Humbled

   I am having simply the most fun lately, writing and reacting to so many others who like to read what I write, and experiencing a chain of events that may be insignificant in this snow globe life that is winter in the Rockies, but nevertheless amazes me and delights.     Here's what's been going on:    In the five months since I've returned from the desert sand of Ramadi, Iraq to the high deserts of Utah, a mountain of negativity has tried to creep its way into my life. Thus far, I have prevailed against this mountain's crushing weight. I have kept it at bay, remained eternally optimistic, kept working, kept being a dad, and kept writing. All of these parts of my life are going well, but especially the writing:

Appeared on Doonesbury's The Sandbox (still a regular there) 

Read a piece called "Fire in the Night" on NPR's Day to Day   

Appeared on the front page (and the website) of the Salt Lake Tribune 

Had a very nice woman do an awesome column on me for our local ABC affiliate:

 And on December 18^th I'm going to be staring out from somewhere between the pages of Time Magazine's "Person of the Year" issue. I was more than happy to give the writer who contacted me an interview. She was really cool and the interview was fun. Casual and conversational. Click here to read the article on Time's website.

     I am always dazzled by the complexity of human society, that feeling of being an anonymous face in a crowd. I like to people gaze, and I wonder what they're doing, what they're thinking, where they've been. During my 18 month deployment, I traveled across the United States a couple of times, then across the Atlantic a few more. I sat in coffee shops in Kuwait International, getting wireless access on my laptop. I've done the same in Frankfurt, Germany, Shannon, Ireland, and London. I've sat with notebook or laptop and written. As I did so, or as I lost the flow of something and read for a while, I looked out over the book, the laptop, the vanilla latte and banana nut muffin, and I may have looked right at you. I get overwhelmed sometimes by big thoughts. How many people have sat in that plastic chair I occupied at Heathrow since then? How many before? How interesting and complex is the very act of living? 

The planes landing, the sound of their brakes whining, the dark hallways of distance, looking out of the window of a British Airways flight from Quatar to Ireland, hopping continents to rush back to the States for Emergency Leave, compelled by the innate drama of my own reality right then, the far away look of a gypsy in my travel-weary eyes, and the transitory friendship of a soldier going home to mourn his mom, then to return to war, with a gorgeous German woman sitting next to him on the plane - blond hair, blue eyes, fair skin, sweet smile - who gave such a warm embrace after sharing a 10 hour flight. She's hard to forget.  Traveling memories, fleeting scenes and a gallery of faces enter my mind, but they're more than memories: they are threads of a fabric that's as real as my combat uniform, as real as anything I can touch, and it has many strands that run through my life, a patchwork quilt with a few stains here and there. I'm working on a collection of short stories that give different perspectives of this war, through many different eyes, and they speak of these threads as well, these musical strings on the harp of nostalgia, these well-sewn desires within the carpet of human experience.   So I cook a lot. I clean the kids and cut their fingernails and toenails, I bathe them, feed them, hug them, tickle them, brush their hair, tuck them in, bring them to school, visit a lot of parks, think about them while I'm at work, worry about them when I'm not close. I put on the uniform 4 days a week and spend most of my time simply taking care of soldiers, supporting them the best I can from an administrative role. One weekend a month I put on the Battery Commander hat. It's getting more and more comfortable.  

And in between all of this, I wake up a little early, or stay up a little late, or open up a Word document as I eat a lunch I brought from home, sitting at my desk at work, and hack away at a story or a piece. And I'm humble about all this. It's become so important to me, so therapeutic, that I'll never stop. I just love to write, that's all. There is a theology in syntax, in diction, in the alphabet, those scribbled symbols of the story of our lives. My passion for the craft makes the reader reaction all the sweeter, because of course a writer wants his work to be read. What writer would want their work to be disliked? A writer is like a chef serving you the most perfectly seasoned meal - he wants you to enjoy the meal. The food tells a story. The spices create the setting. And the placemat is the past. Served all together, the experience is pleasing, communal, and leaves you wanting more.   

I'll wake up some days and, sitting at my desk with only the glow from my computer monitor lending ambience, and start a story by writing something like this:

      It was New Year's Day, 2006, but I had to do it. I had to shoot this guy. I was driving through downtown Ramadi, completely focused on my surroundings, scanning the tops of buildings for bad guys, and making sure no vehicles came too close. But here was this guy in a white truck looking all wide-eyed and moving towards my vehicle. I had warned him three different times now, in three different ways. He knows. Now he's looking all crazy-eyed, scaring the shit out of me, and steering his vehicle towards my HMMWV again. I think he's a suicide bomber. He sure is acting like he's driving a bomb. I won't let him get any closer. He's got about five seconds.

   I'm looking ahead at who's on the street because when I shoot this guy in the chest his vehicle will probably fly out of control. Street looks pretty clear. I tell my guys what's about to happen. Luckily I'm the last gunner in the convoy, and there's nobody behind us.

