Cemetery Street, John Zunski [read any book TXT] 📗

now, a crowd formed.
I taunted her as she jumped, her short, stocky frame failing to reach my outstretched hand. “Give it to me you prick,” she screamed.
I lowered the envelope, waved it in front of her, only to raise it when she lunged. “I already did, and now you’re knocked up.”
Jenny’s beady eyes glowered. Her right foot found its mark. I crumpled to the ground. Laughter erupted as I brought my knees to my chest. I cursed in agony. Jenny snatched the envelope. For good measure, she kicked my lower back and then my ass, before storming off.
From that day on, Jenny was known as The Nutcracker. My new nickname was Mouse. Lucas said it was because how I squealed after Jenny’s foot found paydirt. On a positive note, I only had two months of public humiliation before graduation.
Two months after graduation, world events happened. Our little corner of Cemetery Street would never be the same. August 2nd, nineteen ninety isn’t an infamous day. But it did begin a downward spiral that twisted through January 16th, and March 2nd, nineteen ninety-one and culminated on December 19th, nineteen ninety-eight. How I wish those dates could be just meaningless days in my pathetically petty life.
“Did you watch the news?” Shannie asked on August 2nd.
“No.”
“Iraq invaded Kuwait.”
“So?”
“There’s going to be a war.”
“What’s the big deal?” As time passed, I understood her emotion. Count was in the middle of the mess. So began our vigil; CNN our alter.
“Trust me, good old Mr. Thousand points of light isn’t going to sit by and watch Saddam suck up the oil.
“That’s the first step,” Shannie proclaimed when President Bush announced an embargo of Iraq. “But that’s not good enough!” Days later as the European Community and the U.N. announced like embargoes. Shannie told the television, “Bush is lining up the dominos, it’s a matter of time before he tips them.”
What really had Shannie upset was Count not returning phone calls. “He’s not getting my messages,” she lamented. “Why else wouldn’t he return my calls?”
“Maybe he’s busy preparing for war,” I said. Shannie scowled. “He is a soldier; war is his job.”
“You’re an asshole!”
I shrugged and returned my attention to CNN. News broke that the Saudi’s invited United States military forces into the kingdom. In the days following, Shannie and I watched endless flights of men and materiel head for Saudi Arabia.
The morning of August 17th began like any other. I crawled out of bed, took a quick glance at the Ortolan house, and stumbled into the shower. I had a busy day at work. We had two funerals. Two graves needed to be opened and sealed. Working for Bear wasn’t bad, the pay sucked, but grave digging wasn’t a career - just a way to earn a few bucks before starting community college. Since the Iraqi business started, Bear was testy. I can’t blame him, we all were. In Fernwood, it was impossible not to feel tension lurking behind every tombstone. Considering the juxtaposition of his and his only child’s professions, I’m sure Bear couldn’t escape the obvious conclusion - I couldn’t.
Such thoughts filled my head as I made breakfast. The phone rang, breaking my trance. “Jesus Christ Morrison, you always so pleasant in the morning?” Count asked.
“Hey dude! What’s up?”
“You a moron?” he laughed. “Haven’t been watching the news?”
“What a pisser, I….”
“We missed Panama, we not missing this one.”
“Cool,” I answered stupidly.
“Morrison, I can’t talk long, listen up. We’re shippin’ out for Saudi in a few hours. I want you to look after Flossy, you hear? She’s going to be a nervous wreck. Tell her I’m fine. Tell her not to listen to all the negative bullshit on the news. We’re pro’s doing a pro’s job.” Count paused as heavy equipment rumbled by. “Take care of Ortolan,” he resumed. “She’s too smart for her own good. But she’s fragile. When I get back, I’m going to sit you two down and have a talk about the ways of the world.”
“Yeah,” I smiled.
“Good. We don’t have to worry about Mrs. O. And my old man can handle himself. Don’t let me down, I don’t want to hear about any problems at home when I’m in the desert, or I’ll come back and straighten you out. You hear me?”
“Sir. Yes, sir,” I mocked.
“Good. Don’t panic when you don’t hear from me, far as I know there ain’t no phones in the desert. I promised Shannie I’ll write her every chance I get. Don’t take it personal if you don’t hear from me. I promised too much agreeing to write Ortolan. I’m sure she’ll show you my letters.”
“Will do,” I answered.
“If your grandfather could see me now - patch and all.”
“He’d be proud of you,” I said. “If he was alive, he’d buy you a beer.”
His tone turned somber. “You’ve been like the brother I never had. If anything happens to me, help Bear take care of things. You make sure everybody is okay.”
“Sure thing,” I answered.
“Cool,” he repeated. “I have to run. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck; give’ em hell.”
“Good-bye James,” he said.
“Godspeed dude,” I answered.
The line went dead.
Godspeed? I questioned the persistent dial tone. Where the fuck did that come from? I stared at receiver. It wasn’t part of my vocabulary. A sour taste settled in my mouth as I returned the receiver to its cradle. Count never said Good-bye, ever!
I spent many late summer and early autumn evenings in my perch, gazing past rows of gravestones towards the converted chapel. I witnessed the dying sun pursued across the cemetery by dusk’s melancholy gray. Each night, the security light atop the maintenance shed light flickered on, a lone sentinel against eternal blackness.
He’ll be all right, I tried convincing myself. As desert shield drug on, my doubts deepened. Hope seemed fleeting as the late autumn sun.


