I Think About Him All The Time

I have thought about him many of times, but especially so in the last week. 

I think about how he spilled his guts to me whilst leaning up against a dusty MRAP, an armored vehicle designed to withstand an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) worth anywhere between $500,000 to 1,000,000. I put my camera down in respect to the seriousness of his voice, and watch the other comedians saunter away taking pictures and smiling with any soldier who’s brave enough to withstand his own comrade’s good natured barbs, in order to pose with one of us. I look and drink in the young soldier’s angular Hispanic face as he snarls, “This is all bullshit, a total mother-f*cking waste of time.” 

We are at the edge of a FOB (Forward Operating Base) about a hour and a half Black Hawk helicopter ride from the Camp Victory Complex, which occupies the area around the Baghdad International Airport. The sun is setting. The pressure of doing comedy is off myself and the others, as we have just finished a show within the militarized compound that used to be an elementary school. I see Iraqis men playing soccer in the distance just past the resting Black Hawks, kicking up the desert’s tawny sand and sun-burnt ephemeral grasses with their footwork skillz. In essence creating the perfect Instagram filter, one could call Mesopotamia: a hybrid of Hefe and Earlybird - high contrast but with a hint of sepia, the tonal quality most associated with the feeling of regret. 

I see a middle aged Iraqi woman getting ready to leave the compound. She works in some capacity for our government. Earlier in the middle of my act I had caught her watching the show and laughing. It’s not lost on me that she has just witnessed three American women telling the filthiest of jokes in front of what one could argue is the least educated, yet physically strongest of our society, earning their laughter and admiration. Yet, I now see her covering her face in order to navigate her own world, a world in which she’ll have no choice but to act the subordinate in front of the eyes of those who are the physically strongest of her society, always working over-time on having to avoid their gaze.

“What do you mean, a waste?” I ask focusing back on the young soldier in front of me. He replies, “We might have a chance with the kids. We should at least stay long enough to reach the kids.” I know exactly what he’s saying, but I remain silent allowing him to continue. “Once we leave, you’ll see, they’ll all come out of the woodwork. Within a month, it’ll be like we were never here.” As he says this, a young handsome Sargeant saunters up with one of my comedic partners. “You guys want to see the inside of this MRAP?” The young Corporal throws me a resigned look and walks away. I go all automatic and stammer, “Sure, who wouldn’t?” Mostly because it’s my job, really, but it doesn’t hurt that he has a movie star’s grin. The Sargeant waits for the Corporal to be out off earshot, lowers his voice and confesses, “Today’s show means a lot to the guys. No one will tell you this but last week we just had three guys…They didn’t die, but they were seriously injured…And we’re handling it, but you guys really did come at a good time.” 

We do our due diligence, smiling and shaking hands with the remainder of the soldiers, some already in their battle-rattle getting ready to go out on patrol. We load back into the black hawk. I nestle myself in-between a Colonel and a Major, as I think about the words spoken to me from the young hispanic soldier, the first of many, many times.

MRAP sketch by DeSynchronizer