Standing in formation in some moment I had to myself, it occurred to me that it would have been better to have gone to the remote, humid swamps of Parris Island. The problem with MCRD San Diego was that the world left behind, with all its soft creature comforts was always in view, making one's current predicament all the more painful.
Standing in formation, after our brutal reveille routines, I would stare at the airplanes taking off from San Diego International Airport and think of the passengers resting back in their soft seats being offered orange juice or coffee as they were lifted into the skies. And then, of course, a smoke if they wished. If they would just let me have my morning Joe and a cig, I'll be fine. They can have my ass the whole rest of the day for whatever they want. Is five minutes too much to ask?
In the afternoon, after hours of close order drill (which I actually very much enjoyed) I would stand facing the other direction, east. As our DI rambled on about something my mind would drift over to the softly lit Mission Hills in the distance, with their terraced gardens of Spanish stucco -- an impression of green and white bathed in an amber glow, with a dot, here and there, of red. An alluring contrast to the unremitting hardness of metal, concrete, military canvas, harsh lights and clanging sounds...
Lights out several hours later I would steal away, off base. In my first escapade, after screwing a girl I knew, I made it all the way to a hilltop street in Las Lomas, in the Mexico of 20 years yore, and from there descended into the lush greenery of Chapala Michoacan. In a second escape, I found myself in a very luxurious house or perhaps restaurant, with descending verandas made of sleek marble slabs resting atop gentle cascades of water. I was welcomed with refined, graciousness by an elegant Mexican woman accompanied by seven daughters and a good looking son, whom I didn't quite see. I subsided into the mellowness of it all and then woke up wondering what the hell I was doing in this nightmare.
But my DI's gave me a break. After piss call, our morning drill consisted of swabbing the squad bay's deck. Not with mops -- God forbid anything halfway decent like that -- but on our hands and knees pushing wet towels along the floor in formation (of course) while being yelled at (of course) to hurry up (of course). But during this process, the towels had to be rinsed off, and were passed through the port holes (windows) to a crew of four whose duty it was to rinse them in the wash basins outside. One did not have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that those on whom the gods had smiled got assigned this task. I was filled with gratitude and as the warm water flowed over our hands, we kneaded the towels and chatted away about nothing much in particular in a spirit of acceptance and solidarity. I loved this shit too.
Standing in formation, after our brutal reveille routines, I would stare at the airplanes taking off from San Diego International Airport and think of the passengers resting back in their soft seats being offered orange juice or coffee as they were lifted into the skies. And then, of course, a smoke if they wished. If they would just let me have my morning Joe and a cig, I'll be fine. They can have my ass the whole rest of the day for whatever they want. Is five minutes too much to ask?
In the afternoon, after hours of close order drill (which I actually very much enjoyed) I would stand facing the other direction, east. As our DI rambled on about something my mind would drift over to the softly lit Mission Hills in the distance, with their terraced gardens of Spanish stucco -- an impression of green and white bathed in an amber glow, with a dot, here and there, of red. An alluring contrast to the unremitting hardness of metal, concrete, military canvas, harsh lights and clanging sounds...
Lights out several hours later I would steal away, off base. In my first escapade, after screwing a girl I knew, I made it all the way to a hilltop street in Las Lomas, in the Mexico of 20 years yore, and from there descended into the lush greenery of Chapala Michoacan. In a second escape, I found myself in a very luxurious house or perhaps restaurant, with descending verandas made of sleek marble slabs resting atop gentle cascades of water. I was welcomed with refined, graciousness by an elegant Mexican woman accompanied by seven daughters and a good looking son, whom I didn't quite see. I subsided into the mellowness of it all and then woke up wondering what the hell I was doing in this nightmare.
But my DI's gave me a break. After piss call, our morning drill consisted of swabbing the squad bay's deck. Not with mops -- God forbid anything halfway decent like that -- but on our hands and knees pushing wet towels along the floor in formation (of course) while being yelled at (of course) to hurry up (of course). But during this process, the towels had to be rinsed off, and were passed through the port holes (windows) to a crew of four whose duty it was to rinse them in the wash basins outside. One did not have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that those on whom the gods had smiled got assigned this task. I was filled with gratitude and as the warm water flowed over our hands, we kneaded the towels and chatted away about nothing much in particular in a spirit of acceptance and solidarity. I loved this shit too.
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