   I'm waving him off still. I don't want to do this. There is a huge sign in Arabic on the back of my vehicle that tells him deadly force is authorized, and not to come too close. He's already moved up beside me twice. He won't get another chance. I've tried to disable his vehicle by shooting at the grill, but somehow he's still moving. There is a .50 caliber machine gun aimed at his chest through his windshield. He sees my pointing it at him. I am also waving my hand at him to slow down, and using the blow horn to warn him off.

  He's accelerating again, trying to get up beside me. I pull the trigger, putting a quick two round burst through his windshield. As it shatters, his truck instantly loses speed and moves erratically towards the right side of the street. I lean down to tell my driver we need to stop and check him out, and just as I do, my world incinerates.

    I actually feel like I am in a video game for a moment. This can't be right. I feel myself flying through the air and land on the curb. I open my eyes. There's blood in them, so I wipe it away. I am barely able to get to my feet. The first four vehicles in my convoy are obscured by a large cloud of smoke. The next two are stopped, and smoking. My vehicle is upside down, leaning against a building. I begin to move towards it, but an RPG is fired at it, causing flames to form inside. I scream, and try to move my unsteady legs. I fall down and hit my head.

  I hear many voices around me. Rough voices, most of them, but I hear a woman's voice as well. I feel hands grabbing me, pulling my weapon away, and I can't stop them. Where is my team? Are there any witnesses?  Something strikes my head and I go black. I can't see or speak, but I feel hands lifting me up. It's like stage diving at a heavy metal concert, trusting the crowd to catch me and pass me back to the rear in safety. But right then I don't want to be limp, I want to run home. I want to plant both boots on the beach of the Persian Gulf and jump off, landing with one foot on Ireland only to jump again and dive across the Atlantic to land at the foot of a lighthouse on Maine's upper coast. Another hop and I'm back in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains, catching my breath, looking over my shoulder a lot, smiling at my children's scared and surprised faces.

   But I know this will not happen. I'm dropped hard on my back, and tthe air leaves me. The trunk I'm in is slammed shut.

Timothy Eves just sat there. He was a private, and he was manning a guard tower on a Forward Operating Base in Ramadi, Iraq. He was on  guard duty fpr twe;ve hous a day with one other soldier. Today it was Specialist McMurrin. There was a wall along a river signifying the outermost Eastern edge of the base. The tower was constructed of plywood, two-by-fours, and sandbags. It had no air conditioning, and was dirty with sand and dust.

   He could hear the lonely sound of the half dead palm tree brushing it's dry fronds against each other as if it were wiping its hands of dust. There was no solace there. The tree cast only a long, narrow shadow of shade, and even it was hot.

   It was July 2006, and he had been in Iraq for almost 12 months with an infantry battalion. Just yesterday a suicide bomber had killed one soldier, one marine, and 40 local Iraqis as they stood in line to sign up for the Iraqi Police force.

    He heard a HUMMV driving up behind the tower. He stood and stretched, throwing his butt out of the tower to land in a dry patch of dirty earth amidst other trash and cigarette butts within sight of the river.

    His sergeant left the HUMMV running and walked up the stairs.

 "What's up, Eves?"

  "Nothing to report, sergeant. There ain't shit going on out here." He said

 "That's a good thing, right?" he asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Listen, I'm going to rotate you off the tower for a couple of weeks, give you a break. You're going to be on some missions to escort the Iraqi Police recruits to their training in Baghdad. You'll mostly travel at night. You'll probably be a gunner. It's dangerous, but that's what you said you wanted."

  "Yeah, sergeant. I would like to get off the base. Actually see something besides these farmers.

  "Well, I don't think you should be volunteering to put yourself in danger. But you're a good troop. I'll hook you up, but stay on mission, alright? Don't screw around."

  "Roger that."

  "Well, you'll work tomorrow's graveyard, and that'll be it. We'll see how the missions go and I'll let you know when you're coming back on towers. Check or hold?"

  "Check. Thanks sergeant."

  "I've got you some hot chow in the truck. Come grab it."

     After his sergeant left, Private Eves ate the chow and then resumed chain-smoking within sight of the Euphrates. They say the Garden of Eden was within an hour of this place.

     He saw a young boy walking a herd of sheep towards the river. He pressed the binoculars to his eyes a couple of times, holding a Marlboro light between two fingers as he did. The boy in jeans and a non-descript t-shirt. Moving his lips every so often to say something to the sheep. The dry weeds by the river. The sage hue of the desert scape. "Get out of here, kid," he said in a low voice.

   Specialist McMurrin bummed a cigarette off of him.

   "You got a light?" McMurrin said.

    Eves passed him his zippo. It had Ramadi, Iraq written on the side of it, with a black scorpion superimposed behind it. The sound of it clicking open and then shut was clear and loud in the muted desert heat. The scuttling scrape of dust grinding between a metal spider's legs.

"The act of writing is an act of optimism. You wouldn't take the trouble to do it if you felt it didn't matter.                                  -Edward Albe

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