Blood and Services Rendered
Strip-mall masajid and sketchy gas stations. The shitbox in front of me with Louisiana plates is about to lose its right rear wheel. A bus driver gives me the finger for making eye contact.
My commute is quiet. I’m in a pensive mood.
I’ve just stood in front of thirty-odd people, most of them veterans, and delivered a short career walk speech. The company’s attempt at a Veterans Day / Marine Corps Birthday celebration.
These events leave me feeling conflicted. On the one hand, I appreciate the community and camaraderie I would otherwise miss due to my introverted personality and general misanthropy. On the other, my service was far from pleasant.
I was an infantry Marine during a particularly rough period of operations in Afghanistan. Subsequent events and personal realizations left me angry, ashamed, and isolated.
I don’t agree with everything we did. Nor do I agree with the way we left. But I still take their check every month for blood and services rendered. A hypocrite through and through.
So many dead and gone, bleached bones in a desert or a tidy tombstone in a national cemetery.
For nothing.