Spent Shell Casings Page 2

  Me, Bud, Bill, Big Body Guard, Little Body Guard with dreadlocks, and two hookers dressed like New Orleans bar workers in the 1930s wandered throughout a labyrinth of alleys and nooks. The chemical mosh pit in our brains seemed to keep hiding our hostel from us. After storming past a beggar to beat on a door that wasn’t ours, we sat on a stoop to collect our wits. Our increasingly annoyed attachments were assured “not to worry,” and we’d “find it soon.” More marching, and marching more.

  By some miracle, one of us must have noticed a familiar window or intersection of time-beaten stones. Marching past the bewildered clerk, we tromped up the stairs like an invading army. Noise complaints would soon be piling up, as would the steps needed to unleash full pandemonium.

  “Bill” I said “where’s the damn money?”

  “I dunno” Bill said, then laughed, walking into the backroom with one girl “thought you had it.”

  “Bud?”

  “Don’t lookit me, man.” And so on.

  After a few more blurry deliberations with Bud, I fell back on a most hasty and improvised Plan B. Coming from a life spent surrounded by addicts, I knew firsthand the swaying power of righteous indignation. I blamed the girls—thieves they were.

  Turning to the pimp, “What kinda show you runnin’ here, buddy?” hands on my hips like a dad at the IHOP, pissed about no refills while his family waits in the Windstar. He got in my face. Luckily for me Big Bodyguard had disappeared. Maybe that witch doctor’s incantation had a delayed effect, I thought, and the cat I saw running in terror as Bud chased it down in hallucinogenic hysteria was actually the big guy. Bud and I could take this little prick and his merry band of working-girls.

  Bud?

  A quick glance over my shoulder—Bud was out cold. Like a corpsmen shooting the morphine type of out cold. Behind him was the shut door leading to the room where Bill and his girl had disappeared. In a normal state of mind, I imagine I would have pondered a bit on the bizarre splashes and brief thuds and mumbles coming from Bill’s room. I handed the pimp his 20 USD. I was able to scrounge up that much. I thanked him for stopping the cutthroats and pickpockets, and then demanded he take his thieving girls with him. The one still in the room started screaming in Swahili. Not a moment later the wide-eyed night manager burst in.

  With the pimp and prostitute silent, and sunk into a corner, the exchange went something like. . .

  “Sir, we have many complaints. You being loud.”

  “I. . . I am sorry. Me and my friends here. . .” I tossed a limp point toward the cornered two. “. . . we were just laughin’ about somethin’. We. . . err. . . goood nowwww.”

  Bill’s door flew open. It was his girl, and yelling for assistance. All eyes floated clear over and beyond the comatose body of Bud. Apparently the overload of pills, foreign beers, Obama talk, and paying for sex was too much for Bill’s gastrointestinal system. Naked, half-covered in his own shit, Bill stood with his hands against the wall like a prison reception facility. His back was soaking wet and glistening. All our eyes zeroed in on the bucket the hooker was holding, then we all watched in unison as she tensed her jaw and then gave him another splash. Bill, dripping from the makeshift bath and excrement, turned around and finalized the moment with a big pearly grin.

  The manager and I turned to one another. I couldn’t exactly pin his look; expressionless, maybe—with a touch of either solving a riddle or holding in vomit.

  The bucket-splasher, learning from her pimp that she wasn’t going to be reimbursed for her sanitary services, went absolutely berserk. The bucket flew, and curses in Swahili bounced off the walls like a ping pong ball. The pimp and night manager rushed her, took custody of her, rolled out of the room like a twelve-limbed monster, and then I leaped and shut our door.

  Bill, still dripping, and I, swaying from the confrontation’s heightening effect, gave one another the nod.

  We were not done yet.

  After Bill cleaned off, we left Bud alone and marched to the nearest cashpoint. Somehow collecting the terrain features we needed, hugging up against the great inland tree and driving onward, we were on our way back to the bar. The streets were entirely different now, though. It was as if the place was suffering from a puny earthquake. There was a green glow on everything, and I swore the hyena that had run through my camp in the Serengeti had forded Zanzibar Channel and was now stalking us. Then we were at the face of our destination. The noise coming out pulled at our shirts.

