April 09, 2009

Out of the Dust


Move it Buddy!

The soldier turned, he looked back into the eyes of a stumpy, irate Manhattan cabbie. His tweed cap sat squashed like a flat persimmon on his head and his mustashe twitched from side to side. The soldier stepped back in between the safety of the parked cars and the driver returned to his cab. He sighed watching the cab just inch past him at a crawling pace. He returned to the sidewalk with his bag and and swung it over his shoulder.

Watch it you jerk!

He turned once more this time, facing a woman in her mid twenties wearing dark sunglasses, holding a coffee and the leash of a small dog in one hand and in the other pressing the phone up to her head.
You almost made me spill my triple mocha frappacino!
He stood aside, apologized and walked.

He served in Iraq, that damn war. All guts, no glory, it's all for this? To be disrespected in your own home? He came back from a place where people shot at him, to defend the so-called rights of the people there. The same people who are like our people. The same jerks and shits. Here, he felt alienated. Here, it was no better than in Iraq.

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