator) replied after a moment. Lima, Charlie.

Roger, out, I replied. I placed the satellite radio hand-mike back into its holder and grabbed a small notepad out of my left pants pocket. I then switched the FM radio to the channel that was programmed to Liberty Base’s local frequency and pressed down on the talk button of the hand-mike lodged against my left ear. Liberty Base, Echo Three-Zero.

Echo Three-Zero, Liberty Base.

Roger, Liberty Base. Echo Three-Seven convoy to COP (Combat Outpost) Continental with four victors (vehicles), two jingle trucks, thirteen packs (personnel), and one ‘terp’ (interpreter) requests SP time now. Break. All victors combat locks engaged, eye-pro worn, jammers green, roll over drills rehearsed, and seat belts on. Request current route status and recent SIGACTS (Significant Activities), over.

Echo Three-Zero, Liberty Base. All routes currently open and amber. Break. Increased enemy activity in the last twenty-four along Route Cobra to include small arms and indirect fire at vicinity grid whiskey bravo XXXX, break, XXXX. I jotted down the grid coordinates on the notepad. CAS (Close Air Support), call sign Harrier One-Two, scheduled to provide support along the route. Break. You’re clear to SP. Over.

Roger, Liberty Base, I replied. Echo convoy, SP time now. Echo Three-Zero, out. I switched the FM radio back to the channel programmed to Gun-Truck Team Alpha’s convoy frequency. All Echo elements, Three-Zero, I again spoke into the hand-mike. SP time now, over.

Roger. Three-Zero, Staff Sergeant Gant replied over the radio. His gun-truck immediately drove forward, followed by Sergeant Franklin’s gun-truck, which had been idling in front of mine.

Let’s roll, I said to my team’s driver, Private Second Class Reynolds, who was sleeping with his head on his forearms over the steering wheel.

Roger, he said, quickly putting on his helmet. He then pushed down on the gas pedal and followed behind Sergeant Franklin’s gun-truck.

I looked into the side view mirror and verified that the jingle box truck was following behind us. Jingle trucks come in a variety of makes, shapes, and sizes and typically have one thing in common. Jingle trucks are decorated by their owners to resemble something like the hybrid spawn of a truck and a carnival parade float. Some jingle trucks are quite the eyesore, while others are painted and decorated quite beautifully. The jingle box truck was followed by a rusting fuel tanker truck, and at the rear of the convoy was Specialist Gallagher’s gun-truck.

As we slowly rolled toward the FOB’s front access gate, I reached for the stylus dangling down from a string attached to the BFT (Blue Force Tracker) mounted to my left against the dashboard. The BFT is a navigational and situational awareness computer which displays a map on its touch screen. Overlaid on the map are icons depicting any element also with an actively engaged BFT. Elements can communicate with one another through an internal email system simply by tapping on one another’s icons. In theory, the position of an element would constantly update on the BFT’s map screen making navigation and situational awareness issues a thing of the past. While I found that the maps loaded into my BFT weren’t always the most accurate, and sometimes the global positioning satellite system was a little off, the BFT still proved to be an extremely helpful tool.

I secured the stylus and entered the grid that Liberty Base had given to me into a search box on the BFT’s map screen. An icon immediately flashed in the middle of a mountain pass along Route Cobra. Right along our route, I thought to myself, as I pressed down on the talk button of the FM radio hand-mike with my left thumb. All convoy elements, Three-Zero. Prepare to copy the grid of the TIC (Troops in Combat) from yesterday. Break. I paused for a moment and then looked down at the notepad. The area is on our route at vicinity grid whiskey bravo XXXX, break, XXXX. Over.

Roger, Three-Zero, Sergeant Franklin replied.

Roger, Three-Zero, Specialist Gallagher replied.

Roger, Three-Zero, Staff Sergeant Gant replied. Are there any new SIGACTS?

No, Three-Seven, I replied. Nothing to add since your brief. All routes open and amber.

Staff Sergeant Gant’s gun-truck paused at the front gate, while a gate guard with a clipboard in his hand spoke to him though his window. "Don’t get me wrong, it