June 2010 — Flea Market Zombies

Smith, Jeffrey G. General Infantry. Grunt. Front Liner. Short-Timer. Mean Green Killing Marine, Ooh Aah! I’m with 3^rd Platoon Alpha Team. Or maybe it’s Charlie Company 1^st Battalion, 20^th Infantry Regiment. There’s been so many it’s hard to keep straight.

Platoon’s at base camp, around a fire that pops like bones in the desert air. Men’s faces tiger-striped in shadow, they’re every face of every soldier of every war ever fought. Shell-shocked and battle-rocked. Tired, hungry. Ready to die or go home.

Next to me, Rodriguez says, “Pinche frio.” He cups his hands to his mouth and blows. Slips them under his armpits. Just a kid. Getting a diploma, then getting orders. Same acne on his forehead he had at Prom.

I sip from my canteen. Lick the trickle from my chin before anyone sees.

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