The Iraqi Republic of Texas

"These are my babies..." Bill proclaims as he holds out the current
issue of Guns and Ammo magazine. "Yup, nothing would be wrong in
the world if we all were issued these."
"Where are you from?" I ask.
"Brownsville, Texas. God's country. Things are better there now
that they are allowing us to take guns to church. They didn't used
to."

Of course, the obvious question is why you would need a gun at
church. But I decide the point is moot.

"Been all over the world. They are screwed up. Totally. The frogs:
there is no redeeming value in them..."
"I don't know about that..."
"No redeeming value. The Middle East, you can have it. Filthy
bastards. Every last one of them."
"Hey, now." There seems to be no way to get through to him.
"No redeeming value in any of them. A nice nuclear war would
make this a far better place. Yup, nuke em all. That would fix the
world. Went to China once. That was OK."

Yeah, I suppose the little subservient Chinese women made it all OK for him. The highlight of the vacation, I suppose. Like so many others...how many people take off from here and fly straight to Thailand for a nice sex trip? They ought to offer a corporate rate by now.

And let's not forget that uncomfortable experience in Dubai last time I came back. Stupidly, I always followed the rules. No drinking once you come back into Dubai. Stay out of the bars, you are on company time. Blah blah blah. So I would dutifully report to my room and go to bed. But last time, after the nightmare in Chicago; after dragging my fat, suicidal ass back to Dubai weeping uncontrollably all the way, pining for my long-lost-David; missing the charter flight and almost getting fired, or written up, or whatever the hell the punishment de jour was, I went to the fucking bar. And I drank.

I could not help but notice that there were many little Asian women sitting next to my colleagues. Hmmm. I had heard about this. There was a company policy that prohibited anyone but employees from "visiting" your hotel room. And the wide-eyed innocent that I am, I could not help but stare at the working women. What a life. The girl at the next table stared numbly ahead, polishing some sunglasses not-so-tenderly-removed from her soon-to-be-paramour's forehead. She polished for a full ten minutes, much more than I am sure he would possibly require. I laughed, shaking my head. She looked over at me, and shot me a dirty 'you fokking bitch' look (universally understood by all females of the world as a 'this is my penis, and don't you dare come wagging your skanky ass around him trying to steal him from me' territorial response). I lifted my glass to her, smiling. Here's to the working women of the world, I suppose.

I went to bed, thankful that I did not have a roommate that night so I could continue endlessly weeping and nursing my very broken heart. Eventually I slipped into a benadryl and Chardonnay induced coma, only to be startled awake by someone in the next room.

"Ooooooh, baby," she said, rather loudly. "Oooooh, you are sooooooo hahd. Give it to me hah-dah, baby. C'mon. Ooooooooh, that feels nice. Oh, stick it in me, baby. Oh, yeah...fast-ah, fast-ah bay-beeeeee..."

I sat up in bed, unsure what was going on. I thought at first it was a porn flick playing next door, but didn't hear the usual muzac in the background. Besides, this is Dubai, for crying out loud, where you can actually be arrested for public displays of affection. Nope. No porn on this Hotel-Net. Finally it dawned on me, though, oddly enough, I had not yet heard a peep out of 'baby.' You know, the one that was "sooooo hahd." But then 'baby' fired it up again, and I was sure that this was no normal boy-girl thing. I was obviously witnessing my first audible display of sex for hire, and was simply amazed at her ability to vocalize while, uh, experiencing the hahd delights of 'baby.' She got louder and louder as I shook my head. No one really says those things, do they??? Do they?? But by the time 'baby' came (two more rounds of hah-dah and fast-ah), I was ready to tip her, she had made me so hot....


"Look at the titties on that one!" They gather around the computer
screen.
"Do you think she would agree to be my wife? What do you think?
She's beeee-a-yew-tee-fawl."
"Yeah, for three minutes."
"That's all I'd need," Roger chortles.
"Price on the last ticket to Bang Cock was less than $400. Take an
LWOP and go!"
"Do you think she would marry me?"

Jesus.

115, But It's a Dry Heat...

No wind when I left the hooch at 5AM. The generators outside the
DFAC hum in a deafening roar, I can smell eggs from two hundred
yards away. At first, they tried to feed us turkey ham, turkey
bacon. No go. So any Muslim working in the kitchen who could not
surrender his religion and fry up some bacon was drummed out.
Mostly Indian cooks now.

Am chafing at the restrictions today. Asking too many questions,
getting flak for wanting data. Pointless.

Got an email from the wife of a co-worker, who is positive I am
sleeping with her husband (I am not). Called me a bitch, vague
threats. One of the perks of being the only woman in the group, I
guess. Another day in paradise.

SO called from home. We are having communication issues. No
surprise there. We haven't communicated in nine years. Far be it
for me to demand some sort of relationship.

I am having a hard time not believing that David is a sadistic
monster. Did I even know him? I thought I did. He has disappeared,
afraid to answer his email. All designed to inflict maximum
damage. Out of sight, out of mind. He can return to his drunken,
abusive wife, and pretend for another thirty years that his
marriage is worth saving. Good luck, Dave. You'll need it.

Tears are in my eyes. I have never felt so broken.

Chan Chan

It has been a while since I have been able to listen to it. I ordered it from Amazon in what seems like another life...the CD came, and we feel in love with it. Each afternoon, when there was nothing to do, we'd drive out to the flightline and wait for the fighters to taxi by. My smile was genuine, awash in the hot fumes of jet fuel. Chan Chan would be blaring in the background, it seemed like this was the soundtrack of our new lives.

The last day, before I was scheduled to leave our camp for the last time, Chan Chan was playing. It was not that far of a drive to the flightline, but by the time we got there, a terrible dust storm had blown in. I was driving, and though I had heard of the legendary dust storms, I could not have imagined how bad they got. Along the road, I came up against an impenetrable wall ofsand. I started to brake, and then saw the tank in front of me, on the road, stopped. Hitting the brakes, we slid until we were literally feet from plowing into the tank. There was nowhere to pull off the road, so we had to turn around and head back the other way, cutting across lanes that we could no longer see through. Scary stuff. Pulled off and shook for ten minutes. Dave touched my arm, and told me to take it easy. Yeah, sure. Dying wasn't on the schedule for today.

Chan Chan always reminds me of that dust storm, of that day, of all the afternoons watching the fighter jets take off. Seems like those were simpler days, happier days. But I suppose it always seems like that in retrospect...