I have stumbled across an ancient computer game, one that my brother Jesse and I have designated a "family treasure." There is not one sibling among us who has not, in their time, built a conquering empire, one that spanned entire dynasties.
It's all in the city planning, you see. The intricacies of city planning are endless. How best to provide services in efficient loops, with access to markets, mills and industrial sections? Where to place the military section? How to plan for excess food supplies in case of disaster?
And all the while, a pleasant little Asian inspired tune jingles and little city dwellers walk the streets, each to their own purpose. There is the sound of water falling and food cooking and acrobats tumbling.
I almost burned the spaghetti sauce yesterday while playing.
The sky is overcast, huge thunderheads are piling up over the trees and around the edges the light glitters. I hear a neighbor mowing a lawn somewhere.
Keith and I went to an Army Combatives competition a few days ago. At first we weren't going, and I was thinking about getting some hot chocolate and changing into PJs when Keith got a call from one of his guys.
"What? When? How long?" I heard him bark and that was that. We were off, the windshield wipers flashing as a light evening rain fell.
When we arrived, it was about seven thirty in the evening and the clouds had rolled on. The scene at the gym looked like a shot from Army Wives. There were knots of men, some in full ACUs, some with the pants and a tee shirt tucked in. They were joking and laughing and standing around or sitting on a low embankment wall. And there were Army wives in flip flops and pony tails, walking arm in arm or with an armful of baby. And of course there were children, shouting, running around in little packs.
Inside the gym it smelled like stale sweat, rubber mats and some unexpected floral scent; the combination made me think of a bathroom that someone sprayed a can of Glade in just after use. We sat on the bleachers with some of the other guys from the company and we all waited for their platoon sergeant to be called up.
When he did, our whole section just erupted. The sergeant was in a cage with another guy, a mean looking guy who looked like he could take care of a whole lot of business. They both wore boxing gloves and mouth guards.
As soon as the fight began, my husband became a living megaphone. When he wants his voice to project, boy does it project.
"Make him pay! Bring the pain!" he bellowed from somewhere deep in his chest; it seemed to come echoing off the far walls, where high up the windows were slanted open to the evening sky. My ears kinda hurt. I kept waiting for some of the staff to come on over and tell our section to settle down but then I would remind myself that this was the Army and not high school.
It was the only match we saw that went a full three rounds. By the third round, both men were exhausted and wary of one another. They had both taken and given some really hard punches and now had their heads down, chests heaving, watching each other as they circled.
They were both standing when the final bell rang and we had to wait a few moments before they added up the points to declare a winner. It was our guy. Keith left me outside the men's bathroom for ten minutes when he went to try and talk to him afterward. He had no luck, I had a lot of weird looks.
Outside, walking to the car, I saw some booths selling cotton candy and popcorn. I took a closer look and realized that it was run by my FRG. Or what would be my FRG if I went. It was a really strange feeling. Those are the women in my company, the wives of the men my husband works with every day and even though I have no idea who they are I'm still bound to them by that common thread.
I kept looking back, thinking that I could be there in that booth if I wanted or just leaning up against it, talking about how much we've gotten in and the guy's training schedule and who got promoted and who made points and who didn't and who just had a baby and who just got in a huge fight and called the MPs and got her husband in trouble.
I did meet one Army wife, her husband introduced her to me. Immediately I became like nine years old. It's not just I'm shy, it's that I'm like a shy young girl. It makes it ten times worse. I keep telling myself to be gracious and ask her about herself, but my mind went blank and all I want to do is huddle up, wrap my arms around my knees. I kept reminding myself to sit up straight for goodness's sake and look interested. She was sitting in the bleachers above me so it wasn't as though I had to make conversation, I just felt like I should.
I was thinking the other day that when all the Lost Boys grew up, most of them decided to join the Army. A lot of them are just like Lost Boys, a little shy, a little wild, passionate and dedicated, but easily distracted, easily hurt.
Keith rescued one of his sergeants' men from a terrible car loan. He had bought the car at Budget Car Sales and told the guys about it at PT. Immediately the sergeant's heart sank. He called Keith over and after looking through the paperwork, realized that the man's payment would be two times what he had thought it would be.
The three of them headed straight over to the dealership where my husband got into a down and dirty, red faced shouting match with the unfortunate car salesman and then his increasingly unfortunate manager.
"I saw his normally red face go two shades darker," said the sergeant with a grin, "and I knew to get the hell out of his way. I thought he was going to start throwing punches."
After several hours of some intense negotiations the dealership completely redid the man's loan, bought a truck from the sergeant (his loan on it was about to go under water) and offered Keith a four by four Ford Ranger for seven hundred cash.
He slept on it. I told him if he wanted to sell the Can and buy the Ranger it was fine by me. That day we both went in to check it out. The car salesmen had a pink shirt and sharply pointed shoes. I liked him at once, a feeling made up mostly of a kind of compulsive compassion. He seemed like a man who keeps trying and trying and each time making it just enough to keep his dignity intact.
Keith and I drove the Ranger around. It's an '84 with a hundred forty miles on it, lifted three inches, dented, rusted around the wheel well, but sturdy and willing. It's got heart. The upholstery is in good condition and smells comforting; the smell reminded me of trips to the dump with my grandfather and buying a cream soda on the way home.
I liked riding around, feeling the springs bounce, the jerk of the truck as my husband changed gears, the hot air whipping my hair in my face.
"I like her." he said. "And she's got six hundred dollars worth of brand new tires on. I saw the receipt in the glove box."
So now the Can is on Craig's list and we currently have two dented trucks, one rusting car trailer and my Honda in the short little driveway. Keith was out there last yesterday afternoon in a tee shirt, working on the headlights.
