fic: When You're Happy Like a Fool (let it take you over) Stafford/Christeson 1/1
Title: When You’re Happy Like a Fool (let it take you over)
Rating: R
Pairing: Christeson/Stafford
Word Count: 7,251
Spoilers: I don’t think so.
Summary: A series of letters stateside to the Middle East before and after the DADT repeal. They start with “Dear John” but end with “I love you”.
Author's Note: I fell for them hard and I love how they live in my head now. I will go down with this ship~ Gracias to my superb beta and inspirational help
x187x and
amelia_17 for suffering through my quest to find a title. <3
Dear John,
Hah, shit man, that's just the way you want a letter to start. Nah, for real though, it's hot as fuck out in this desert. I'm sure you remember how that go: four days no shower, sand in my face, wind at my ass, and I can smell all our funk. Screwby!!! Fuck if that hasn't given away our position yet. Hajis don't smell or they're tired of smelling they own stank so it just don't matter no way.
Mom bootlegged me the new Madea flick. That shit is wack. Felt good to watch a flick though, just me and forty of my best friends and our ball sweat. Don't get jealous, I stepped outside before the circle jerk got goin.
This shit sucks without you. You should reup and come for a visit. You ain't busy for the next four years was ya? That's what I thought. The heat have me trippin. Stay where you at. 3 months, 2 weeks, 6 days and I'll be at your doorstep. If you start the shower for me now it may just be hot enough to get the job done.
So, tomorrow is the big day. Sept 20th. I really think some shit will happen between now and midnight. Don't know why, but just a feeling. Been writing these letters all slick and boring as fuck for so long. I don't know how to get to it. Why the hell we continents apart and oceans and stars and shit. I've been tryin to check out the moon and think how you're checkin out the same one. But I know you ain't lookin during the day and that's pretty much my night. So what we see the same fuckin moon, you know? Millions other motherfuckers be seeing it, too… not a damn one of them I give a shit about. So how does it help if we look at the same damn moon. Fuck the man in the moon, I'd rather just see you and be done with it. No skype at this post is killing me. No email. No fucking fun of no kind. Anyway - Now, DADT is gone (in a few hours) and if that actually goes down, I be sending this. If not, burning it and burying it out here in the buttfuck hillside of sand.
Shit's easier in a way loving a dude. In the AO, I spray on your cologne and no one thinks a damn thing. Ain't no one the wiser that I got your PT shirt stowed in my ruck. If I get my face blown off, I guess someone will find out. Then it doesn't fucking matter and I want them all to know I died a hero and sucked your dick when I wasn't winning this war. I hope this shit happens. DADT going away, I mean. Instead of getting a ride to the crib, I can meet you when the plane hits the tarmac. I be knockin your out-of-shape ass down too, kissin the shit out of those big ass lips of yours, and -- just wear your Kevlar man that's all I'm saying.
Got a lot of time to think. Our watches are bullshit - the other night we was all awake -25% my ass. Desert is bullshit. It's hot and you ain't here at my 3. I miss that. I don't mean to get gay or nothing, but baby, I miss your eyes and your laugh. That mad dimple you got in your cheek. Your Eddie Munster hair line, too. I got time to think about bein back and how we'd chill. Close my eyes and I'm right back there with you, back at home or posted up on your squeaky ass bed at yo moms. Screwby man. Kinda pissed off I only got a week on that cali king before I stepped off. I miss clean sheets and ceiling fans. Miss you stealin the covers on a cold night. Don't even try to deny it. I caught you so many times.
Tomorrow gonna be different. Ain't no one gonna ask, but I could tell if I want. Just tell me if you changed your mind now that it's here. I be waiting for you to get back at me. Damn, time don't go by worth a damn. I been at this half hour and just write in circles about this and that. Remember back in the day, we make up songs after we wore out all the beats and rhymes? That one song we made up about Mr. Potato Head. I be comin in backup just beat boxing and sayin police that, police that. No one knows that song this time around. Sgt Major ain't even here neither. Wish though, the new one is a hardass and ain't even shit to make fun of. He ain't retarded whiskey tango backwoods deliverance style.
Tell me everything, tho. How's Lil Mama and the puppies? You found any homes? Wish I'd gotten to mess with them. When they little they a trip, but next time I guess. I want to find a Blue pit to breed her with next time. I been thinkin about Aladdin a lot and maybe we can keep a blue pup out of a litter and make Aladdin 2. I miss his dopey old ass, but it is what it is.
Other than dogs (you a good baby daddy) what's up in your world? Got a raise yet so you can afford to keep me when I get back? You know I expect ice and shit on the regs. Maybe some new rims for the caddy - oh and a caddy would be good too. I'm getting some extra pay for hazard coming up. I ain't gonna get in to why, but I made that paper, boo. I'm sending you extra next month. Pay off what you can I guess and I'll try to get combat pay or something soon. Too bad I don't get paid by the boot for the young ones I school. How they make it out of Rangers I just don't know. You ever think I'd be a Sgt? I didn't. This shit wears me out. I heard they want us out this bitch, but we haven't even done this thang. We ain't even been briefed for real. We was just told it got said in the news a hundred times again. Probably let us know the night before we gotta pack a whole camp and base and poof back to USA.
Baby, it hurts being apart. I got your pic up inside my Kevlar and I just took a quick peak. Made me miss ya all over again, missin you rotten. Is that too gay? It's getting gay, isn't it. Yeah, I'll chill out. Serious, though, just 3 more months and I'm back home. I want a real mission before then. I'm sick of just patrol and drive, patrol and drive, guard my sector, and all that. I miss TV and Xbox. I just want a long game of Madden, a cold beer or 16, you at my 3 and dogs at my feet. Buy them some pig ears for me and give em one from daddy. Oh, some pictures would be good too. I don't know how long I'm out here for no phone and not net. Still get real mail though. Ain't that a bitch.
Letters already too damn long. This is how bored I am. I don't even have shit to talk about. Write me something good. Something so good I can read it over and over for days and not get tired. My boys are sweatin me and why I won't come off my rack. Should tell them 'because I'm writing a fine ass motherfucker, now stow it. I'll be done when I'm done.' Hah, the half-past-pog just asked if I was hittin up my lady... sorta, junior. If you still want to put this out there, I'm going to make that kid shit himself. Yeah, I think it's cool.
I love you shawty.
Evan
***
Maybe it’s just that Christeson’s had a long day starting from waking up at 6, getting in a jog that ended in sloshing through ten straight minutes of a pouring rain, then going to work, staying an hour late, getting home to find the bathroom where the puppies live wrecked, cleaning that, finally getting dinner, and just wanting bed and quiet - or maybe it’s what his reaction would have been anyway. John’s got tears running down his cheeks, pooling at his chin, wetting his neck and gray tee shirt. He’s sitting on the loveseat clutching the paper with the handwritten words like if he lets go it will evaporate or something.
Lil Mama, the 3 year old red nosed pit bull that Q-tip and Christeson adopted together, meanders from the spot she’d taken halfway between him and the kitchen. She rests her chin on his knee and looks up at him. He lets one side of the letter go and strokes the top of her broad head and scratches behind her ears. She’s a fawn color with some white markings on her chest, feet and head. She doesn’t have papers, but she’s obviously a purebred dog. So, even though it’s sketchy and looked down upon, they let her breed with another purebred and will get a pretty good chunk of change for her puppies.
“Your other papa wrote me a letter. He told me to get you treats and love on you.” John told Lil Mama, smirking at the ridiculousness of talking to his pet as though he were really updating her.
Lil Mama, tipped back her head and he withdrew his hand. She gave it a fast clip with her tongue and then another.
“Thanks, mama. You’re a good girl. Yeah you are,”
He knew she couldn’t understand him, but she could judge his body language and probably smell that he came home stressed and now had loneliness and sadness on top. So he gave her another pet and stood up, with letter in hand he walked over to the computer desk and looked around it for any kind of paper to write on. He shoved aside packages from computer programs stacked in the nook - TurboTax, Doom, Wolfenstein, an old copy of Oregon Trail that wouldn’t even run. He came up with a rubber band ball, two packages of Post-Its, paperclips in a box, and a miniature legal pad for grocery lists or something like that. With a sigh he took a stack of paper from the printer, swiped a black gel pen from the pen cup on another shelf of the desk and walked off in a daze to the kitchen. Lil Mama followed behind dutifully, the ID tag, license and shots tags all jingling together announcing her distance and speed.