Chapter 11 Letters

Among the greatest of Shannie’s accomplishments was haranguing Count into journaling his experiences during Desert Shield/Desert Storm. In school, Count never wrote a single paper. I have it on good information he paid Shannie to write his. Count wasn’t Harvard material, but he wasn’t anyone’s idiot. He’s letters prove he didn’t apply himself in school – he applied himself at life.
Count’s letters are treasures. Now a days, when I make it home, its tradition to sit about Diane’s kitchen table and reread Count’s words. We’re blessed with the opportunity to glimpse the possibility life once promised, if only we had the energy to recapture its elusiveness.
We share bittersweet laughs seeing how Count struggled not to let his trash mouth run amok. I’ve edited out most of his four letter words while trying to maintain his personality. As his letter writing campaign progressed, scribbled out profanities became less-frequent. Here’s an example of how his letters would have read: We arrived in fucking country yesterday. We flew into fucking Dhahran, King Fucking Fahd… To quote Count: “You get the picture?”

Count’s Letters:

Dear Shannie, August 19th, 1990

We arrived in country yesterday. We flew into Dhahran, King Fahd International Airport. On the flight, some idiot started a rumor that we’d have to come off the plane gun’s blazing; that the Iraqi’s would be waiting. When we landed, I guess you can say that we unloaded with our asses blazing. Stepping out of the plane was like stepping into a clothes dryer. Somebody said it was 142 on the tarmac, 128 on the desert floor. I don’t know if that’s true. Whatever it was, I never felt heat like this before. I feel like a stick of butter in a skillet. I’m telling you, all you do is sweat. Get a load of this shit, we have orders to drink eight gallons of water a day. You read me right! Eight gallons - a person- a day. I don’t know about anyone else, but this is one order I won’t have a problem following. I never thought I could piss so much. I feel like a walking water recycling factory.
And if the heat ain’t bad enough, the flies are freaking atrocious. They’re national bird of Saudi Arabia. Imagine the Russian Jew’s junkyard in mid-July, times it by a million. You get the picture? And if the flies ain’t bad enough there’s this dust, an engineer buddy of mine says it’s from marl being ground by trucks and boots, it gets on everything; it sticks to you like flour. Mix that dust and heat and you kind of feel like you’re in a baker’s oven. Other than that, this place is great - better than Hawaii! You really need to contact a travel agent and book a flight. You don’t know what you’re missing. Do me a favor and tell everyone I’m fine. Phones are scarce so I doubt I’ll be calling anyone.

Count

PS. This letter thing ain’t too bad. I don’t think I’ll have a problem writing home like you asked. Hell, I think I’m going to need to. Keep me from going nuts.


Shannie, August 26th, 1990

This place is the twilight zone!. We didn’t step out of a plane into Saudi. We stepped out into hell! In hell there ain’t no fire and brimstone, there’s sun, dust and flies. Remember the Amityville horror? The one with all the flies - that’s almost as bad as this dung pile. And the heat, it presses so hard against you, you feel claustrophobic in the wide open desert. You best say your prayers girl, ‘cause if you don’t, when you croak, you going to find yourself in Saudi Arabia.
The fan belts, that’s what we call the Saudis, are building this tent city for us. These tents are called Hajs, they use these things for the pilgrims who visit Mecca. Other than keeping out the sun, I wouldn’t use ‘em for toilet paper, the goddamn things are cheap. When a wind blows up, the tents blow away. I guess it’s the fan belts way of telling us to hurry the hell up and get the job done.
There’s a lot of mistrust between the Saudi’s and us. Because of the terrorist threat, they’re only permitted to work under the eyes of our MPs. I guess they think we’re going to like corrupt their morals, rape their women or soil their sand or something. I mean they’re always throwing you the evil eye, lets you know that they don’t like us being here, but they’re also smart enough to know the alternative is worse. One thing I like about those fuckers is this rule they have with each other. When they’re standing up the hajs, and they go about hammering the stakes into the ground, if one of them smashes the other guy’s hand with the sledge, they switch spots, you know, the spotter becomes the sledge swinger and the sledge swinger becomes the spotter, pretty clever if you ask me. I think the army should take note, if officers fuck up, they should switch spots with some of us NCOs, that’ll learn their asses.
Other then that, it’s typical army bullshit. You know, hurry up and wait. And waiting means you can stand around for hours scratching your nuts. You always said racing to the red light. You pegged army life. Rumors run wild, most of them so buku crazy even a piss on like me knows they’re full of shit. Every night a new one circulates that tonight’s the night the Iraqis cross the border.

Count

PS. I figure you’d want to know why we call the Arabs fan belts. It’s ‘cause of that rubber thing they wear to keep their headdress in place. Get this, one retard in my squad insists the headdresses