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22 December 2023
THE “ARMY GUYS”
We are sitting at the pool with make-shift swimming suits. I already went swimming. Shalon only went halfway, and then decided that she didn’t have the will-power to get in all the way.
We brought beer in a plastic water bottle because the sign by the pool says you can't bring in any glass bottles. Somehow the plastic bottle makes the beer have a skunked after taste.
Suddenly, there they were. They pull their chairs over and corner us; the Latino guy beside Shalon and the other one beside me. They offer us beer and tell us they're not stalkers, just bored. Well, there's a load off my back!
We get the initial small talk out of the way: What do you do? Where are you from? Oh, Austria? I lived in Germany for a while.
"Have you ever been to the Love Parade in Berlin? I went there once-- it was great."
Yuck. I don't hesitate: "No way. That's disgusting. That's just a bunch of high people milling around to bad music."
They laugh. "Yeah. You're too sensible for that."
Yeah, yeah. I'm the nun now just because I don't like to jump around in the streets of Berlin, rubbing against other people's sweat to techno music.
They tell us they are in the military, and make sure we understand that they are not normal foot soldiers. One of them shows us the logo on his t-shirt-- a skull with some kind of abbreviation around it.
For the next half-hour or so, I stare at the sky and let Shalon deal with all weak attempts at conversation. She's much better at that. My input is usually a loud laugh when it's least needed. I view the whole scene as though from across the pool, and so can find it quite amusing.
The guy next to me tries to get me to talk.
"What kind of music do you like?"
"Blues."
"Oh, really?"
He talks a bit about blues, and it becomes clear to me that he doesn't know what blues are. He seems to think it's some kind of weird rock music.
"I like old, old blues," I say finally, because it's just too painful to be misunderstood. "Delta blues."
"Like who?"
"Robert Johnson."
"Never heard of him."
I'm on the verge of mentioning more names: Charlie Patton, Bessie Smith, Leadbelly-- but what's the point?
I look back up at the sky, and am very aware of the fact that I must seem cold and rude. Well, I guess, I am very often. But this conversation was strenuous, dispersed and pointless. They didn't listen; they didn't seem to follow what you were saying. They'd nod and then start talking about something oddly unrelated; but at the same time it would still hang on to the subject matter by a string, so you never knew how you'd gotten there or what to say.
In between there were a variety of phrases that would be interspersed regularly:
"Well, here we are in the middle of a desert by the pool, drinking beer."
"Yeah, Shalon is the crazy one!"
"Are you alright? Are you tired?"
"What are you guys laughing about? There's something you're not telling us!"
(You BET there is.)
When Shalon goes to the bathroom, they comment on how young girls always clasp towels around themselves because they are so conscious of their bodies. I laugh, because I know Shalon has a much better reason for wrapping her towel around her like that.
They had an annoying combination of acting like tough, horny soldiers, mixed with concerned older brothers.
Then: "What do your boyfriends think of you guys traveling out here alone?"
Our boyfriends?
I say: "Her boyfriend's in Ireland. My boyfriend is in New York. He performs in The Lion King musical on Broadway."
At one point, my friend mentions a Mark Twain quote, and I am momentarily interested. This would have perhaps been a sane opening for a real conversation. But of course, before it gets off the ground, he derails into some irrelevant side alley. I'm not sure if he knows himself what he's talking about.
POT
The Latino guy never smoked it. He says his cousins always did, and that he can't wait to get them in trouble for it one day. The other guy says he used to smoke it years ago and indicated that it was great.
Right then, a couple of kids show up and start smoking pot behind us, followed by the "pool guy" who asks us, "Does anyone smell pot here?"
We all hesitate. Then Bart (a name I will attach to the Latino guy) says he smells it. Shalon says she does, too. The kids are asked to leave.
The other army guy says: "I was trying not to say anything. They were just kids wanting to have fun."
I tell him my opinion of pot. He thinks I'm a sensible nerd. I couldn't care less.