  Back inside, we made our way to that top deck. Stumbling against the rooftop bar, I cocked my head to the right. A man wearing big red-rimmed sun glasses, a red football jersey, baggy leather pants, and poofy red shoes, gave me a nod and blew me a kiss. His hair was a series of steps, like something found in the Andes, and his long goatee moved a bit when he smiled. Sitting next to him, she was adorned in the same reds and whites; with straight, silky hair that shined when she’d lean toward him to whisper. She looked like a junior varsity Naomi Campbell—one that was smiling at me. There was some class to these two; no war-torn native types. Approaching them was easy, as was getting him to sell her. Bill received her nearby friend; just as cute, if that was your thing, and more on the muscular side, sporting little blue shorts and a white blouse. We shook the guy’s hand, and then the four of us departed to once again make the perilous trek back.

  The night manager was dutifully manning his front desk. His mouth hung open as if seeing the return of problematic ghosts, and from it he let out a sigh as we passed him and ascended the stairs.

  Wouldn’t you know it, for every cock-blocking additive of this harrowing night, we found ourselves locked out of our room. The best we could do was get to our balcony by way of a common-access door. Once on the balcony, we got on our knees. Staring through a medieval keyhole at Bud, still passed out, Bill and I whispered “Bud, Budddd. . . BUD.” After probably twenty minutes or so the key appeared in Bill’s pocket.

  Lord only knows what Bill did with his. I get the feeling that if people from his home town learned exactly what he did, and with whom, he would be exiled from the tabernacles for life. Despite an extremely altered mental state, my gear worked like a sixteen-year-old about to get his cherry popped. We made love. Sweet, sweet, financially-exchanged love. She rode me, we kissed. The white silk that served as bug netting for my bed breathed and billowed as we moved. We shared multiple sessions, and the final one. . . as it was just starting to be revealed exactly how Naomi Campbell she was not. . . ended as the sun was just rising.

  I hadn’t been out for more than a few moments when the first call to prayer burst through my window.

  “Allaaaaaaaaa—”

  The hostel was conveniently right next to a mosque, and the minaret’s speakers screamed directly at me and a passed out hooker.

  “—aaaaaaaaaah!!!!” as I shot out of bed, spinning in tight nauseous circles, my eyes clawed at the oil-spill carcass that had been lying next to me.

  There was some sort of sick circle completed right then, half into my pair of pants. I had first experienced such noisy tradition as a youngster warrior in the farmlands south of Fallujah, then relived it almost ten years later as a weathered nomad turning over every rock. Jeans zipped and pushing into Bud and Bill’s room, I saw Bill’s girl getting dressed, Bill awake—staring straight up to a slowly moving fan, mouth ajar and refusing to look at me. Bud, still unconscious, had one of Bill’s flung condoms laying smack dab on his forehead.

  The prayer ended, the girls departed, and slowly we collected ourselves. I examined the condoms I’d used, looking in sheer terror for a rip or hole. Afterwards we went down to help ourselves to a much-needed, and probably barely-deserved, complimentary breakfast. As we drooped over our eggs and juice, sleep-deprived tourists limped past us in utter disgust.

  We had a ferry to catch. We caught it. Bud swore to never take Ambien again. Bill flew home and had a series of bloodwork done, all coming back good. Word spread fast to the other Marines what had happened. Sitting at an English
pub in Dar es Salaam a couple nights later, I detected an odd energy coming from the group; a sordid royalty gifted. The “old Corps,” the Mad Dog Mattis Corps, the field Marine Corps had come to Stone Town. In one night showing the type of brute fearlessness that manifested itself as one man room clears while at war, and hedonistic conquest while on leave.

  2

  ANOMIE ON THE BACK NINE

  “The Child is father of the Man.”

  —William Wordsworth

  THE ’90s

  Large groups were always the best. Something about numbers tends to galvanize. If they were too young, it would feel too much akin to schoolyard antics; if they were too old, they would just mumble and call the cops. Ideally, we’d find a few carts filled with blue-collar types mistakenly thinking they were out for an uninterrupted game of golf.