Christeson turned on the light and dropped the pen and paper on the table. He looked up to the microwave above the stove and made a face looking down at Lil Mama.
“Your kids need to grub. I hate to be the one to do this, but it’s that time again,”
Either the mother dog pretended not to understand or had slipped into complete denial, because she followed him off to the bathroom where the puppies stayed during the day. He had this irrational fear that one would get its head stuck in the metal work of the crate that they were supposed to share with their mother. He let them have it at night because they kept the crate in the bedroom and he’d wake up for a distress call, but at work he just didn’t want to risk it.
Christeson opened the door to chaos, as usual. The pups could definitely hear him coming and all shoved up against the door when he tried to open it. Lil Mama trotted in, the darkest brown puppy squirmed past her legs and made for the space between his feet in a bid for freedom. He bent and caught the puppy easily. The white and black patched puppy was working on the same strategy, but he nudged him back with his foot until he changed direction. Mama did a turn on the big blanket in the center of the floor and lay down, then flopping onto her side to give the pups access to nurse. She looked pretty put off by the whole thing and sighed deeply. Christeson gave the brown escape artist a kiss on the top of the head and put the pup down facing his mother’s belly.
“Alright then, I’ll come back when it’s time to hit the rack,”
He shut the door to the bathroom and strolled back into the kitchen, his legs feelings as tired as his back and his mind. He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and dropped into it before looking down at the blank paper and pen. He took the letter he’d gotten and spread the pages out in front of him, looking them over. He started to read the letter over again from the beginning and took his pen in hand.
Q-tip
Evan,
I got your letter today. I figure I should tell you that it poured rain so maybe this letter will bring some of that with it. Hah, yeah right. No way is that happening. I remember the desert vacation all too well. But your tan will be badass and mine will be a disgrace. Then you can call me pasty, wonder bread, cracka-boo, and all the other pet names mocking my skin that you like. I bet that brings a smile to your face just reading it. And yeah, I imagined you smirkin in my head, poppin off with a ‘Screwby’ affirmative.
I know I should get to the kids and how they’re doin. Lil Mama is the best mom ever. I’m still mixing her grub with puppy chow so she stays fattened up and the puppies don’t suck her dry. I didn’t believe you about how fast she’d lose weight. I thought you were being dramatic. I fed her like normal and within a week she had ribs poking through. I changed my game up real quick. I was not about to get shwacked over a dog when you came back home. She’s fattened up now. No harm done.
She’s so over the whining that they do and how greedy they get so I leave them locked up and let her run around so she can do her own thing for a few hours when I get home. I can’t leave them all in the big crate in our room when I’m at work. Not until they get bigger heads that won’t fit through the bars. I’m so afraid I’ll come home and one’ll be stuck with his head out and strangled or something.
There’s five puppies in the litter. I’m not going to get attached by giving them names, but I had to call them something so I just went with code: alpha, bravo, tango - 3 boys, Juliet and Sierra - 2 girls. Alpha was born first and he’s white with some black patches, on his back, his butt and one big patch on his right eye, ear and head. Alpha is not really the alpha dog though. He’s the pothead dog, real chill. Bravo is brown, one white batch from his chest that goes down to his belly. He’s going to probably get sold first. His nose is red like Lil Mamas and his eyes are blue. Yeah he’s definitely getting sold first. He’s the alpha male, I’m pretty damn sure. Tango is white and brown, kind of like Alpha with the patches, but brown instead of black. He’s got brown eyes I think. Tango is the first one to try to escape when I’m putting them in the crate at night. He’s got the schedule all figured out. So whoever gets him better lock all their shit up or he’s taking over. Juliet is the runt, she came out last and I did have to bottle feed her the first night and next day to get her started. I got pissed at Tango’s punk ass for knocking her off the teat. When they were all real small she would just fumble around and not get back on. So, I had to school his ass in treating his sister with some courtesy. She’s still a little smaller than the others, but I don’t think it’s going to be too long before she’s caught up. She’s brown like Bravo, but she’s got light brown or amber or some not black not blue not green color eyes. You know how I mean. Dog eyes are hard to describe. Last, there’s Sierra. Sierra is white. I thought she was albino, but nope, now that she’s getting older I’m seeing real light fawn on her back so I don’t know what the hell is going to happen with her. And she’s another one with brown eyes. Brown nose but it’s looking a little pink, too. Seriously, what the hell is happening? She’s the only one having these fur color change issues.
I put Lil Mama back in the bathroom with them so I could write you. She just got down on the floor and sighed like this was some damn bullshit I was putting her through. I thought that was funny. She’s 100% mom now - tired of the bullshit but still lovin her kids. Anyway, that’s what’s up with the kid and her kids. Not to be full of gay, but does that make us grandpas? I mean, sort of right? I know you can’t stand when I say Mama is our kid, but she really is. She knows when I’m bummed out and she comes over and gives me kisses or puts her head on me like “Yeah, let it out, just let it all out. Me too,”. I miss you. She misses you.
Now, about the moon in your letter. First, I laughed my ass off. You are such a hater. How about this - I don’t know where you are so this is just a guestimate - when it’s 9am for me it’s going to be 7pm for you (the next day, you time traveler). So, from now on, 1600 Zulu time - I’ll stop what I’m doing and take a good look at the moon and you can look at the moon, because it should be dark there by 7. Look at that initiative, I should get a promotion for problem solving the pithy staring at the same moon romantic gesture. Don’t talk shit even though I know you are. You know it was a beautiful thing that happened just now.
Yo, I have all these pictures around me all day every day. I’ve wanted to pull some off the wall or off the shelves. I’m saying it’s hard for me, too. At least, you can take solace that I’m probably not getting shot at every day. Before you bow up let me be clear. I don’t worry about you handlin yo’ bidniz, but I worry that some POG or some dick idiot in command will fuck up and get you shot or whatever. Fuck, I’m going to knock on wood and donate some money to charity in your name. I’ll give a few bucks to PetSmart. I hate thinking I jinxed you, but I didn’t, because that’s stupid. Just Stay Frosty like ol’ SSG Colbert used to say. I guess we can call him Gunny Colbert. I do love that you are probably on a legit mission now or gonna be going on some. Oh, yeah, the point of all that - I thought about taking down the pictures because somehow it’s worse seeing your face around here, but not seeing you. The things I miss most is no more humming in the shower, beatboxing to pass the time on the throne, or hearing you laugh or clown other people.
DADT is gone gone gone. I could put your picture on my desk in a fuckin’ fierce frame if I wanted. No fucking thank you. The wallet version is bad enough, it’s that picture we took on libo after the first tour together and didn’t know what the hell I was getting myself into. Anyway, you’re drunk and I think I am, too. I can’t remember these pictures being taken so I guess I was… We were sitting at this table with all these spent bottles and glasses. It looks like a massacre of barware on this table and you put your arm around me for the picture. Even though I don’t really remember the picture being taken, I remember later on when we got back to the hotel - okay roach motel I’ll be honest - I followed you in your room because I was drunk to the point of not wanting to be alone. I don’t know if you remember it, because nothing actually happened that night, but I think that helped me along knowing how I felt and if maybe you’d feel that way, too. You were so cool about it and didn’t punk me for being a bad drunk. We slept sheets and blankets, just like two chicks at a sleepover. Hope that didn’t offend your warrior spirit, but it’s true, we kind of did. Had Taco Bell for breakfast because it wasn’t until 2pm that we woke up. That’s the picture I’m carrying around that reminds me how good I have it. I only look at it when I need to and try not to torture myself because it doesn’t bring you back sooner.
It hurts like fuck having you gone. The house is quiet even with 5 puppies. Sometimes I see some crazy shit in the paper or on TV or just hear about it from whoever. I want to tell you, have you get your skinny ass in the room to watch it go down, or text you, but I can’t. That really sucks. I cannot even believe I got a legit handwritten letter like folks did in Vietnam or WW 1 and 2, but it made my fucking day. I was miserable not being able to talk to you even just by shitty emails that are all coded. Skype taunts me when I have to get on the computer for something. When you get back to base I think you should definitely order your platoon the fuck out of the barracks and get some QT on Skype. Just a suggestion.
