Too Late for That Now

"Please take a seat," said the bald headed oaf. Just judging him from his appearance I'd be surprised if I didn't teach him a thing or two about psychology. He'd probably suffered from his fair share of comfortable troubles. Hadn't shaved for well over a week, and there was an obvious stain on his collar, which he couldn't possibly have missed. I squinted at the stain -- looked like marinara sauce.

"So, Franklin, how are you doing today? And thank you for your service."

"How the hell does he think I'm doing?" I thought, "Don't think I'd be sitting here, looking at his stupid onion face, soaking in that pretentious little grin, if I was doing fine."

"What do you want me to say?" I said.

"Tell me how you're feeling, Memorial day is coming up, how does this make you feel?" he said.

"How about I start from the beginning, and you can then tell me how you think I am feeling?" I replied, evidently catching him off guard as he raised himself off his recliner and repositioned himself.

"Sure, ok. Let's try that," he said, apprehensive, scratching the underside of his bristled chin. His fat gut wobbling around like a giant water balloon.

I took in a depth breath: "I was 18 years old, two weeks prior to my graduation from high school. Every adult figure in my life told me that I had to set my sights on some clear objective in life. I had no objective, I felt no need to find an objective. I was living my life, and I was happy where I was, with my friends. No responsibilities, or obligations to anyone else. Whatever flaws others seemed to think my friends had, or what negative influences they thought they were. Fuck them, I didn't give a shit. Anyways, by then, I knew...we knew, we had to make some decision otherwise life was going to split us apart. And we'd be miserable slaves to the opinions and apprehensions of the authority figures in our lives at the time. Ironically, we figured we'd join the army together.

So we walked in, three of us, into the recruitment office, filled out all the paper work and a month later we found ourselves at Ft. Hood. It was peace time but the rhetoric had us convinced that it wasn't going to remain that way. We felt a degree of activity surrounding us like a heavy metal concert set in a construction site, whether this was natural or in some way preparatory of a greater campaign was unknown to us. We didn't watch the news, we didn't know. We spent half our waking lives drinking.

It felt almost like we walked in, picked up rifles and were sent to the front without any directions on how to fire the damn thing or who we were supposed to shoot.

They told us the enemy could take any shape, come from any direction, wield any weapon, and would often kill him or herself in the process of trying to kill us. I was just a drunken slob at the time but it seemed a little stupid, given the circumstances, that we should stroll in there with clearly identifiable military personal on the streets of their hometowns. I just assumed this would piss people off. Even if we were there to establish security. " I took a deep breath and sighed.

"For fuck's sake, we just wanted to drink and be left the fuck alone. Instead we became sitting ducks in someone's sick twisted game.

Steve blew the lower half of his body clear off, the only reason I hadn't joined him is because I was talking a piss in an alley way, otherwise we were Siamese twins.

I'm reminded of that Longfellow poem they recited during our orientation meeting, then I saw an Abrams tank pancake another mangled corpse lying idly in the middle of the street, the fragility and pointlessness of life is set into crystalline perspective for you after that.

If I'm dead, what the fuck do I care if anyone remembers me or not? People never gave a shit about me in life, never gave the remotest thought about what I felt or wanted. Suddenly, because I managed to kill some poor slob half way around the world, fighting for he thought was right, his way of life, I've suddenly become someone worth respecting. Fuck you, you twisted sacks of shit. I never wanted any of this...least of all your recognition.

This patriotic horse shit we're fed...sure that explains the bayonet you have lodged a foot into the intestines of a man you didn't know, with whom you had no personal grievances, but outside of that, once you're back home and you have to deal with these nightmares, this nagging conscience and paranoia, it doesn't do shit for that."

The psychologist hadn't so much as flinched, his big onion head rocking back and forth as though he struggled to keep it balanced on his little stub of a neck.

"I can't say I agree with what you've said, Franklin. In fact, I'm confident that you have done a great deal to keep us safe and this is more than worthy of reverence and national remembrance."

"What's your fucking name?"

"Daniel."

"Daniel, until there is an army marching through the hollowed husks of our cities, and tanks rolling over the corpses of our dead, and bayonets lodged into the guts of our family members, I am not defending anyone from anything. I was and I am the aggressor, and I must now live with this burden."