I mentioned my motorcycle last time and now this thought keeps interrupting my other thoughts, if you know what I mean. I can’t ever climb onto my bike, or usually even pass it in the garage, without remembering that medic on my, what was it, second or third day in-country. The one who was riding around the FOB on his Honda and got his leg blown off during an attack. There we all were crowding around the medevac bird telling him he was going to be okay, and him pleading and pleading for some drugs to knock him out.
I was embarrassed to admit I didn’t even know the dude’s name yet, so I wasn’t going to ask anybody about it, but I’ve never been able to get him out of my head, not even back here at home. So one day when I was out riding by myself I decided I’d come up with a name for him, and I started running through the alphabet, thinking up every name I could, until I came to one that felt like it fit him. I remember he was sort of thin and had sandy blond hair, and I also remember his eyes being a pale blue that most girls would kill for. And the name I gave him finally was Springer. Don’t ask me why, but when I heard it inside my head I thought, that’s it, he’s Springer.
I dream about him sometimes. I dream about the two of us riding up north into the big forests up there, cruising along in and out of the sunlight and shadows, riding parallel to the river with the sunlight shimmering like silver leaves in the ripples and rapids. He’s got both legs in those dreams, and he’s always got the biggest fucking grin on his face. And his name’s always Springer. I mean without a doubt, I never even question it, he’s always Springer in those dreams.
And we’re riding along side by side on our bikes, not a care in the world. Except that I’m watching him and thinking, the poor sonofabitch doesn’t have clue one about what’s going to happen to him.
Is that a weird dream to be having or what?
Sorry about how short my last e-mail was. Sometimes I get all, you know, emotional when I’m remembering stuff. When that happens I have to just lean away from the keyboard and get my shit together again. Don’t want to rain on the electronics, you know what I mean?
Anyway, I’ll go back to telling you about that morning the real story here actually started, and me riding the bike into work as usual even though a thunderstorm was in the forecast. My boss waited till after lunch that day to call me into the office. For some reason, the moment I heard my name coming through the loudspeaker, I knew it was the voice of doom calling. Truth is I’d felt funny all day, even before I’d left the house. There was a weird heaviness in my chest that morning, like I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs because they were already filled up with something else, with some kind of gray fog maybe that had settled into me during the night. But when I got to the plant that morning without being hit by a single drop of rain, I chalked the feeling up to nervousness about the weather, and told myself it was the air that was heavy, all that damp August air I’d sucked in because Cindy liked to sleep with the windows open.
Thinking back on it now, the only other time I had that feeling in my chest was in Mahmudiya. I remember waking up with that feeling for most of a week, and how all throughout the day I felt like I was pushing through water, like the sand under my feet was the ocean floor. This was in the second week of February—you know where I’m going with this? The city was full of Shia Muslims for that festival they call Arbaeen. I remember how strange it was to see people crawling through the streets on their hands and knees, all to show their allegiance to Muhammad’s grandson. But it was also damn impressive they could have so much respect for a guy who got beheaded a thousand years or so ago. The only thing people in this country might crawl through the streets for is a chance to win a big-screen TV.
Anyway, you kept reminding us to expect some kind of trouble, what with those millions of Shias in the city. “It’s supposed to be a really peaceful time for the Shias,” you told us, “but you can expect the Sunnis to see it as a prime opportunity to fuck up somebody’s day.”
Our squad was on security detail along the road leading up to the grandson’s shrine, just standing there watching and making our presence known. When the propane tank exploded it made this woo-whooom kind of sound, first the bomb itself and then, before you could even think, bomb!, the tank explosion. I felt the air punch into my ears and smack me in the face and then I went down hard on my ass. I never even noticed that shard of metal stuck in my interceptor vest until you pointed it out to me. Funny thing is, after you checked under my vest, then pulled out the hunk of metal and handed it to me and I saw there was no blood on it, my chest didn’t feel heavy anymore. That heavy fog feeling I’d had all week was gone. Except that now there were dozens of other people dead and dying, bleeding and crying and screaming, when all they’d wanted was to be peaceful and pray.
In any case, the heaviness I had that morning at the plant was like the first heaviness in Mahmudiya, not like the other one I get whenever I think about those dead pilgrims, or about Springer or Pops and my mother and Gee. I was doing my usual rounds, making sure everybody was busy, when out of nowhere my boss Jake’s amplified voice cut through the cloud of limestone dust like a kind of muffled explosion, but I felt its punch all the same. “Attention, Russell. Attention Russell Blystone. Please stop by the office before you clock out. Thank you.”