So fuck you a little bit for writing me because now I’m going to be sweatin the mailman like an asshole. Whatever. Oh and fuck you, because I read the letter twice already and I love you and I miss you. Why the fuck can’t three months get here already. And by the way, fuck yes I am meeting you at the tarmac and I will straight up kiss you and let you take me down. I love how this letter started out all proper and sweet and now I’m swearing non-stop and writing in rainbows. I saw the new Madea, too. Your mom told me on facebook to watch it. Your mom will not leave me alone on facebook by the way. She wants to farm with me, run a mafia with me, and I think you may need to call her when you get back to the land of the living. I love your mom, but she got kind of spoiled with getting at you over the internet. Take that away and it’s like holy shit. This isn’t your first rodeo, either. What the fuck was she like during OIF?
This letter is long as hell and I don’t even think I’ve said anything. Just rambled on and on about dogs and moons and pictures and emo bs. I’ll cut you a mixtape, but I’m going to mail this off in the morning. I want it to get there fast so I’ll just keep it a letter. Uh, what else do I need to say. OH SHIT. DRAMA OF THE HOOD. You wanted entertainment, baby, I got it for ya.
Straight the fuck up, how does this shit even happen, (see, now you know it’s going to be screwby) but the whiskey tangos next door had their fucking lemon tree catch fire. You better believe I was a pissed off PTSD ball of rage that day. Helped put it out and they’re not even thanking me. Well, fuck them anyway, because I did it to protect our yard and our shit and OUR house not their fucking hovel disguised as suburban. Then they’re asking where the other guy is (you) and I just shook my head because didn’t they make the big fucking deal of staring when you got picked up to report? I fucking remember they did with their goddamn whiskey tango lawn chairs and beers on the porch like its fucking cool on a Tuesday morning. Are you shitting me! So, I guess they thought you deuced out or something and we had a big gay breakup ??? and so of course they wanted all the details. All I said to that was Evan is at fucking war right now so that’s why he’s not here to help put out your tree fire. God as my witness I stepped to them like that. THEY STILL DIDN’T SAY “oh by the way thanks for that. Thanks for jumping the fence and pulling your hose over and using your water to help.” Nope. Not a goddamn thing. I throw the hose back over to our yard and then it gets even more trippy. The ‘lady of the house’ and I use the term loosely (hah) asked about the puppies. I said they were doing just fine. She asks if they’re full pit. I sort of wondered if she’d send someone or break in herself and jack them based on my answer, but she’s too stupid to plan that out. Her old man chimes in to ask IF I AM GIVING THEM AWAY! I just walked off. I let myself out into the front yard and double timed in. No, I’m really not giving away free fucking purebred puppies especially not to douchebags who catch lemon trees on fire. The best part of this story is that it was their goddamn teenage delinquent daughter. How does a whiskey tango prostitot set a tree on fire, you ask? Oh, what a great question, babe. Here’s how: you take lighter fluid from your zippo. You pour on tree. You light tree with zippo. (I am impressed she didn’t set herself on fire though). You stand amazed that fire will burn off igniting the fluid that makes fire in your fucking lighter (Goddamn what kind of high schools are around this place!) and then don’t put it out when it starts to get bigger than anticipated. Again, it’s fucking wood, fire and fuel - I’m not a economist, but I think that may all mean something. So she booked it. Hindsight, I do wish I’d call the popo. Let me just go on record as saying that. Because if she goes off the deep end and becomes a pyro that might be something the law would need to know about. Oh well.
I hope that story entertained you. So, I guess now you can worry about the house catching fire while I worry about you taking heavy fire. Seems like a fair trade. Right now I’m pretty safe. The dumb bitch ran away. I hate our neighbors. The other neighbors are cool. Remind me of Poke and his wife, or LT. and Gunny. Hah. Ohhhhh Shit! I need to take pictures of the pups for you. I have some from when they were born that I was going to email. I’ll take some tonight and print both sets before I send this tomorrow. I’ll try to get a picture of the burnt tree, too. You know those lazy shits didn’t cut it down.
I miss you so much. I love you. (but having the whole bed and all the covers is still the shit)
Your better half, John
Night patrol of the perimeter had its advantages and drawbacks just like virtually all the assignments and protocol in the military - except maybe libo. Q-tip had taken two men with him that night. They all had properly powered NVGs and while the encampment had several watch checkpoints to keep the 50% watch, it didn’t hurt to have a patrol circle oscar mike from checkpoint to checkpoint. A usual perimeter sweep would take anywhere from an hour to a hour and a half. This time, they’d encountered a situation, an actual honest to God situation that required attention, and it had been a four hour ordeal.
Q-tip, Martinez, and Washington returned exhausted, annoyed and about twenty minutes from missing morning chow. Sleepy, sore, muscle weak and just plain cranky, Q-tip shepherded his Corporal and Private First Class along to the chow line, forced them to imbibe nutrition and hydration with him. They barely talked and ate out of necessity, not enjoying even the normalcy and reprise from activity. Sleep drunk they shuffled back to the makeshift tent composed of cammie nets and some canvas for marginally functional flaps to keep out flurries of sand. The fourth member of their victor lay curled in his ranger grave, poncho pulled up tight around him.
“Sergeant,” a Marine from Team 2, the gunner, nicknamed Banner -in reference to the Hulk’s alter ego, Bruce Banner - nodded at Q-tip from his spot, sitting with M-16 cradled, on the back of the humvee. Banner had come over when Q-tip had drawn the good luck of running the patrol in the humvee for the encampment that night. He'd only come over to rotate on 50% watch with Smith, the snoring private in the ranger grave.
“Banner,” Q-tip returned the short-hand form of a good morning, “When did Smith -“
“Oh-800, sergeant,”
Q-tip sighed and looked over at Martinez and Washington, standing over their respective holes, looking at them longingly.
“Go ‘head,” Q-tip nodded, sleepily waving them off at their graves, “I’ll wake you up for rotation and take the first watch,”
“Sergeant Stafford,” Banner interjected, a little above a whisper, “I just took watch for Smith. I’ve had 4 hours. My TL assigned me to provide relief when he heard that your patrol got held up. You look like hell,”
Q-tip’s dimple in his left cheek made a serious indent and he tried to shake it off.
“Nah, you get on mayn. I’ll let them have some hours. We back.”
“It’s no problem. Your patrol ran late. When’s the last time you slept, sarge?”
Usually, a subordinate in this situation should have nodded affirmative and abandoned his post, returned to his victor and team, but Banner had the density of solid granite and the balls of a bull.
Q-tip regarded him with a slight nod.
“Hour tops. That’s an order,” he told Banner, holding his gaze on him a half beat longer to emphasize his point.
Banner nodded clearly pleased with himself and his CO’s acceptance of his judgment. “Yes, sir,”
In an hour, Q-tip woke to a shake and the sound of his rank and surname.
“Sergeant Stafford,”
He forced both eyelids to lift and looked up, squinting against light filtering in through the cammy net.
“Smith?”
“I was told to roust you,”
He lifted his wrist and looked at his watch. Banner had doled him out four hours rather than one. He let out a low growl and pushed himself up to sitting.
“I told Banner just an hour.” Q-tip mumbled more to himself than Smith. “Cocky shit,”
Smith stood up from where he’d been squatting beside Q-tip’s grave. Q-tip rubbed his face, reached for his Kevlar helmet and felt a pat on his thigh. He looked down and saw a small manila envelope with air mail tape wrapped around the lip of the envelope and enclosure. His frown lifted at the corners of his lips and broadened into a grin.
“Mail call came while you were asleep,” Smith explained.
Q-tip ignored him. He had deduced that he’d been delivered some mail while he was out cold trying to recoup all the energy the night before had stolen.
“That be all?” Q-tip asked, slipping further into his usual vernacular than he usually allowed himself to around his men.
“Oh,” Smith replied, flustered, “Yeah, yes,”
As Smith wandered away, Q-tip simply shook his head and took the envelope in hand, flipping it over to read the front and get an idea of what he was in for - legal papers, letter bomb, or maybe the correspondence he’d been waiting every day for since he mailed off his long letter. He scanned the top left corner and his grin expanded to a full toothy grin when he read “CHRISTESON” in block letters meticulously sculpted with a Sharpie.
