New Digs

It was with sadness that I placed the last of my belongings in the footlocker. For six months, I have been in the hooch alone, with my own bathroom. That may not sound like a big deal, but it is.

We are here in Baghdad, surrounded by the blowing brown dust. We can't see much of the city from here, but we can hear it. We hear the explosions of the car bombs, can see and smell the smoke when a building blows up. They never tell us what has blown, or if we are in any particular danger. Three weeks ago, RPGs came into our camp and killed several people. But alone in my mondo-hooch, I didn't really think too much about it. They like it that way. They
don't answer questions, anyway.

There is a startlingly abrupt pecking order, determined mainly by living conditions. Tent life is at the bottom, particularly the large tents (40 man tents that look like a dusty, post WWII Ringling Bros. tent). Some tents only hold 8, some about 16. I, unfortunately, was thrown into a 40 man tent my first day in country. Woo hoo!! Off and running. But more about that later.

I was lucky to be plucked from the desert and placed in another camp after three months in country. Baghdad, the big city. With running water, electricity, Internet, DFACs that were clean and bright. But what else would you expect within the proximity of so many Army Generals? And because of my job, I was assigned to mondo-hooch. It was large, had a Queen bed (big, big deal), and a private bath (really, really big deal). But, as I said, more on that
later.

It is sad leaving. This little trailer, this miserable little trailer, was where I struggled to find my place, where I realized I was falling in love, where I cherished my time with him, where I anguished when things went wrong. This little trailer, for better or worse, was where I lived my life. My pathetic, desperate life.

I looked around one last time. I'd known for several days that this move would come. But, like always happens, the move to a new location always leaves you at the door, looking back into a bare room, remembering all the things that happened, all the life that you lived, all the sadness, ecstasy, and everything in between. It is jarring to leave, as it always seems to be.

I walked out, closing the door. It was fitting, I guess, now that he has left. This trailer was now filled with ghosts...my job was gone, my co-workers had moved on, my love had abandoned me and returned home. I thought it would be more emotional, I'd been crying for months since we started to fall apart. I figured when the door finally closed that I would, as usual, fall completely apart. But I closed the door, walked forward, and as the cliche goes, never looked back.

The new hooch? Awful. It must have been one of the first, after the Americans had landed. It is large, but they don't want to give away that much space. So they have set it up for two, and I live each moment now in complete abject dread of a roommate arriving. They say it is better than living in a tent. I'm not so sure any more.

I dragged my tattered belongings into the hooch. One foot locker, one suitcase, a red bucket (for handwashing unmentionables). Odd how one's life can be so easily gathered up in a few items. I threw them down on the bed, as though having them there would prevent someone from moving in. The Camp Manager had insisted that I move in, that I transfer over to this hooch. Dropping by the next day, he announces that this camp and the other living area are soon
to be combined...so tell me again why I so urgently needed to move over to this crappy hooch? "Accountability, we want you to live where you work..." Yes, and I'd like you to stop blowing smoke up my large, American ass.

It only took an hour to unpack. I had already mailed home so much stuff-the stuff that makes a trailer in hell liveable-blankets, pillows, knick-knacks. But the wind is out of my sails now, I no longer am interested in making things liveable. I am just trying to get through now, just trying to sustain my tenuous grasp on who I am and what I am doing here. Some days it is all I can do.

Of course there is no closet in this sub-par ghetto. So I slowly removed my clothes from their hangers, the ones that I pursued for two weeks before the PX finally got them in. Moot. Just like much is now. They did manage to give me a locker: one of those large, two door office storage things. But this one is made somewhere in China, or Jordan, or Timbuktu, and the clips don't fit in the holes, the shelves are warped, and I spend the next half hour trying to get my few belongings to not slide out of this third world container. Am used to this now.

When it is all unpacked, I make my bed. The bottom sheet is navy blue. At one time, it probably had a matching sheet, maybe even a whole set. But after two years of war, the tattered remains are all I am issued. One blue bottom sheet, one strange pinkish print top sheet, two pillow cases with rainbows, and a nylon comforter with bright pink boxes on it. The combination is slightly nauseating, and even more disturbing placed on this small twin bed with faux wrought iron headboard. I wistfully long for my Queen bed, in my mondo-hooch, it's plywood headboard with a lovely routed design (never mind that the corners show the tell tale marks of a router gone wild) and it's matching puke brown-yellow matching set of bedding. I feel noticeably less important, with my bed size halved and my sheets mis-matched. But that is the whole point. The pecking order.

I miss him. I miss him so much I can barely breathe. We had so little time in that hooch, stealing moments before we flew in and out of the country. But my head spins now with the fading memories of those days, how we adjusted, how we grew, how we broke apart. The agony is fading a bit now, a month has passed. And my last connection to him, the memories that existed with me in the mondo-hooch, is now gone.

I still love him.