  A plant that proliferates in the southeastern United States is the Dioscorea bulbifera, or air potato. Growing on a vine and ranging in size from about a dime to occasional behemoths that look like warty, light-brown grapefruit, the air potato is ideal projectile weaponry.

  Kids crouched down in a small ditch, shielded from the poison ivy, bugs, and detection of soon-to-be-furious duffers via the entire remainder of Army fatigues from a stepdad. Adult-size camouflage hanging loose over arms and legs, their ears take in the repetitive ga-gunks of the cart tires running over the breaks in the concrete trail. Barely audible mumbles snake past the leaves and tree trunks, splits of light showing the approaching carts and the Easterish golf attire worn by the targets. Arms cocked back, wild adrenalized smiles wrought from a mixture of excitement and fear, and all waiting for the command. “NOW!” The salvo of noxious weed bulbs flies from the defilade, over the small pond, and their ears wait. The moment of potato flight to potato impact is in many ways the best part. Time seems to slow down. Blood flow surges and feet start to shake just a little, knowing that their duty will be called upon in only a few short moments more. Thump thump thump. “What the fuck!?” “It’s fuckin’ kids!” Thump.

  There’s no set rule as to what happens next, but usually it’s one of two things.

  First, the hilarious envelopment attempt from the golfers. With welts and even the rare bloody nose, these taxpayers and PTA attendants and lords of lawnmowers would slam on the breaks, dash madly around the edge of the water hazard, and burst into the wood-line—sometimes as a uniform body like a small pack of African mongooses, others as multi-dimensional approaches. Some with clubs, some without, some cursing while others try to catch us in a menacing silence.

  Second, and far less frequent, a particularly organized group would form a firing line. Operating under similar rules as the potato barrage, they would wait for some sort of command, cock back, then blast Titleists and Slazengers into the woods.

  “Nice try, you fat fuck!”

  “I’m gonna sell ya these balls back next time ya come out here to suck!”

  “Really got a holda that one!”

  “You hit me! How could you hit me with a golf ball—I’m just a kid?!”

  “Hey, don’t have a heart attack. We can see that gut from here—bitch!” we yelled, usually rolling in flattened leaves and laughter.

  Moving to the neighborhood surrounded by the golf course when I was thirteen, I was put between a rock and a hard place. One of the many Middle America sprawls under the oppressive, maniacally-laughing shadow of Disney World, a suburb called College Park seemed to offer two kinds of teenager: a washed, upscale type and a drug-saturated, hoodlum. I didn’t want to be either. I wanted to climb into trees and reread the chapter in The Hobbit where Bilbo was in the Mirkwood canopy. I wanted to make dangerous and ill-constructed mounds to jump our bikes over. I wanted to pull pranks, swim the lakes, and do damn near everything both groups grew to shun for their own reasons.

  Dabbling in the former resulted in feeling like some orphan in a Dickens novel, but not the saccharin parts; I mean, the orphan whom the rich look down on from above and point to its dirty hands and place bets on when the winter will claim it. My mom was a public school teacher, my dad a drunkard; a peasant smelling of cowboy killers and Budweiser. I was trash, with a foul mouth, old shoes, and an occasional propensity for entertaining violent outbursts. I was the one who got reprimanded for bashing a fellow scout’s head against a pole at the park, and I was the one who, daringly, occasionally hung out with black kids and, even more daringly, occasionally fought them. At best I was tolerated, but the rolling eyes and the country club condescension were not things that escaped me.

  However, insertion into the latter group of hoodlums was no better. Although I was arguably rough, I still cared about school and would feel bad about stealing from my parents. In this group, theft was common: money, CDs, whatever their hands could grab when not rolling a blunt or punching out someone who didn’t deserve it. The obsession with rap music was both a constant theme as well as a powerful motivator. Ignore the Volvos; we white kids were now in a “hood,” and we now miraculously had “enemies,” seemingly chosen at random. Pecking orders were established, where the most violent, stupid, and belligerent among the crowd were superior to any who gave a fuck about white boy shit like grades and saying “please” or “sorry.” I was a bitch, I would learn. I was the bitch who would eventually get a part-time job and a driver’s license—thus, a resource that would have been no more human than an outlandish punk in a prison yard.