Q-tip withdrew his KA-BAR from it’s sheath at his side and snickered, using it to efficiently incise the tape and make a slit across the top fold in the envelope. He peered into the open envelope and saw a stack of pictures and bundle of papers folded in half. He took out the papers first and then turned over the envelope, pouring out the pictures into his hand. Filling out reports be damned, he devoured the pictures and letter reading it twice and pawing through the pictures a good three times before standing up, dusting off, and heading toward the LT’s victor.
***
Dear John,
Yup, that opener is still fucking funny to me. Today, I delegated the shit out of my authority. I had to make a report the size of a phonebook form by form today. Last night we had this wack shit go down. No casualties and that’s all the good out of it. My eyes be crossed and my right fingers sting writing. I’ll try with my left. So don’t laugh like it got wrote by a fourth grader. I gotta get at you with this now while it’s fresh.
Alpha, Bravo, Tango, Sierra and Juliet are the best codenames for the puppies. But you still named all of them just with Phonetic Alphabet of all the shit, you nerd. So you’re probably already attached and basically, you’re fucked now. Try not to get depressed after you send them off with new owners. We’ll have more (ugh, grandkids) when I get back and we can set Lil Mama up with a new boyfriend. Oh, you keep Tango’s punk ass in line. I don’t need him starving Juliet out into retardation and then we gotta keep her because she’s all jacked up. Bravo is definitely going first. I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t fetch a quarter extra of what we’re askin. Now, about Sierra - this is the deal. She’s got real light fawn coming in. That happens when they’re real light skinned and as they’re growing their pigment spots and shit start working and you get some darker patches. She just light skinned is all. Probably would have looked like Tango if she was any bit different. Anyway, I say she’ll go second or bring in a little extra, too. It’s like having a blonde in the litter.
Them babies are cute as hell. If we could keep em all I’d say do it. I know we cain’t. I still want a Blue though. Lil Mama needs a Papa. We have to call him something hard, not like Bow Wow or Snoop. That’s all old shit. So get thinking. What about Bruiser? Cujo? Midnight? Diablo! That shit is my favorite one. Oh wait hold up I got it - Phantom. Nah? Diablo or Midnight good so far. You get a vote tho and I need more choices. Can’t think up anything good out here. I look around for inspiration - sandy, brownie, windy? Those names suck.
The moon looked damn good tonight, right? Hah, that was smooth. I definitely got something for you when I get back. That earns you some stripes way I see it - all improvised and initiatived and shit. At first I was like aw hell nah where is he going with this mess, but it ended up being kind of cool having it synchronized and shit - all tactical and what not. Finally, something in my day to day that actually goes off on schedule, as planned, and without technical problems. Props baby, props.
Sorry my mom be sweatin you. Tell her ass to chill the hell out, get some bud, put on Jungle Book and relax. Tell her I love her and I’ll Skype her overprotective ass soon. OIF wasn’t even this bad. It’s all that road side shit out here though. It ain’t firefights or taking cities. It’s driving and forgetting a soda can on the road means we’re going to fucking go boom. I get to have long ass chats with God every victor I’m in. So let her know, it’s all good and I don’t drive around much. Its base foot patrol and post foot patrol. I should write her myself but - well anyway, you’re smart, make some shit up why I could get a letter to you not her. Thanks, boo. I can’t deal with it. I can’t try to figure out how to make her chill with words when I can’t chill myself.
Hope that mixtape comes soon. I think I’ll put some sand in the envelope for ya. You can spread it around in your comfortable ass shoes and draws, take you back to your sweet Arab vacation. No one out here has said word one about their boyfriends. No need for me to preach, neither. It’s the same shit about cocksucker, dicklick, dicksuck, fagot, shitpacker and pillowbiter, but not like for real. I say whatever because I’ll call all these motherfuckers that shit and not feel guilty - not feel I’m bein disrespectful to our people. Man, fuck that shit. It ain’t like I wanted to get political the moment I laid eyes on you or that first sexy ass kiss you laid on me. If it ever comes up I won’t front - I suck someone’s cock, but I’m the best at it there is. I’m a trained Marine cocksucker, the best of the best and you want to come at me - I will play my PTSD card and put you down cold. That bad? Probably. Might want to burn this part later in case I ever end up having some legal troubles.
Yo, I do need some other stuff if you get a chance or enlist my moms to hook it up. Batteries would be the shit, chocolate - oh god damn I want a Kit-Kat so bad, no porn this time (you are a sick individual with that foreign freakshow ish you sent. I ain’t Person. I don’t need no clamped balls and gagged midgets to get off thanks), I’m over Carmex - Chapstick original, not the gay pink one or the red one, don’t even start that shit you know I only do that for you at home. You see anything that makes you laugh send it - movies, songs, comedy special, some Maury would be nice. Yeah, for real. We got talkin about that the other day. We all watch that shit and laugh at the baby mama drama. OH! STAFFORD DODGED THAT BULLET! BE JEALOUS BITCHES! Shit, what else, maybe some baby wipes, too. Some shit to stay the fuck awake. Surprise me there; I don’t know what they make anymore that works. Anyway, that’s the ransom demands. Wish you could send ice cream or thunderstorms.
My boys let me sleep in today. I told them an hour and they gave me 3 extra. I was later finishing paperwork, but I didn’t write em up. I looked like dog shit according to them. We don’t gotta go out again until tomorrow night so I may get some more sleep. Can’t think straight and yeah I could sleep a whole day and do breakfast at Taco Bell like that time you mentioned. I didn’t forget it. That’s one of the times you didn’t jack my covers, bitch. Nah, I’m playin. I remember it being chill and maybe or maybe not I thought it felt nice to not sleep by myself. Maybe I thought it felt good sleeping next to you in a bed. Maybe I wondered what I’d do if I didn’t make it sheets and covers. I don’t really remember, but now I kinda wonder. I bet I thought it felt good with you at my 3 even in a bed.
You think anyone from Bravo would get it. How it wasn’t some big homo cruise for us? It just happened. You was my boy, my friend, my road dawg, my spotter, my little pup to train and partner in crime - even if the crime was kicking too much ass at our jobs. You was all that to me and it just was like this one day. Leave Bagdad and I don’t want nobody else, couldn’t try to think of no one else, just - you think they’d ever get it and not think it’s trauma and bullshit and we got hit in the head or gassed with gay gas when we took off the MOPP suits. It ain’t that I want to start shit or make a scene, but when we all meet up yet again and go out to raise hell, everyone talkin about what they did, who they married now, what job they landed, what money they make (or don’t make) and run their heads I ain’t got to lie or shrug and play dumb. I could tell all about my perfect Susie Rottencrotch who is a man who loves me enough to send letters and pictures of dogs and ramble on about gay ass lemon trees on fire - lets my mama sweat them when she really misses me and I dodge her. Okay, I won’t lie, I want to put their wives to shame. Don’t get cocky, but I’m kind of proud I bagged a badass Marine and someone legit who treats me like a damn king.
Yo, this got gay again. Just like the last one. So, I’m tappin out before the page grows a vagina and starts crying everywhere. On that note, WM up in this camp is Queen for a Year like no other. The new Ms. Americastan is getting everyone’s vote if she keeps going at it. No joke, this will be what outs me. I’ll take a pass on poon and everyone will know. I don’t think this many Marines have been fucked since Guadalcanal. When my platoon goes down over some hybrid mega STD and I’m the only one to come back from the Desert…I’m just sayin, my betters may ask questions. Screwby.
Sixty days and counting give or take some hours because I’m in the future and this letter has to go back in time to reach you, but it takes time to travel in time. Man fuck that it’s givin me a pretzel head. Meet me at the tarmac and maybe my mouth will say no while my tackle and pin says yes. I bet we’ll be on Skype before you have to write another one of these back. Still though, pet Lil Mama for me, tell her I think her babies are the best damn puppies I’ve ever laid eyes on, and then just give her a snack because she don’t know what the hell you’re saying anyway.
