Thanksgiving Memories
Nov. 28th, 2006 12:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonThree floors up and from my parents balcony I watch the Swan Boats sail over the still waters crackling silver from an early afternoon sun. They are piloted by families, couples and friends across the cup of lake below. I smile as they navigate around the fountain that sits just off center of the lake or drift carefully through flocks of insolent ducks like a submarine crawling through a mine field. It's a little odd these anachronisms from a Edwardian picnic, these refugees from a theme park seeking sanctuary in an Impressionistic landscape. It's almost as if the menagerie of a carousel had come to life late one night and escaped from the loop of the merry-go-round. Where the horses trampled down the gates of the carnival and rode off to freedom, the Swan carriages took flight and after many long days and nights of searching, decided to take nest in Manet's Luncheon on the Grass. But then again this is Orlando, Florida and one must expect to see rides somewhere.
From inside I can already taste the Turkey cooking slowly in the air. Occasionally a strong gust of wind will sweep down from the bright tarp of sky and wash over me only to have the slow roast of the bird seep back into my hunger again. Faintly I can make out Edith Pilaf singing Hymne A L'amour off the stereo. Truman, my parents pekinese, keeps a constant vigil on the lake below. He resembles a Chinese Lion only in miniature. Every now and then he rumbles a soft growl at whoever has caught his interest below.
It's hard to believe that the last time I was here in Orlando I was just getting out of my post bootcamp Engineering School, a crash course in Naval mechanics that took just over a month to complete. I was 18 then and getting ready for a two week leave before I shipped out to the Gulf War (the one in the 90's: Same shit, different Bush). It was scary back then. We all thought it was going to be like the Gulf War is now. Luckily we were in and out in a few months. The lesson here being is if you're going to wage war like it was a video game then you should know when to say 'Game Over'. But back then we had no idea. I remember being told by my instructor that we should expect to see mass use of chemical warfare from Saddam. Being screamed at in a concrete room being flooded with tear gas as we all fumbled our EBAs (emergency breathing apparatus) out of the bags slung around our chest. Some old salt of a Chief screaming, "FORGET IT! YOU'D BE DEAD ALREADY MOSCOW!". 'Moscow' was the way they said my last name whenever I was being 'All fucked up'. It was also how they said my name in grade school.
I remember this one recruit from my Sister company, Seaman Recruit Nicole Beers who stuck around Orlando after basic like me. She was taking some kind of Electronics training. I met her sitting on a bench. She had just been stood up by someone in her class. I bought her an ice cream cone. I goofed around a bit, made her smile. We went off base, went to the mall, bought ourselves some civies and snuck out of our uniforms. I remember we caught this stupid Steve Martin - Rick Moranis flick. Halfway through it we started making out. By the time the credits were rolling my hand was under her shirt and she was rubbing my love through my illeaglly worn pair of blue jeans.
We found a hotel.
We made love five times before the dawn.
I returned to base with a neck covered in so many hickeys that I resembled a hanging victim. They couldn't stop my smile for the next three days of watch, duty, class and PT.
Now the Orlando RTC (Recruit Training Command) where I was broken down, humiliated, trained, retrained, punished, rewarded, loved, tested and honed is nothing more than just another ubiquitous condo park. Thirty something normies jog around their homes in the low 300s and sip expensive cups of coffee, listening to Sting on the i-Pod and think in the language of sound bites and resumes.
Still there is a symmetry to it, a kind of poetry. When I first came here for boot camp I left Fort Lauderdale, a predawn car ride to the airport from my recruiter. My parents standing in the driveway waving at me. Mom was crying. My dad yelled 'Remember your zen' as we drove off. Rituals of manhood, there was no going back even if I returned. Now they live here. Gone the hurricane bullied house of Fort Lauderdale. Gone the terracota rooms with cracked drywall and chipped molding. Gone the feral parrots and cotton candy sunsets. Gone a city that was designed to be the worlds largest strip mall on a beach. Gone the memories, the laughs, the teardrops and madness.
Forward their lives. The condo with leather couches, wide screen tv, ample shelves (so my fathers library isn't just stacks upon stacks of books piled across a fireplace that never worked), central heat/ac and they live in the heart of downtown, my Dads job is just a five minute walk away and you know what? This works.
This really works for them and i'm happy for their happiness.