"You're right," he says. "Pot is bad."
AND THEN
And then, he asks me what I think of Bush.
"I think he's a joke."
I know I should leave it at that, but I've had about three beers and am ready to expound on my theories.
"He's totally ignorant and stupid. In his speeches, for example, he'll start talking and forget what he's saying by the middle of the sentence. He's a complete imbecile."
I instantly feel like I burned the American flag or something, and offer up a comment to soften the blow: "That was a while ago, of course. Maybe he's better now."
There's a slight smile on his face now. Of course, he thinks I'm deluded, but at least I'm talking.
I WISH SOMEONE WOULD TAPE MY MOUTH SHUT
It's much later now, and Bart's companion has already gone to bed. Shalon is lying back in her deck chair, tired, and I'm in the middle of explaining to Bart why I think September 11th was a conspiracy. (Somewhere in the back of my head, I know there are perhaps more worthwhile things to be doing.)
This conversation inflates into something bizarre. While I am busy trying to get to a point, Bart comes out with the most random phrase available and leaves me stuck in the middle of nowhere.
Me: "So here's some Arabian guy-- and he learned to fly an airplane somewhere in Florida, and some were trained in Germany, right?"
Bart interrupts: "You know where I was on that day? I was in Argentina."
"Uh, ok." I try and figure out if there is a connection here I'm missing, but there doesn't seem to be.
And so on and so forth. I spill my guts all over the floor, as though there's nothing more useful to do than to tell a clean, patriotic, warm-blooded, true American military guy how his government is corrupt and evil. What makes it worse, he really is a decent guy who is totally convinced he is saving the world on a regular basis. I don't want to hurt his feelings, but at the same time I blurt out everything that comes to mind.
He counter-acts my speeches with smiles that mean: "Oh lord, this little girl is cute-- she really doesn't have a clue in the universe." I think the same of him.
Sometimes he becomes serious and concerned, like a fatherly Uncle Sam, and says things like: "We're here today, but we might not be here tomorrow. Our job is tough. We see people die all the time."
I'm not sure if he's serious. It sounds sorta funny.
Then he tells us to see Black Hawk Down, and says he has a friend who "was there." I say I don't know what "there" means because I haven't seen the film, but that doesn't seem to bother him and he talks on happily.
Later, Shalon joins in, trying to disagree with him on his point that "ignorance is bliss" and that "it's better that people don't know everything that's going on."
He says he knows she's wrong, but likes her spirit and thinks she should join the FBI, because she'd do well and surpass all her peers. I laugh. Shalon rolls her eyes.
NIGHT
I go to bed feeling like a first-rate idiot and try to block out everything I have just said. Unfortunately, bits and pieces of the "army conversation" keep on drifting by in my head. I wonder if anyone on the face of this planet has ever done anything more pointless. I don't think so.
Shalon has a cough, the water in the shower is cold, and the air conditioning is deafening. I unplug it, and hope the freezing air will hold out through the night. (It doesn't, of course, and I plug it back in at 4:00AM.)
10:00AM • DAY 3
I slept terribly. I feel like my whole right shoulder has been battered up and is burning. But there's something nice about opening your door in the morning and being surrounded by desert. Even in the heat, it's nice. I guess it's the fact that everything is so vast.
The restaurant is closed, so we walk to the gas station and buy a variety of stuff to serve as food until we get to the next town: Red Vines, hot chocolate, tea, and apples.
We ask the cashier if he knows how much longer it will take to get to Argus. He is clipping his fingernails and takes about a century to give birth to a thought, not to mention putting that thought into words. We watch his fingernail clippings fall on the counter as he mumbles that he doesn't think he's ever heard of Argus. Eventually he says that the next town is Trona.
"Do they have some place to eat there?" I ask.
A slow smile crawls across his face, "You don't want to eat in Trona."
I think he's probably right.
CLICK HERE TO READ PART FOUR OF WEIRD OLD AMERICA.