Love you even though you dangle sheets and mattresses at me from afar. (Your day is coming sucka, just wait until I get home.)
Evan
Rating: R
Pairing: Christeson/Stafford
Word Count: 7,251
Spoilers: I don’t think so.
Summary: A series of letters stateside to the Middle East before and after the DADT repeal. They start with “Dear John” but end with “I love you”.
Author's Note: I fell for them hard and I love how they live in my head now. I will go down with this ship~ Gracias to my superb beta and inspirational help
x187x and
amelia_17 for suffering through my quest to find a title. <3
Dear John,
Hah, shit man, that's just the way you want a letter to start. Nah, for real though, it's hot as fuck out in this desert. I'm sure you remember how that go: four days no shower, sand in my face, wind at my ass, and I can smell all our funk. Screwby!!! Fuck if that hasn't given away our position yet. Hajis don't smell or they're tired of smelling they own stank so it just don't matter no way.
Mom bootlegged me the new Madea flick. That shit is wack. Felt good to watch a flick though, just me and forty of my best friends and our ball sweat. Don't get jealous, I stepped outside before the circle jerk got goin.
This shit sucks without you. You should reup and come for a visit. You ain't busy for the next four years was ya? That's what I thought. The heat have me trippin. Stay where you at. 3 months, 2 weeks, 6 days and I'll be at your doorstep. If you start the shower for me now it may just be hot enough to get the job done.
So, tomorrow is the big day. Sept 20th. I really think some shit will happen between now and midnight. Don't know why, but just a feeling. Been writing these letters all slick and boring as fuck for so long. I don't know how to get to it. Why the hell we continents apart and oceans and stars and shit. I've been tryin to check out the moon and think how you're checkin out the same one. But I know you ain't lookin during the day and that's pretty much my night. So what we see the same fuckin moon, you know? Millions other motherfuckers be seeing it, too… not a damn one of them I give a shit about. So how does it help if we look at the same damn moon. Fuck the man in the moon, I'd rather just see you and be done with it. No skype at this post is killing me. No email. No fucking fun of no kind. Anyway - Now, DADT is gone (in a few hours) and if that actually goes down, I be sending this. If not, burning it and burying it out here in the buttfuck hillside of sand.
Shit's easier in a way loving a dude. In the AO, I spray on your cologne and no one thinks a damn thing. Ain't no one the wiser that I got your PT shirt stowed in my ruck. If I get my face blown off, I guess someone will find out. Then it doesn't fucking matter and I want them all to know I died a hero and sucked your dick when I wasn't winning this war. I hope this shit happens. DADT going away, I mean. Instead of getting a ride to the crib, I can meet you when the plane hits the tarmac. I be knockin your out-of-shape ass down too, kissin the shit out of those big ass lips of yours, and -- just wear your Kevlar man that's all I'm saying.
Got a lot of time to think. Our watches are bullshit - the other night we was all awake -25% my ass. Desert is bullshit. It's hot and you ain't here at my 3. I miss that. I don't mean to get gay or nothing, but baby, I miss your eyes and your laugh. That mad dimple you got in your cheek. Your Eddie Munster hair line, too. I got time to think about bein back and how we'd chill. Close my eyes and I'm right back there with you, back at home or posted up on your squeaky ass bed at yo moms. Screwby man. Kinda pissed off I only got a week on that cali king before I stepped off. I miss clean sheets and ceiling fans. Miss you stealin the covers on a cold night. Don't even try to deny it. I caught you so many times.
Tomorrow gonna be different. Ain't no one gonna ask, but I could tell if I want. Just tell me if you changed your mind now that it's here. I be waiting for you to get back at me. Damn, time don't go by worth a damn. I been at this half hour and just write in circles about this and that. Remember back in the day, we make up songs after we wore out all the beats and rhymes? That one song we made up about Mr. Potato Head. I be comin in backup just beat boxing and sayin police that, police that. No one knows that song this time around. Sgt Major ain't even here neither. Wish though, the new one is a hardass and ain't even shit to make fun of. He ain't retarded whiskey tango backwoods deliverance style.
Tell me everything, tho. How's Lil Mama and the puppies? You found any homes? Wish I'd gotten to mess with them. When they little they a trip, but next time I guess. I want to find a Blue pit to breed her with next time. I been thinkin about Aladdin a lot and maybe we can keep a blue pup out of a litter and make Aladdin 2. I miss his dopey old ass, but it is what it is.
Other than dogs (you a good baby daddy) what's up in your world? Got a raise yet so you can afford to keep me when I get back? You know I expect ice and shit on the regs. Maybe some new rims for the caddy - oh and a caddy would be good too. I'm getting some extra pay for hazard coming up. I ain't gonna get in to why, but I made that paper, boo. I'm sending you extra next month. Pay off what you can I guess and I'll try to get combat pay or something soon. Too bad I don't get paid by the boot for the young ones I school. How they make it out of Rangers I just don't know. You ever think I'd be a Sgt? I didn't. This shit wears me out. I heard they want us out this bitch, but we haven't even done this thang. We ain't even been briefed for real. We was just told it got said in the news a hundred times again. Probably let us know the night before we gotta pack a whole camp and base and poof back to USA.
Baby, it hurts being apart. I got your pic up inside my Kevlar and I just took a quick peak. Made me miss ya all over again, missin you rotten. Is that too gay? It's getting gay, isn't it. Yeah, I'll chill out. Serious, though, just 3 more months and I'm back home. I want a real mission before then. I'm sick of just patrol and drive, patrol and drive, guard my sector, and all that. I miss TV and Xbox. I just want a long game of Madden, a cold beer or 16, you at my 3 and dogs at my feet. Buy them some pig ears for me and give em one from daddy. Oh, some pictures would be good too. I don't know how long I'm out here for no phone and not net. Still get real mail though. Ain't that a bitch.
Letters already too damn long. This is how bored I am. I don't even have shit to talk about. Write me something good. Something so good I can read it over and over for days and not get tired. My boys are sweatin me and why I won't come off my rack. Should tell them 'because I'm writing a fine ass motherfucker, now stow it. I'll be done when I'm done.' Hah, the half-past-pog just asked if I was hittin up my lady... sorta, junior. If you still want to put this out there, I'm going to make that kid shit himself. Yeah, I think it's cool.
I love you shawty.
Evan
***
Maybe it’s just that Christeson’s had a long day starting from waking up at 6, getting in a jog that ended in sloshing through ten straight minutes of a pouring rain, then going to work, staying an hour late, getting home to find the bathroom where the puppies live wrecked, cleaning that, finally getting dinner, and just wanting bed and quiet - or maybe it’s what his reaction would have been anyway. John’s got tears running down his cheeks, pooling at his chin, wetting his neck and gray tee shirt. He’s sitting on the loveseat clutching the paper with the handwritten words like if he lets go it will evaporate or something.
Lil Mama, the 3 year old red nosed pit bull that Q-tip and Christeson adopted together, meanders from the spot she’d taken halfway between him and the kitchen. She rests her chin on his knee and looks up at him. He lets one side of the letter go and strokes the top of her broad head and scratches behind her ears. She’s a fawn color with some white markings on her chest, feet and head. She doesn’t have papers, but she’s obviously a purebred dog. So, even though it’s sketchy and looked down upon, they let her breed with another purebred and will get a pretty good chunk of change for her puppies.
“Your other papa wrote me a letter. He told me to get you treats and love on you.” John told Lil Mama, smirking at the ridiculousness of talking to his pet as though he were really updating her.
Lil Mama, tipped back her head and he withdrew his hand. She gave it a fast clip with her tongue and then another.
“Thanks, mama. You’re a good girl. Yeah you are,”
He knew she couldn’t understand him, but she could judge his body language and probably smell that he came home stressed and now had loneliness and sadness on top. So he gave her another pet and stood up, with letter in hand he walked over to the computer desk and looked around it for any kind of paper to write on. He shoved aside packages from computer programs stacked in the nook - TurboTax, Doom, Wolfenstein, an old copy of Oregon Trail that wouldn’t even run. He came up with a rubber band ball, two packages of Post-Its, paperclips in a box, and a miniature legal pad for grocery lists or something like that. With a sigh he took a stack of paper from the printer, swiped a black gel pen from the pen cup on another shelf of the desk and walked off in a daze to the kitchen. Lil Mama followed behind dutifully, the ID tag, license and shots tags all jingling together announcing her distance and speed.