  Luckily able to recruit like-minded dorks and virgins, I took to the sand traps, aprons, and Bermuda grass. The golf course and the entertainment of hurled objects and irate golfers was better than any drug on the street and far more gratifying than some sunny gathering of future lawyers and soccer moms.

  The 14th fairway was always my favorite place. It’s where I walked across to high school for an eternity of groggy mornings, it’s where the feud in ninth grade began, it’s the area I imagined my dad playing on when he was a boy. Small thickets of trees and other vegetation bordered most of the golf course; however, at certain points the vegetation would get inordinately thick, usually around the water hazards. And that was the case; the almighty horse shoe. The 14th green, most of the 15th fairway, and where the golfers would tee off on the 16th—all subject to the same large water hazard and the small forest that had grown around it. It was there the majority of our assaults took place.

  It was also there where I would learn more about military tactics than any school the Marine Corps would later throw in front of me.

  Ambush location (Step 1):

  Reconnoitering positions where we would have the desired proximity: close enough to effectively engage our targets but far enough to execute a tactical retreat. Cover and especially concealment were fundamental features to be sought. Ideally, terrain dictating, we would locate multiple ambush points, using geometry of fire to both confuse the golfers and allow for the most effective potato damage. Whether from a single ambush point, or the main point in a multipoint ambush, we’d ensure the golfers’ avenues of approach would allow us to monitor their movement. Number of targets, physical size of targets (athletes would often be left alone, unless we had certain logistical advantages), and speed toward the “kill zone” were all observed covertly. The kill zone, where our targets would be engaged, we found most opportune when it was a green. They wouldn’t be moving that much and would be facing inward. A machine-gunner’s wet dream: close to one another and totally unware.

  Alternate routes (Step 2):

  Once solid ambush locations were determined, we’d plan our egress. Normally we’d plan on individual escape routes. After some time of individual troop movement, we would have a rally point for all to gather. From said rally point we’d usually then return to stealth mode and slip around some terrain feature (e.g., massive thorn bush, driving range, or the clubhouse) and make our way into my parents’ backyard via an intricate system of loose fence planks and a secret gate behind an apartment Dumpster. If the terrain was familiar, we would have designated routes, as per the thrower,
which was second nature due to dozens of live fire exercises. If the terrain was new we’d do multiple rehearsals, going over questions that would arise and looking for hidden cypress knots. We found out through painful trial and error the importance of “crawl-walk-run.” Once learned, new locations and their subsequent alternate and tertiary escape routes would only be used on the fattest and most lethargic.

  Ammo caches and fall back positions (Step 3):

  Foraging for air potatoes would sometimes pre-date step one. Rattling vine clusters, climbing trees, or throwing sticks at the massive A-bomb bulbils in the canopy, we’d fill shirts—turned sagging baskets—with our ammunition. Placed along our routes, caches of potatoes would be covered by a lone elephant ear. This became apparent as necessity after a maniacal golfer chased us farther than anticipated. To our good fortune we had accidently left a cluster near our rally point, and one potato, the size of a baseball, stopped him in his tracks.

  Leading from the front:

  One of the hallmarks of Marine Corps leadership, I learned at fourteen. The act of battering fully grown men didn’t escape even the dullest among us that a potentially hellacious ass beating awaited. Willingness alone would have gotten us caught. Strategy alone would have never got us in the heat of it. It took, as it takes still, both traits to be an effective leader. If it looked like a bad idea, we didn’t go through with it. If it looked to be something worthwhile, we not only executed our plan, we did it with tenacity. As the carts approached, or as the putters assembled on the enemy green, I would often look back at them: Two brothers from a Pentecostal home so uptight and sheltering that I was nothing short of the Anti-Christ to their parents. Another, a longtime friend with an arm like a cannon. Two more, timid as the day is long and recruited due to the word of mouth that I would get them up to the snarling face of trouble yet somehow get everyone out of it in the end.