Oh How I Love It So...

Everyday at one point or another I'll stare out into space and somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind I can smell it. I can smell the dust, I can smell the nasty shit farts of all the GI's belting out the last remnants the steak and lobster we had at Salerno the other night. I can hear that low guttural hum coming from the patrol fueling back up next to the LZ.

I can feel the sweat rolling down my back. I can smell the cigarettes and piss emanating through the back door as I do believe that the only place in society today where smoking is not only tolerated, but accepted and even encouraged is in the military. Plus, the piss tubes are behind the "barracks", or the KBR Quonset huts that have contained our beds for the past few months.
I can feel the 550 cord tied around my wrist. Left over remnant of an overzealous platoon daddy who liked to take weapons while a motherfucker was sleeping.

I can feel the dust. Yeah, I'm back to the dust again. That god damned dust again. It gets into everything. Its on the sheets. Its on the floor...along with the funny looking skid mark left over from the lone 7.62 round that came crashing through the roof the other night. It never lets up, the dust. It is constantly rubbing your hands raw. Rubbing your face until its smooth, well except for the permanent layer of dust that is caked on your face...and everything else for that matter.

I hear the emmy award winning conversation coming from somewhere a few bunks down pertaining to the cost of butt sex in Bagram.
The fucking dust again. Its between my teeth now. So much so that every time I close my mouth I can feel and hear the fucking dust crunching between my teeth. I take a bottle of water from under the rack and swish it around in my mouth trying to get it out of there. Which only succeeds in relocating the bulk of the dust from my mouth to my stomach. I'm going to be shitting dust covered turds for a  year.

Then someone says something to me. Or the phone rings. Or some such shit. And I'm back. Back here. Watching some nonsensical TV show, or flogging the dolphin, or smoking a cigarette while the old bag across the street looks at me like I'm the devil himself. I can't help but wink at her.

Then a little bit of me feels a little twinge of guilt. What the fuck am I feeling guilty about? Hell if I know. For the life of me I still can't figure that one out. But the fact remains, I miss it. I miss it, because oh how I love it so...