We are sitting at the pool with make-shift swimming suits. I already went swimming. Shalon only went halfway, and then decided that she didn’t have the will-power to get in all the way.
We brought beer in a plastic water bottle because the sign by the pool says you can't bring in any glass bottles. Somehow the plastic bottle makes the beer have a skunked after taste.
Suddenly, there they were. They pull their chairs over and corner us; the Latino guy beside Shalon and the other one beside me. They offer us beer and tell us they're not stalkers, just bored. Well, there's a load off my back!
We get the initial small talk out of the way: What do you do? Where are you from? Oh, Austria? I lived in Germany for a while.
"Have you ever been to the Love Parade in Berlin? I went there once-- it was great."
Yuck. I don't hesitate: "No way. That's disgusting. That's just a bunch of high people milling around to bad music."
They laugh. "Yeah. You're too sensible for that."
Yeah, yeah. I'm the nun now just because I don't like to jump around in the streets of Berlin, rubbing against other people's sweat to techno music.
They tell us they are in the military, and make sure we understand that they are not normal foot soldiers. One of them shows us the logo on his t-shirt-- a skull with some kind of abbreviation around it.
For the next half-hour or so, I stare at the sky and let Shalon deal with all weak attempts at conversation. She's much better at that. My input is usually a loud laugh when it's least needed. I view the whole scene as though from across the pool, and so can find it quite amusing.
The guy next to me tries to get me to talk.
"What kind of music do you like?"
"Blues."
"Oh, really?"
He talks a bit about blues, and it becomes clear to me that he doesn't know what blues are. He seems to think it's some kind of weird rock music.
"I like old, old blues," I say finally, because it's just too painful to be misunderstood. "Delta blues."
"Like who?"
"Robert Johnson."
"Never heard of him."
I'm on the verge of mentioning more names: Charlie Patton, Bessie Smith, Leadbelly-- but what's the point?
I look back up at the sky, and am very aware of the fact that I must seem cold and rude. Well, I guess, I am very often. But this conversation was strenuous, dispersed and pointless. They didn't listen; they didn't seem to follow what you were saying. They'd nod and then start talking about something oddly unrelated; but at the same time it would still hang on to the subject matter by a string, so you never knew how you'd gotten there or what to say.
In between there were a variety of phrases that would be interspersed regularly:
"Well, here we are in the middle of a desert by the pool, drinking beer."
"Yeah, Shalon is the crazy one!"
"Are you alright? Are you tired?"
"What are you guys laughing about? There's something you're not telling us!"
(You BET there is.)
When Shalon goes to the bathroom, they comment on how young girls always clasp towels around themselves because they are so conscious of their bodies. I laugh, because I know Shalon has a much better reason for wrapping her towel around her like that.
They had an annoying combination of acting like tough, horny soldiers, mixed with concerned older brothers.
Then: "What do your boyfriends think of you guys traveling out here alone?"
Our boyfriends?
I say: "Her boyfriend's in Ireland. My boyfriend is in New York. He performs in The Lion King musical on Broadway."
At one point, my friend mentions a Mark Twain quote, and I am momentarily interested. This would have perhaps been a sane opening for a real conversation. But of course, before it gets off the ground, he derails into some irrelevant side alley. I'm not sure if he knows himself what he's talking about.
POT
The Latino guy never smoked it. He says his cousins always did, and that he can't wait to get them in trouble for it one day. The other guy says he used to smoke it years ago and indicated that it was great.
Right then, a couple of kids show up and start smoking pot behind us, followed by the "pool guy" who asks us, "Does anyone smell pot here?"
We all hesitate. Then Bart (a name I will attach to the Latino guy) says he smells it. Shalon says she does, too. The kids are asked to leave.
The other army guy says: "I was trying not to say anything. They were just kids wanting to have fun."
I tell him my opinion of pot. He thinks I'm a sensible nerd. I couldn't care less.
"You're right," he says. "Pot is bad."
AND THEN
And then, he asks me what I think of Bush.
