Excerpts
Wednesday, December 27There's only a handful of people that still read the blogs, and most of them are friends I met through writing. And this is for them, because of those that I met through writing - only a handful of us are still doing so. It was easier when we had teachers and deadlines, less bills and responsibility. More alcohol. We had one another - we inspired one another, maybe it was out of competition, but we were never at a lost for words back then. So much optimism and so many of us. Different wasn't even an adequate word. But to those of you still reading, here are a few excerpts that I've been working on:
Patrick lived in a hundred-thousand dollar condo built in a section of Cleveland that looked evacuated. The streets were named Madison, Denison, and Lorain. They read like a page from a 1950’s obituary. It was built across the street from a vacant factory, and most of its windows were broken. The parking lot was overridden with weeds that had grown through the cracks of the asphalt.
He noticed a yellow Chevette parked on the street. It looked as if it had been there for years. Benton wondered, did its engine breakdown? Did it fail? Or did the driver just park the car, open the door, and walk away? The rust on the car’s back fender had spread everywhere. It was on the barbwire fence, the guard rails, the train tracks, and on the underbelly of the bridge. Benton smiled at the graffiti on the factory. The message on the smokestack read: Hope 1984 – 1999. We miss you.
Dear Benton,
Five days ago, I killed a man. When he fell, his body hit the ground stiff and fast. Practice targets never fell like that, they can stand up to multiple clips of gunfire. He only took two bullets to the chest. When I saw him up close, he had dust on his face, his arms were at his side, palms up, and he looked older than Dad.
We had positioned ourselves just outside of the Baghdad, moving a couple of miles a day. Usually, it was Lawrence Simons that called the point, but since our platoon was coming so close to civilian territory, he thought Bob McNamara could handle the job for the night. “The experience will be good for him,” he said. But more importantly, Simons wanted to talk to his wife; she was in labor that night.
The platoon advanced and set up camp just edging the man’s yard. That night, he started yelling at us [long after the fact, I found out it was because two of our men were stealing his chickens], then McNamara yelled out rifle and I fired on the man. It just took two bullets to the chest. Children [I think they were his grandchildren] were screaming from inside the house. Two women came out and smothered the man with their bodies and tears.
And what Bob McNamara said he thought was a rifle, was actually a broom. He said, “Who the fuck sweeps their house at 10.30 PM?” Once the women composed themselves—they began to curse us. Later that night, I apologized relentlessly and tried to give them two hundred dollars out of my own pocket. They threw the money back at me and spit in my face, and then they continued to cry. When the sun came up, I stayed in the tank’s shade. The sun here makes you feel like you’re always wearing a second layer of heavy skin. I stayed and listened to them cry for two days, stopping only to eat, pray, and sleep. Simons checked in on me once and while, he told me he had a boy. And that these people tend to do their house cleaning at night, because it’s too hot during the day. “Just keep that mind for the future,” he said. After they buried him, they kept crying. Simons said it’s customary for the family to cry for the dead for two weeks. I smoked and read to their wailing, listening as if they were Johnny Mathis.
Louise Santiago is a guy we call Spanish Rice, he’s part Cuban and Korean. He quit the seminary to join the Army and works as a minister’s assistant. He baptized me at a strip club before we left. I talk to him about God a lot. After I shot the guy, I asked Spanish if God was going to forgive me.
He said that when you confess to God, He grants forgiveness. Just like that, He gives you a clean slate and loves you all over again. I told him that the government forgave me and mom forgave. I hope his family will one day forgive me. Benton, I hope you can forgive me too, but I still don’t forgive myself. I asked Spanish, “What’s the use of believing in God if he can’t help you out now?”
He said, “God understands things get bad, and there are days He wishes He could do more, but all He can really do is offer you a cracker, some wine, and a good ear, and say—tomorrow man, it will be better. It’s not much, but it’s more than a person can offer you these days.”Love, Vinh
Patrick lived in a hundred-thousand dollar condo built in a section of Cleveland that looked evacuated. The streets were named Madison, Denison, and Lorain. They read like a page from a 1950’s obituary. It was built across the street from a vacant factory, and most of its windows were broken. The parking lot was overridden with weeds that had grown through the cracks of the asphalt.
He noticed a yellow Chevette parked on the street. It looked as if it had been there for years. Benton wondered, did its engine breakdown? Did it fail? Or did the driver just park the car, open the door, and walk away? The rust on the car’s back fender had spread everywhere. It was on the barbwire fence, the guard rails, the train tracks, and on the underbelly of the bridge. Benton smiled at the graffiti on the factory. The message on the smokestack read: Hope 1984 – 1999. We miss you.
Dear Benton,
Five days ago, I killed a man. When he fell, his body hit the ground stiff and fast. Practice targets never fell like that, they can stand up to multiple clips of gunfire. He only took two bullets to the chest. When I saw him up close, he had dust on his face, his arms were at his side, palms up, and he looked older than Dad.
We had positioned ourselves just outside of the Baghdad, moving a couple of miles a day. Usually, it was Lawrence Simons that called the point, but since our platoon was coming so close to civilian territory, he thought Bob McNamara could handle the job for the night. “The experience will be good for him,” he said. But more importantly, Simons wanted to talk to his wife; she was in labor that night.
The platoon advanced and set up camp just edging the man’s yard. That night, he started yelling at us [long after the fact, I found out it was because two of our men were stealing his chickens], then McNamara yelled out rifle and I fired on the man. It just took two bullets to the chest. Children [I think they were his grandchildren] were screaming from inside the house. Two women came out and smothered the man with their bodies and tears.
And what Bob McNamara said he thought was a rifle, was actually a broom. He said, “Who the fuck sweeps their house at 10.30 PM?” Once the women composed themselves—they began to curse us. Later that night, I apologized relentlessly and tried to give them two hundred dollars out of my own pocket. They threw the money back at me and spit in my face, and then they continued to cry. When the sun came up, I stayed in the tank’s shade. The sun here makes you feel like you’re always wearing a second layer of heavy skin. I stayed and listened to them cry for two days, stopping only to eat, pray, and sleep. Simons checked in on me once and while, he told me he had a boy. And that these people tend to do their house cleaning at night, because it’s too hot during the day. “Just keep that mind for the future,” he said. After they buried him, they kept crying. Simons said it’s customary for the family to cry for the dead for two weeks. I smoked and read to their wailing, listening as if they were Johnny Mathis.
Louise Santiago is a guy we call Spanish Rice, he’s part Cuban and Korean. He quit the seminary to join the Army and works as a minister’s assistant. He baptized me at a strip club before we left. I talk to him about God a lot. After I shot the guy, I asked Spanish if God was going to forgive me.
He said that when you confess to God, He grants forgiveness. Just like that, He gives you a clean slate and loves you all over again. I told him that the government forgave me and mom forgave. I hope his family will one day forgive me. Benton, I hope you can forgive me too, but I still don’t forgive myself. I asked Spanish, “What’s the use of believing in God if he can’t help you out now?”
He said, “God understands things get bad, and there are days He wishes He could do more, but all He can really do is offer you a cracker, some wine, and a good ear, and say—tomorrow man, it will be better. It’s not much, but it’s more than a person can offer you these days.”Love, Vinh