Christeson turned on the light and dropped the pen and paper on the table. He looked up to the microwave above the stove and made a face looking down at Lil Mama.
“Your kids need to grub. I hate to be the one to do this, but it’s that time again,”
Either the mother dog pretended not to understand or had slipped into complete denial, because she followed him off to the bathroom where the puppies stayed during the day. He had this irrational fear that one would get its head stuck in the metal work of the crate that they were supposed to share with their mother. He let them have it at night because they kept the crate in the bedroom and he’d wake up for a distress call, but at work he just didn’t want to risk it.
Christeson opened the door to chaos, as usual. The pups could definitely hear him coming and all shoved up against the door when he tried to open it. Lil Mama trotted in, the darkest brown puppy squirmed past her legs and made for the space between his feet in a bid for freedom. He bent and caught the puppy easily. The white and black patched puppy was working on the same strategy, but he nudged him back with his foot until he changed direction. Mama did a turn on the big blanket in the center of the floor and lay down, then flopping onto her side to give the pups access to nurse. She looked pretty put off by the whole thing and sighed deeply. Christeson gave the brown escape artist a kiss on the top of the head and put the pup down facing his mother’s belly.
“Alright then, I’ll come back when it’s time to hit the rack,”
He shut the door to the bathroom and strolled back into the kitchen, his legs feelings as tired as his back and his mind. He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and dropped into it before looking down at the blank paper and pen. He took the letter he’d gotten and spread the pages out in front of him, looking them over. He started to read the letter over again from the beginning and took his pen in hand.
Q-tip
Evan,
I got your letter today. I figure I should tell you that it poured rain so maybe this letter will bring some of that with it. Hah, yeah right. No way is that happening. I remember the desert vacation all too well. But your tan will be badass and mine will be a disgrace. Then you can call me pasty, wonder bread, cracka-boo, and all the other pet names mocking my skin that you like. I bet that brings a smile to your face just reading it. And yeah, I imagined you smirkin in my head, poppin off with a ‘Screwby’ affirmative.
I know I should get to the kids and how they’re doin. Lil Mama is the best mom ever. I’m still mixing her grub with puppy chow so she stays fattened up and the puppies don’t suck her dry. I didn’t believe you about how fast she’d lose weight. I thought you were being dramatic. I fed her like normal and within a week she had ribs poking through. I changed my game up real quick. I was not about to get shwacked over a dog when you came back home. She’s fattened up now. No harm done.
She’s so over the whining that they do and how greedy they get so I leave them locked up and let her run around so she can do her own thing for a few hours when I get home. I can’t leave them all in the big crate in our room when I’m at work. Not until they get bigger heads that won’t fit through the bars. I’m so afraid I’ll come home and one’ll be stuck with his head out and strangled or something.
There’s five puppies in the litter. I’m not going to get attached by giving them names, but I had to call them something so I just went with code: alpha, bravo, tango - 3 boys, Juliet and Sierra - 2 girls. Alpha was born first and he’s white with some black patches, on his back, his butt and one big patch on his right eye, ear and head. Alpha is not really the alpha dog though. He’s the pothead dog, real chill. Bravo is brown, one white batch from his chest that goes down to his belly. He’s going to probably get sold first. His nose is red like Lil Mamas and his eyes are blue. Yeah he’s definitely getting sold first. He’s the alpha male, I’m pretty damn sure. Tango is white and brown, kind of like Alpha with the patches, but brown instead of black. He’s got brown eyes I think. Tango is the first one to try to escape when I’m putting them in the crate at night. He’s got the schedule all figured out. So whoever gets him better lock all their shit up or he’s taking over. Juliet is the runt, she came out last and I did have to bottle feed her the first night and next day to get her started. I got pissed at Tango’s punk ass for knocking her off the teat. When they were all real small she would just fumble around and not get back on. So, I had to school his ass in treating his sister with some courtesy. She’s still a little smaller than the others, but I don’t think it’s going to be too long before she’s caught up. She’s brown like Bravo, but she’s got light brown or amber or some not black not blue not green color eyes. You know how I mean. Dog eyes are hard to describe. Last, there’s Sierra. Sierra is white. I thought she was albino, but nope, now that she’s getting older I’m seeing real light fawn on her back so I don’t know what the hell is going to happen with her. And she’s another one with brown eyes. Brown nose but it’s looking a little pink, too. Seriously, what the hell is happening? She’s the only one having these fur color change issues.
I put Lil Mama back in the bathroom with them so I could write you. She just got down on the floor and sighed like this was some damn bullshit I was putting her through. I thought that was funny. She’s 100% mom now - tired of the bullshit but still lovin her kids. Anyway, that’s what’s up with the kid and her kids. Not to be full of gay, but does that make us grandpas? I mean, sort of right? I know you can’t stand when I say Mama is our kid, but she really is. She knows when I’m bummed out and she comes over and gives me kisses or puts her head on me like “Yeah, let it out, just let it all out. Me too,”. I miss you. She misses you.
Now, about the moon in your letter. First, I laughed my ass off. You are such a hater. How about this - I don’t know where you are so this is just a guestimate - when it’s 9am for me it’s going to be 7pm for you (the next day, you time traveler). So, from now on, 1600 Zulu time - I’ll stop what I’m doing and take a good look at the moon and you can look at the moon, because it should be dark there by 7. Look at that initiative, I should get a promotion for problem solving the pithy staring at the same moon romantic gesture. Don’t talk shit even though I know you are. You know it was a beautiful thing that happened just now.
Yo, I have all these pictures around me all day every day. I’ve wanted to pull some off the wall or off the shelves. I’m saying it’s hard for me, too. At least, you can take solace that I’m probably not getting shot at every day. Before you bow up let me be clear. I don’t worry about you handlin yo’ bidniz, but I worry that some POG or some dick idiot in command will fuck up and get you shot or whatever. Fuck, I’m going to knock on wood and donate some money to charity in your name. I’ll give a few bucks to PetSmart. I hate thinking I jinxed you, but I didn’t, because that’s stupid. Just Stay Frosty like ol’ SSG Colbert used to say. I guess we can call him Gunny Colbert. I do love that you are probably on a legit mission now or gonna be going on some. Oh, yeah, the point of all that - I thought about taking down the pictures because somehow it’s worse seeing your face around here, but not seeing you. The things I miss most is no more humming in the shower, beatboxing to pass the time on the throne, or hearing you laugh or clown other people.
DADT is gone gone gone. I could put your picture on my desk in a fuckin’ fierce frame if I wanted. No fucking thank you. The wallet version is bad enough, it’s that picture we took on libo after the first tour together and didn’t know what the hell I was getting myself into. Anyway, you’re drunk and I think I am, too. I can’t remember these pictures being taken so I guess I was… We were sitting at this table with all these spent bottles and glasses. It looks like a massacre of barware on this table and you put your arm around me for the picture. Even though I don’t really remember the picture being taken, I remember later on when we got back to the hotel - okay roach motel I’ll be honest - I followed you in your room because I was drunk to the point of not wanting to be alone. I don’t know if you remember it, because nothing actually happened that night, but I think that helped me along knowing how I felt and if maybe you’d feel that way, too. You were so cool about it and didn’t punk me for being a bad drunk. We slept sheets and blankets, just like two chicks at a sleepover. Hope that didn’t offend your warrior spirit, but it’s true, we kind of did. Had Taco Bell for breakfast because it wasn’t until 2pm that we woke up. That’s the picture I’m carrying around that reminds me how good I have it. I only look at it when I need to and try not to torture myself because it doesn’t bring you back sooner.
It hurts like fuck having you gone. The house is quiet even with 5 puppies. Sometimes I see some crazy shit in the paper or on TV or just hear about it from whoever. I want to tell you, have you get your skinny ass in the room to watch it go down, or text you, but I can’t. That really sucks. I cannot even believe I got a legit handwritten letter like folks did in Vietnam or WW 1 and 2, but it made my fucking day. I was miserable not being able to talk to you even just by shitty emails that are all coded. Skype taunts me when I have to get on the computer for something. When you get back to base I think you should definitely order your platoon the fuck out of the barracks and get some QT on Skype. Just a suggestion.