I light another cigarette. Soon my dad will be back from picking up a friend from the office for dinner. Josephine Baker is singing J'ai Deux Amours. Truman is laying down pouting because i've had the temerity to stop petting him for a few minutes. The last Swan Boat is gliding to the dock over by the amphitheater.
I close my eyes. lean back in the chair and bask in this one magick moment stolen from the clocked life.
From inside I can already taste the Turkey cooking slowly in the air. Occasionally a strong gust of wind will sweep down from the bright tarp of sky and wash over me only to have the slow roast of the bird seep back into my hunger again. Faintly I can make out Edith Pilaf singing Hymne A L'amour off the stereo. Truman, my parents pekinese, keeps a constant vigil on the lake below. He resembles a Chinese Lion only in miniature. Every now and then he rumbles a soft growl at whoever has caught his interest below.
It's hard to believe that the last time I was here in Orlando I was just getting out of my post bootcamp Engineering School, a crash course in Naval mechanics that took just over a month to complete. I was 18 then and getting ready for a two week leave before I shipped out to the Gulf War (the one in the 90's: Same shit, different Bush). It was scary back then. We all thought it was going to be like the Gulf War is now. Luckily we were in and out in a few months. The lesson here being is if you're going to wage war like it was a video game then you should know when to say 'Game Over'. But back then we had no idea. I remember being told by my instructor that we should expect to see mass use of chemical warfare from Saddam. Being screamed at in a concrete room being flooded with tear gas as we all fumbled our EBAs (emergency breathing apparatus) out of the bags slung around our chest. Some old salt of a Chief screaming, "FORGET IT! YOU'D BE DEAD ALREADY MOSCOW!". 'Moscow' was the way they said my last name whenever I was being 'All fucked up'. It was also how they said my name in grade school.
I remember this one recruit from my Sister company, Seaman Recruit Nicole Beers who stuck around Orlando after basic like me. She was taking some kind of Electronics training. I met her sitting on a bench. She had just been stood up by someone in her class. I bought her an ice cream cone. I goofed around a bit, made her smile. We went off base, went to the mall, bought ourselves some civies and snuck out of our uniforms. I remember we caught this stupid Steve Martin - Rick Moranis flick. Halfway through it we started making out. By the time the credits were rolling my hand was under her shirt and she was rubbing my love through my illeaglly worn pair of blue jeans.
We found a hotel.
We made love five times before the dawn.
I returned to base with a neck covered in so many hickeys that I resembled a hanging victim. They couldn't stop my smile for the next three days of watch, duty, class and PT.
Now the Orlando RTC (Recruit Training Command) where I was broken down, humiliated, trained, retrained, punished, rewarded, loved, tested and honed is nothing more than just another ubiquitous condo park. Thirty something normies jog around their homes in the low 300s and sip expensive cups of coffee, listening to Sting on the i-Pod and think in the language of sound bites and resumes.
Still there is a symmetry to it, a kind of poetry. When I first came here for boot camp I left Fort Lauderdale, a predawn car ride to the airport from my recruiter. My parents standing in the driveway waving at me. Mom was crying. My dad yelled 'Remember your zen' as we drove off. Rituals of manhood, there was no going back even if I returned. Now they live here. Gone the hurricane bullied house of Fort Lauderdale. Gone the terracota rooms with cracked drywall and chipped molding. Gone the feral parrots and cotton candy sunsets. Gone a city that was designed to be the worlds largest strip mall on a beach. Gone the memories, the laughs, the teardrops and madness.
Forward their lives. The condo with leather couches, wide screen tv, ample shelves (so my fathers library isn't just stacks upon stacks of books piled across a fireplace that never worked), central heat/ac and they live in the heart of downtown, my Dads job is just a five minute walk away and you know what? This works.
This really works for them and i'm happy for their happiness.
I light another cigarette. Soon my dad will be back from picking up a friend from the office for dinner. Josephine Baker is singing J'ai Deux Amours. Truman is laying down pouting because i've had the temerity to stop petting him for a few minutes. The last Swan Boat is gliding to the dock over by the amphitheater.
I close my eyes. lean back in the chair and bask in this one magick moment stolen from the clocked life.
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no subject
on 2006-11-28 07:00 pm (UTC)Is Truman named for Harry S.???
Hmmmm... you sound rejuvenated. Going Home is my balm. Sounds like it did the same for you (I know... not your "home"... but my Mother would say that Home is wherever your Mother is. I tend to agree.)
xxx
no subject
on 2006-12-01 03:51 am (UTC)