still writing, bitches

The plane bucked, turbulence tickling its ass with tailwinds, forcing my plastic cup of watery whiskey to be jostled in my hand, a few drips escaping down onto the creased complexity of my dress pants, and i sighed. I pulled the shade over the window, leaned my head back, tried to sleep. Flashbacks are a peculiar lot, ghostly whispers, fragments, never good, never serene. At least for me. My flashbacks were more like flashmindbombs, tiny cranial explosions of bloody screaming, crying, death and disfigurement. All in a jungle setting, all with me coated in guts. Fun, no. Constant, yes. Unavoidable, unfortunately. I guess it comes with the territory. Flashbacks are to war vets as bed wetting is to the molested. Accepted, inescapable luggage to carry with you, heavy in its meaning, damning in its sincerity, awesomely fucking real. Living your life within the constant company of flashbacks is like solving a rubix cube after dipping your hands in Crisco, reality is in your grasp, but it is slippery, a puzzle you know you could solve if you weren't so fucked up, frustrating and out of reach. I slugged back the rest of the whiskey and read the letter again.
“Dear Johnny,
Bobby is a fucking mess. He sleeps in that goddamn chair. He won't go see his daughter. I'm pretty sure he is on the smack, or some other fucked up junk. When you come home, make him right. I know it's a lot to ask, but that poor lass he knocked up is coming undone. She constantly calls the house, looking for him, and i tell her, 'he's right here, darling, feel free to come and gather him up and take him to your house.' I want him out. He is nasty, Johnny, he needs you. I fear the worst.
Dave.”
The plane skidded onto the tarmac and i folded the letter into fours and tucked it into my dress jacket, adjusted the purple star hanging lonely on my chest, and prepared for the worst. Fuck homecomings, fuck my brother, fuck this town.
The plane's door hissed open and the hot, humid northeastern summer wind found its way all over me, buried my lungs, sweat sprouting in every dark crevice of my person. I walked down the stairs, rucksack over my shoulder, expecting no hero's welcome. When you fight in a war without heroes, the ticker tape parades and slaps on the back fall to the wayside, unnecessary, forgotten. Across the tarmac, the automatic doors to the terminal opened, and air conditioning made me realize i was home, really home. I was back in America, and all i could think of doing was eating a hamburger, fucking some frumpy chick with horrible self esteem, drinking a Budweiser while watching the Phillies, and taking a shit in an enclosed space not surrounded by dense, suffocating jungle and bloodthirsty pseudo-enemy soldiers. My stomach gurgled, announcing to me and anyone standing in my general vicinity at the luggage carousel that i would need to empty cheap whiskey and rubbery chicken marsala from my bowels immediately. I spun on my heel and spotted a sign for the bathrooms not 100 yards to my left. I took a few quick steps and the crowd in front of me parted, and all i saw was tye dye and sandals. A throbbing throng of hippies blocked my way to the imminent lower intestine evacuation that was reminding me of its arrival with gloomy, wet sounding farts. My anus involuntarily seized shut as i saw that i would have to pass through them to make it to the john. They spotted me. I didn't necessarily hate hippies, i saw their point, it was a bullshit war, but i was in no condition to chit chat about the finer points of the united state's forceful spreading of democracy or drafting policies or Vietnamese children running around limbless in front of news cameras looking for their dead parents. I was drafted, i went, i killed, i survived, now please, just let me shit. It became clear as they stood in front of me, arms interlocked, that this was not going to happen.
“baby killer!”
“genocidal war pig!”
“sheep of the system! Bah, motherfucker, bah!”
Hippies had a way with words, stoned and euphoric, and i shuffled side to side, trying to find a sliver to escape through, a slow motion game of red rover, my guts bubbling and churning. Then, i spotted an opening and shimmied my way along the patouli scented line towards it. My eyes lit up and i quickened my pace, and just as i began to step through the line the overhead fluorescent lights were blotted out by a shadow that sprung over me, loomed, forced me to look up. A black guy, decked out in your traditional hippy garb, frayed vest, headband, purple oval glasses, fro as big as the sun, a walking mountain of peace and love lovingly put his huge boat oar of a hand in my chest and gave me a push.
“where you goin', solja boy? You like raping kids and burning villages, huh?”
this seemed like a perfectly valid question based on reports coming in from the d'nang province, but the hot lava shit brewing within me made conversation impossible. I tried the reasonable approach.
“listen, man, i just got off a sixteen hour flight, i was drafted, i didn't rape anyone, and i never purposely burned any village down. Just let me by, bro, i just want to go home.”
he cocked his head to the side, contemplating my plea, and i saw his throat ripple, accompanied by the conjuring of what i was sure would be a loogey the size and color of a brand new tennis ball. His cheeks puffed, his lips parted, and hell rained down on me. The spit smacked me dead in the forehead, rolled down into my left eye, came to its final resting place on my upper lip. It smelled of tobacco.
My instincts took over. I grabbed the lapels of his vest, bringing my knee sharply into his crotch, and as he leaned over in pain, i brought my forehead into his nose, causing his head to snap back. I took a step back and squarely planted my combat boot into his stomach and kicked him backwards. He stumbled, fell straight on his back, and i stepped over him on my way to the shitter. I had no time to look back as his filthy buddies tending to him, the physical exertion had created a turtle head, and if you don't know what that means, pray you never have to find out.
I plowed into the bathroom and frantically shoved open a stall door. It was all i could do to undo my belt and plop myself on the frigid seat before my insides poured from me. Hot, liquid, menacing shit cascaded from my rectum, and the sweat came easy and free. I leaned back on the bowl and exhaled, a free man, and began to look around the stall. Your normal airport stall literature, “i like boys, call me at blah blah blah,”, crude, cavemen style drawings you'd expect to find inside some cavern in latreaux of open legged wenches, tits as big as mountains, pussies as wide and inviting as the mouth of a hungry great white. I wiped sweat from my brow and laughed to myself, America, home of the brave. My insides opened once again and cool toilet water splashed up into my ass, great, all i needed now was to contract some Scandinavian butt slug. I would slowly lose weight, refuse to eat, become jaundice and gaunt, die in a pool of blood leaking from my ass on the broken futon in my uncle's dusty, porn filled basement. I once again leaned back and surveyed the stall. To my right brightly colored marker lines caught my attention. A snake, no, a worm coiled around several precisely written lines. A poem. I read it aloud.
When the night seems to linger
its darkness will surely last
my pessimistic disposition
revealed my wordless math
when shadows playfully whisper
and the sun is in soaked with gin
the equation you remember
sums up the presence of the sin
and then you feel a falling
the addition you hold so dear
i'll be wriggling through your guts calling
for things to become oh so clear
Clean, block lettering. At the bottom, the worm was swallowing the title- “parasight calculus.”
i thought about this for a second, reached behind me to flush, and a great gurgling froze me. Before i could stand, the toilet water, pregnant with my insides, poured over the lip of the bowl and into my pants, my socks, squishing between my sweaty toes. I gagged and stood, barely wiping, and walked with my pants around my feet to the sinks, nude from the waist down. I tore my pants from around my boots and stuffed them into the sink, running hot water over them. Welcome home, hero. As i turned to fetch a pair of civilian pants from my rucksack, the bathroom door opened. The shadow, the narrowing eyes, the mountain of peace and love and acceptance stepped in and cracked his knuckles. Welcome home, idiot.