So fuck you a little bit for writing me because now I’m going to be sweatin the mailman like an asshole. Whatever. Oh and fuck you, because I read the letter twice already and I love you and I miss you. Why the fuck can’t three months get here already. And by the way, fuck yes I am meeting you at the tarmac and I will straight up kiss you and let you take me down. I love how this letter started out all proper and sweet and now I’m swearing non-stop and writing in rainbows. I saw the new Madea, too. Your mom told me on facebook to watch it. Your mom will not leave me alone on facebook by the way. She wants to farm with me, run a mafia with me, and I think you may need to call her when you get back to the land of the living. I love your mom, but she got kind of spoiled with getting at you over the internet. Take that away and it’s like holy shit. This isn’t your first rodeo, either. What the fuck was she like during OIF?
This letter is long as hell and I don’t even think I’ve said anything. Just rambled on and on about dogs and moons and pictures and emo bs. I’ll cut you a mixtape, but I’m going to mail this off in the morning. I want it to get there fast so I’ll just keep it a letter. Uh, what else do I need to say. OH SHIT. DRAMA OF THE HOOD. You wanted entertainment, baby, I got it for ya.
Straight the fuck up, how does this shit even happen, (see, now you know it’s going to be screwby) but the whiskey tangos next door had their fucking lemon tree catch fire. You better believe I was a pissed off PTSD ball of rage that day. Helped put it out and they’re not even thanking me. Well, fuck them anyway, because I did it to protect our yard and our shit and OUR house not their fucking hovel disguised as suburban. Then they’re asking where the other guy is (you) and I just shook my head because didn’t they make the big fucking deal of staring when you got picked up to report? I fucking remember they did with their goddamn whiskey tango lawn chairs and beers on the porch like its fucking cool on a Tuesday morning. Are you shitting me! So, I guess they thought you deuced out or something and we had a big gay breakup ??? and so of course they wanted all the details. All I said to that was Evan is at fucking war right now so that’s why he’s not here to help put out your tree fire. God as my witness I stepped to them like that. THEY STILL DIDN’T SAY “oh by the way thanks for that. Thanks for jumping the fence and pulling your hose over and using your water to help.” Nope. Not a goddamn thing. I throw the hose back over to our yard and then it gets even more trippy. The ‘lady of the house’ and I use the term loosely (hah) asked about the puppies. I said they were doing just fine. She asks if they’re full pit. I sort of wondered if she’d send someone or break in herself and jack them based on my answer, but she’s too stupid to plan that out. Her old man chimes in to ask IF I AM GIVING THEM AWAY! I just walked off. I let myself out into the front yard and double timed in. No, I’m really not giving away free fucking purebred puppies especially not to douchebags who catch lemon trees on fire. The best part of this story is that it was their goddamn teenage delinquent daughter. How does a whiskey tango prostitot set a tree on fire, you ask? Oh, what a great question, babe. Here’s how: you take lighter fluid from your zippo. You pour on tree. You light tree with zippo. (I am impressed she didn’t set herself on fire though). You stand amazed that fire will burn off igniting the fluid that makes fire in your fucking lighter (Goddamn what kind of high schools are around this place!) and then don’t put it out when it starts to get bigger than anticipated. Again, it’s fucking wood, fire and fuel - I’m not a economist, but I think that may all mean something. So she booked it. Hindsight, I do wish I’d call the popo. Let me just go on record as saying that. Because if she goes off the deep end and becomes a pyro that might be something the law would need to know about. Oh well.
I hope that story entertained you. So, I guess now you can worry about the house catching fire while I worry about you taking heavy fire. Seems like a fair trade. Right now I’m pretty safe. The dumb bitch ran away. I hate our neighbors. The other neighbors are cool. Remind me of Poke and his wife, or LT. and Gunny. Hah. Ohhhhh Shit! I need to take pictures of the pups for you. I have some from when they were born that I was going to email. I’ll take some tonight and print both sets before I send this tomorrow. I’ll try to get a picture of the burnt tree, too. You know those lazy shits didn’t cut it down.
I miss you so much. I love you. (but having the whole bed and all the covers is still the shit)
Your better half, John
Night patrol of the perimeter had its advantages and drawbacks just like virtually all the assignments and protocol in the military - except maybe libo. Q-tip had taken two men with him that night. They all had properly powered NVGs and while the encampment had several watch checkpoints to keep the 50% watch, it didn’t hurt to have a patrol circle oscar mike from checkpoint to checkpoint. A usual perimeter sweep would take anywhere from an hour to a hour and a half. This time, they’d encountered a situation, an actual honest to God situation that required attention, and it had been a four hour ordeal.
Q-tip, Martinez, and Washington returned exhausted, annoyed and about twenty minutes from missing morning chow. Sleepy, sore, muscle weak and just plain cranky, Q-tip shepherded his Corporal and Private First Class along to the chow line, forced them to imbibe nutrition and hydration with him. They barely talked and ate out of necessity, not enjoying even the normalcy and reprise from activity. Sleep drunk they shuffled back to the makeshift tent composed of cammie nets and some canvas for marginally functional flaps to keep out flurries of sand. The fourth member of their victor lay curled in his ranger grave, poncho pulled up tight around him.
“Sergeant,” a Marine from Team 2, the gunner, nicknamed Banner -in reference to the Hulk’s alter ego, Bruce Banner - nodded at Q-tip from his spot, sitting with M-16 cradled, on the back of the humvee. Banner had come over when Q-tip had drawn the good luck of running the patrol in the humvee for the encampment that night. He'd only come over to rotate on 50% watch with Smith, the snoring private in the ranger grave.
“Banner,” Q-tip returned the short-hand form of a good morning, “When did Smith -“
“Oh-800, sergeant,”
Q-tip sighed and looked over at Martinez and Washington, standing over their respective holes, looking at them longingly.
“Go ‘head,” Q-tip nodded, sleepily waving them off at their graves, “I’ll wake you up for rotation and take the first watch,”
“Sergeant Stafford,” Banner interjected, a little above a whisper, “I just took watch for Smith. I’ve had 4 hours. My TL assigned me to provide relief when he heard that your patrol got held up. You look like hell,”
Q-tip’s dimple in his left cheek made a serious indent and he tried to shake it off.
“Nah, you get on mayn. I’ll let them have some hours. We back.”
“It’s no problem. Your patrol ran late. When’s the last time you slept, sarge?”
Usually, a subordinate in this situation should have nodded affirmative and abandoned his post, returned to his victor and team, but Banner had the density of solid granite and the balls of a bull.
Q-tip regarded him with a slight nod.
“Hour tops. That’s an order,” he told Banner, holding his gaze on him a half beat longer to emphasize his point.
Banner nodded clearly pleased with himself and his CO’s acceptance of his judgment. “Yes, sir,”
In an hour, Q-tip woke to a shake and the sound of his rank and surname.
“Sergeant Stafford,”
He forced both eyelids to lift and looked up, squinting against light filtering in through the cammy net.
“Smith?”
“I was told to roust you,”
He lifted his wrist and looked at his watch. Banner had doled him out four hours rather than one. He let out a low growl and pushed himself up to sitting.
“I told Banner just an hour.” Q-tip mumbled more to himself than Smith. “Cocky shit,”
Smith stood up from where he’d been squatting beside Q-tip’s grave. Q-tip rubbed his face, reached for his Kevlar helmet and felt a pat on his thigh. He looked down and saw a small manila envelope with air mail tape wrapped around the lip of the envelope and enclosure. His frown lifted at the corners of his lips and broadened into a grin.
“Mail call came while you were asleep,” Smith explained.
Q-tip ignored him. He had deduced that he’d been delivered some mail while he was out cold trying to recoup all the energy the night before had stolen.
“That be all?” Q-tip asked, slipping further into his usual vernacular than he usually allowed himself to around his men.
“Oh,” Smith replied, flustered, “Yeah, yes,”
As Smith wandered away, Q-tip simply shook his head and took the envelope in hand, flipping it over to read the front and get an idea of what he was in for - legal papers, letter bomb, or maybe the correspondence he’d been waiting every day for since he mailed off his long letter. He scanned the top left corner and his grin expanded to a full toothy grin when he read “CHRISTESON” in block letters meticulously sculpted with a Sharpie.