"I think he's a joke."
I know I should leave it at that, but I've had about three beers and am ready to expound on my theories.
"He's totally ignorant and stupid. In his speeches, for example, he'll start talking and forget what he's saying by the middle of the sentence. He's a complete imbecile."
I instantly feel like I burned the American flag or something, and offer up a comment to soften the blow: "That was a while ago, of course. Maybe he's better now."
There's a slight smile on his face now. Of course, he thinks I'm deluded, but at least I'm talking.
I WISH SOMEONE WOULD TAPE MY MOUTH SHUT
It's much later now, and Bart's companion has already gone to bed. Shalon is lying back in her deck chair, tired, and I'm in the middle of explaining to Bart why I think September 11th was a conspiracy. (Somewhere in the back of my head, I know there are perhaps more worthwhile things to be doing.)
This conversation inflates into something bizarre. While I am busy trying to get to a point, Bart comes out with the most random phrase available and leaves me stuck in the middle of nowhere.
Me: "So here's some Arabian guy-- and he learned to fly an airplane somewhere in Florida, and some were trained in Germany, right?"
Bart interrupts: "You know where I was on that day? I was in Argentina."
"Uh, ok." I try and figure out if there is a connection here I'm missing, but there doesn't seem to be.
And so on and so forth. I spill my guts all over the floor, as though there's nothing more useful to do than to tell a clean, patriotic, warm-blooded, true American military guy how his government is corrupt and evil. What makes it worse, he really is a decent guy who is totally convinced he is saving the world on a regular basis. I don't want to hurt his feelings, but at the same time I blurt out everything that comes to mind.
He counter-acts my speeches with smiles that mean: "Oh lord, this little girl is cute-- she really doesn't have a clue in the universe." I think the same of him.
Sometimes he becomes serious and concerned, like a fatherly Uncle Sam, and says things like: "We're here today, but we might not be here tomorrow. Our job is tough. We see people die all the time."
I'm not sure if he's serious. It sounds sorta funny.
Then he tells us to see Black Hawk Down, and says he has a friend who "was there." I say I don't know what "there" means because I haven't seen the film, but that doesn't seem to bother him and he talks on happily.
Later, Shalon joins in, trying to disagree with him on his point that "ignorance is bliss" and that "it's better that people don't know everything that's going on."
He says he knows she's wrong, but likes her spirit and thinks she should join the FBI, because she'd do well and surpass all her peers. I laugh. Shalon rolls her eyes.
NIGHT
I go to bed feeling like a first-rate idiot and try to block out everything I have just said. Unfortunately, bits and pieces of the "army conversation" keep on drifting by in my head. I wonder if anyone on the face of this planet has ever done anything more pointless. I don't think so.
Shalon has a cough, the water in the shower is cold, and the air conditioning is deafening. I unplug it, and hope the freezing air will hold out through the night. (It doesn't, of course, and I plug it back in at 4:00AM.)
10:00AM • DAY 3
I slept terribly. I feel like my whole right shoulder has been battered up and is burning. But there's something nice about opening your door in the morning and being surrounded by desert. Even in the heat, it's nice. I guess it's the fact that everything is so vast.
The restaurant is closed, so we walk to the gas station and buy a variety of stuff to serve as food until we get to the next town: Red Vines, hot chocolate, tea, and apples.
We ask the cashier if he knows how much longer it will take to get to Argus. He is clipping his fingernails and takes about a century to give birth to a thought, not to mention putting that thought into words. We watch his fingernail clippings fall on the counter as he mumbles that he doesn't think he's ever heard of Argus. Eventually he says that the next town is Trona.
"Do they have some place to eat there?" I ask.
A slow smile crawls across his face, "You don't want to eat in Trona."
I think he's probably right.
CLICK HERE TO READ PART FOUR OF WEIRD OLD AMERICA.
artid
834
Old Image
5_1_mercedes.swf
issue
vol 5 - issue 01 (sep 2002)
section
pen_think