Home. You bitches.
Fuck the meds. Fuck the doctors, the VA quacks, the leering fucking sympathetic trolls and their bumper stickers. Fuck the glorious wanna-be simulations of the mentally ill. Most of all, fuck Them for not sending me back.
The best advice I've ever been given.
Eli and I are sitting in the starboard windbreak slash smoking area of the USS O'Brien, I am ranting about the port BRU-14A on 112. The CADs (cartridge actuated devices,) are not firing when they are supposed to fire.
This is cause for some irritation on my part.
Eli on the other hand is trying to figure out why the parking brakes won't release.
"I mean goddamnit man, I changed the fucking rack, the fucking ASDC, the ACIP, that fucking ARA, and the aft relay panel. And just where in the holy fucking hell is the port signal inhibit box?" Taking a break from the tirade, I pause and have a long drag on a cigarette. One more epithet is added for effect, one last attempt at catharsis before we stamp out the butts in coffee cans glued to the wall and head back to the freezing hanger on the spine of the ship. "Dicklickers."It is January 2000. It is Korea. It is snowing. The heater in our shop is broken. Two days ago there was a six-inch long icicle hanging out of the thing. We are moored to the pier at the moment so the ship is on shore electrical power, which for some reason makes everything about ten degrees colder.
I do not know polar cold, nor is it something that I desire to experience.
What I do know is that I am slowly getting trenchfoot from alternating between sweating and freezing inside the heavy leather boots we must wear.
That and the fact that the ship just can't get the laundry clean. Or dry, for that matter. Hence trenchfoot. Removing your boots in the evening is rapidly becoming an adventure in severe pain, odd smell, and colors that are more suited for a salad bar than body parts.
"You're being awful quiet." Glaring at Eli, I use tone to accuse him of not pretending to pity my plight. "Some fucking sympathy would be nice here, like 'gee Yurei, that sucky bomb rack gripe sure sounds way the fuck worse than a jammed parking brake.'"
"Fuck it," he says with an almost imperceptible shrug. "Really."
"Sage advice, brother." In earnest, after flopping onto the large metal lifejacket container on which Eli is sitting.
"Burn another before we go back upstairs?" Eli asks rhetorically.
"Fuck it. Not like that big bag of crap airplane is going anywhere." We light two more cigarettes and smoke in silence, wind howling just outside the skin of the ship. Snow is collecting near the corners by the unsealed door, it is painted blood red by the ship's night lighting.
It is in this moment that I realize Eli is truly the smartest man to ever walk the face of the Earth.
Fuck it, indeed.
delayed reaction missives - e - m a i l : b a k a . y u r e i a t g m a i l . c o m
"In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist."
"We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted. Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together."
Dwight D. Eisenhower, January 17, 1961.
Sorry sir, we apparently didn't fucking pay attention.