Q-tip withdrew his KA-BAR from it’s sheath at his side and snickered, using it to efficiently incise the tape and make a slit across the top fold in the envelope. He peered into the open envelope and saw a stack of pictures and bundle of papers folded in half. He took out the papers first and then turned over the envelope, pouring out the pictures into his hand. Filling out reports be damned, he devoured the pictures and letter reading it twice and pawing through the pictures a good three times before standing up, dusting off, and heading toward the LT’s victor.
***
Dear John,
Yup, that opener is still fucking funny to me. Today, I delegated the shit out of my authority. I had to make a report the size of a phonebook form by form today. Last night we had this wack shit go down. No casualties and that’s all the good out of it. My eyes be crossed and my right fingers sting writing. I’ll try with my left. So don’t laugh like it got wrote by a fourth grader. I gotta get at you with this now while it’s fresh.
Alpha, Bravo, Tango, Sierra and Juliet are the best codenames for the puppies. But you still named all of them just with Phonetic Alphabet of all the shit, you nerd. So you’re probably already attached and basically, you’re fucked now. Try not to get depressed after you send them off with new owners. We’ll have more (ugh, grandkids) when I get back and we can set Lil Mama up with a new boyfriend. Oh, you keep Tango’s punk ass in line. I don’t need him starving Juliet out into retardation and then we gotta keep her because she’s all jacked up. Bravo is definitely going first. I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t fetch a quarter extra of what we’re askin. Now, about Sierra - this is the deal. She’s got real light fawn coming in. That happens when they’re real light skinned and as they’re growing their pigment spots and shit start working and you get some darker patches. She just light skinned is all. Probably would have looked like Tango if she was any bit different. Anyway, I say she’ll go second or bring in a little extra, too. It’s like having a blonde in the litter.
Them babies are cute as hell. If we could keep em all I’d say do it. I know we cain’t. I still want a Blue though. Lil Mama needs a Papa. We have to call him something hard, not like Bow Wow or Snoop. That’s all old shit. So get thinking. What about Bruiser? Cujo? Midnight? Diablo! That shit is my favorite one. Oh wait hold up I got it - Phantom. Nah? Diablo or Midnight good so far. You get a vote tho and I need more choices. Can’t think up anything good out here. I look around for inspiration - sandy, brownie, windy? Those names suck.
The moon looked damn good tonight, right? Hah, that was smooth. I definitely got something for you when I get back. That earns you some stripes way I see it - all improvised and initiatived and shit. At first I was like aw hell nah where is he going with this mess, but it ended up being kind of cool having it synchronized and shit - all tactical and what not. Finally, something in my day to day that actually goes off on schedule, as planned, and without technical problems. Props baby, props.
Sorry my mom be sweatin you. Tell her ass to chill the hell out, get some bud, put on Jungle Book and relax. Tell her I love her and I’ll Skype her overprotective ass soon. OIF wasn’t even this bad. It’s all that road side shit out here though. It ain’t firefights or taking cities. It’s driving and forgetting a soda can on the road means we’re going to fucking go boom. I get to have long ass chats with God every victor I’m in. So let her know, it’s all good and I don’t drive around much. Its base foot patrol and post foot patrol. I should write her myself but - well anyway, you’re smart, make some shit up why I could get a letter to you not her. Thanks, boo. I can’t deal with it. I can’t try to figure out how to make her chill with words when I can’t chill myself.
Hope that mixtape comes soon. I think I’ll put some sand in the envelope for ya. You can spread it around in your comfortable ass shoes and draws, take you back to your sweet Arab vacation. No one out here has said word one about their boyfriends. No need for me to preach, neither. It’s the same shit about cocksucker, dicklick, dicksuck, fagot, shitpacker and pillowbiter, but not like for real. I say whatever because I’ll call all these motherfuckers that shit and not feel guilty - not feel I’m bein disrespectful to our people. Man, fuck that shit. It ain’t like I wanted to get political the moment I laid eyes on you or that first sexy ass kiss you laid on me. If it ever comes up I won’t front - I suck someone’s cock, but I’m the best at it there is. I’m a trained Marine cocksucker, the best of the best and you want to come at me - I will play my PTSD card and put you down cold. That bad? Probably. Might want to burn this part later in case I ever end up having some legal troubles.
Yo, I do need some other stuff if you get a chance or enlist my moms to hook it up. Batteries would be the shit, chocolate - oh god damn I want a Kit-Kat so bad, no porn this time (you are a sick individual with that foreign freakshow ish you sent. I ain’t Person. I don’t need no clamped balls and gagged midgets to get off thanks), I’m over Carmex - Chapstick original, not the gay pink one or the red one, don’t even start that shit you know I only do that for you at home. You see anything that makes you laugh send it - movies, songs, comedy special, some Maury would be nice. Yeah, for real. We got talkin about that the other day. We all watch that shit and laugh at the baby mama drama. OH! STAFFORD DODGED THAT BULLET! BE JEALOUS BITCHES! Shit, what else, maybe some baby wipes, too. Some shit to stay the fuck awake. Surprise me there; I don’t know what they make anymore that works. Anyway, that’s the ransom demands. Wish you could send ice cream or thunderstorms.
My boys let me sleep in today. I told them an hour and they gave me 3 extra. I was later finishing paperwork, but I didn’t write em up. I looked like dog shit according to them. We don’t gotta go out again until tomorrow night so I may get some more sleep. Can’t think straight and yeah I could sleep a whole day and do breakfast at Taco Bell like that time you mentioned. I didn’t forget it. That’s one of the times you didn’t jack my covers, bitch. Nah, I’m playin. I remember it being chill and maybe or maybe not I thought it felt nice to not sleep by myself. Maybe I thought it felt good sleeping next to you in a bed. Maybe I wondered what I’d do if I didn’t make it sheets and covers. I don’t really remember, but now I kinda wonder. I bet I thought it felt good with you at my 3 even in a bed.
You think anyone from Bravo would get it. How it wasn’t some big homo cruise for us? It just happened. You was my boy, my friend, my road dawg, my spotter, my little pup to train and partner in crime - even if the crime was kicking too much ass at our jobs. You was all that to me and it just was like this one day. Leave Bagdad and I don’t want nobody else, couldn’t try to think of no one else, just - you think they’d ever get it and not think it’s trauma and bullshit and we got hit in the head or gassed with gay gas when we took off the MOPP suits. It ain’t that I want to start shit or make a scene, but when we all meet up yet again and go out to raise hell, everyone talkin about what they did, who they married now, what job they landed, what money they make (or don’t make) and run their heads I ain’t got to lie or shrug and play dumb. I could tell all about my perfect Susie Rottencrotch who is a man who loves me enough to send letters and pictures of dogs and ramble on about gay ass lemon trees on fire - lets my mama sweat them when she really misses me and I dodge her. Okay, I won’t lie, I want to put their wives to shame. Don’t get cocky, but I’m kind of proud I bagged a badass Marine and someone legit who treats me like a damn king.
Yo, this got gay again. Just like the last one. So, I’m tappin out before the page grows a vagina and starts crying everywhere. On that note, WM up in this camp is Queen for a Year like no other. The new Ms. Americastan is getting everyone’s vote if she keeps going at it. No joke, this will be what outs me. I’ll take a pass on poon and everyone will know. I don’t think this many Marines have been fucked since Guadalcanal. When my platoon goes down over some hybrid mega STD and I’m the only one to come back from the Desert…I’m just sayin, my betters may ask questions. Screwby.
Sixty days and counting give or take some hours because I’m in the future and this letter has to go back in time to reach you, but it takes time to travel in time. Man fuck that it’s givin me a pretzel head. Meet me at the tarmac and maybe my mouth will say no while my tackle and pin says yes. I bet we’ll be on Skype before you have to write another one of these back. Still though, pet Lil Mama for me, tell her I think her babies are the best damn puppies I’ve ever laid eyes on, and then just give her a snack because she don’t know what the hell you’re saying anyway.
Love you even though you dangle sheets and mattresses at me from afar. (Your day is coming sucka, just wait until I get home.)
Evan