Institution is Institution
I’m in college. College-ish. Community College is really worth going to, but they could also do themselves a favor and be a little more thorough with performance reviews.
The stack of mashed potatoes at the head of the class leading the block of instruction or “professor” as he likes to call himself, keeps calling on me, but not really.
“Isn’t that right, Sarge?”
“No.”
Day after day he pulls some confounded horseshit out of the air and then wheels his nobby finger my way hoping for the approval of who he perceives is the only ‘real’ man in the room.
“No. They’re not all bad. It’s an impossibility. In fact most of them are quite terrific people. We kill them all not because they’re inherently good, bad, or anything. We kill them because they are sitting on top of a target designated by the United States taxpayers. The region is fucked because it’s been fucked and we keep it fucked to control the tide of war. We did that. You guys did that.”
The hippies aren’t sure whether to be furious with me or happy with me. I’ve told them what they wanted, but they only want that first half.
We were bad. It takes two to tango and not knowing how to dance is no excuse. Learn. Take lessons. Make it up and break dance you’re little ass over here. Join the fight. War is not an event or a thing—not like others.
War is a swarm of bees shaped like bad ideas and bullets that was kicked up a few millennia ago and we haven’t been able to keep a lid on it since. Peace is a lie. Capital P peace. That’s just you not paying attention. That skill I mentioned, the one that works for veterans out here, is paying attention.
It is baffling to see the pubic hair and AARP cards on people making this level of commitment to being shitheads. I suppose that’s not the way to say it, but Christ almighty, how old are these motherfuckers? The fear from them. They drip worry like a slime trail and cover the scent in Frebreeze and other seasonal horseshit. The dopey, empty nods as he waits for approval. What have you been doing while we were away?
Did you enlist for Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Yemen, Sudan, Myanmar, Ukraine, the Merchant Marine, or maybe even the Salvation Army? What did you do other than bitch and shop?
Oh! Shop and bitch?
Maximum effort towards minimum return. We came home to Kabuki and patronizing old men thanking us for shit they were too weak to do themselves.
It’s after class and as I make the Bhutan’s distance walk to the parking lot I see a kid shuffling by themselves in the smoke pit. Hulk smashes, but Sarge sits down and lights one up.
“Nice day out,” I say. It’s presumptive, but not overly. I suggest the weather is what’s nice which leaves room for the events of their day to be shit.
“It is,” they say.
“You smoke?” I ask reaching for my pack.
“No, it’s gross,” he stops himself realizing he may have insulted me, “I mean I don’t like the taste.”
“You’re right. It’s gross. My clothes have smelled like shit for a decade.”
“Why do you smoke?”
“It’s an excuse to get outside.”
That seems to settle him and he sits down at the other end of the picnic table. They are adorable. Not in any pervy way. We need expanded vocabularies for things like that. When you see a grown-up who is so cute it’s crazy—but not in a sexy way. Oh. The voices in my head say we call that “Vulnerable.” Christ. Is that what that word’s used for?
When assessing vulnerabilities in our logistic chain, we weren’t focusing on the bits that looked cute. In that sense, the word meant “weak.” See, we need better words.
He eyeballs my tattoos but doesn’t geek out like the others.
“When did you go?” he asks.
“I just got back.”“How was it?”
“Dumber than I expected.”
“You were in the Air Force?”
“Yep.”
“Did you fly planes?”
“Nope. Once or twice for special things as a kid but never for work.”
“You’ve flown a plane?!”
Good. We don’t have to talk about death today. He lights up as we talk about airplanes and the different kinds and their uses. I get the distinct feeling that this boy needs supervision from time to time and that’s who he’s shuffling his feet waiting on.
“Is your mom coming to get you?”
“I think so. I sent her a text when we got out, but she might send my Aunt Nancy or my Aunt Terry.”
Yep.
“So, what are you studying?” I ask.
“Cooking. I want to be a baker.”
“That’s terrific,” I say, “I took the culinary arts program here before I joined up. It’s very good.”
I lean in for effect and do the half-cover-your-mouth thing and whisper, “I was a little surprised.”
“Me too,” they say with a grin.
“What are you working on now?”
He says, “Sauces,” and I sit in the glow of a kid telling me every detail about a thing they just learned that they really enjoy. I don’t have to be anywhere. I’ve got all the time in the world for sauces. I’ve got all the time in the world for everyone else.
