Loud and Clear

Once I got acclimatized to the holding building I was in, I'd like to say that things had gotten better, but that wouldn't be the case. I don't do well in isolation, and with the Friday Harbor staff not willing to respect whatever the charter right is I have that lets me both smoke weed and take my modafinil, you know, the medicine one.

The reality of the situation was that the Americans were clearly in charge. I could tell from the Military Spot 7s with desert camo, probably leftovers from the Oil War, bought up by PMCs, just like everything else that was part of the fire sale the DOW ran after it came out that the DuPont paint had an anti-dust sealant on it that acted as a non-stick making them unpaintable after it cures. Same as the new model Chevs and BWDs. I think Ford finally got the rights to the patent, which will be nice for my next truck, I guess.

If there is another truck. I mean, technically it wasn't stolen. I'm not really sure what the policy is on carjacking, let alone if my policy was still valid.

While contemplating the insurance ramifications of theft under occupation, I watched squads of 6 PMCs with 4 desert dogs load up into one of the MRAPS and head out of the resort, past the razor wire lined gate, and further into the former golf course that. Over the time I've been here, I'd watched them roll out polyethylene runways and erect Quonset huts, along with their regular gridded out streets creating a de-facto village for the various PMCs who, by now, were amassing a larger contingent around the resort, milling around the beach front.

Of course, this didn't stop the locals from happily renting out golf equipment to off-duty PMCs and whatever little green men happen to have the desire to negotiate the remaining six hole course.

By the time I finished brushing my teeth, I'd been greeted by my daily chaperone who was tasked with taking me to this week's work rotation with rough hands and fixed bayonet for some goddam reason. Where I'd been landscaping last week, my intentional incompetence managed to severely maim a prized magnolia tree, getting me reassigned to "Warehouse". Noticing the freshly paved road into the woods, my first words that morning were "What's up that road there?"

"Bad hombres, my man," today's PMC chaperone said, "Don't worry about them. They're an OP, our problem, not a YP, your problem. YP is MP."

"My problem?"

"Moving Pallets, my man, god you Canadians are dumb."

With that, he spit out some of the dip he had been incessantly chawing on since he got me up at 6.

Most of the guys I'd seen go for Zyn or a patch, but to be honest I was more concerned about the razor sharp bayonet he was clearly not used to the weight of as his barrel was pointed more down than straight, making it more likely that he'd jab me in the thigh than anything, which I guessed was okay.

"C'mon. It's cold as balls out." (Spit)

It wasn't too bad, may be 8°, maybe 12°, certainly nothing killer like we used to get this time of year.

I could barely understand what the hell this guy was saying behind the wad of shit covering his teeth that he was chawing on anyway. He was so happy to have marched me around outside with some kind of AR platform gun that, because of the extra weight, he mostly waved around wildly from time to time as he spoke, making me increasingly anxious.

He went on and on about how this was a lot like wherever he was from which was either Iowa, Missoruah, or Omaha, or Ohia, or some shit, it sounded like brown goop punctuated by spit and the rattle of his rifle strap as he swung.

Around the back of my hotel building I spotted a few more loose irregulars, one sitting on his helmet with his back against the building wall, their guns stacked up neatly beside him. they'd formed a circle, and as the one sitting on the helmet shouted, two guys would run at each other and head first while wearing their MerCo gear which was, I guess, built to withstand more than that.

With an almost musical but ultimately atonal thunk, the crowd cheered. A larger-than-average PMC brayed proudly as he his opponent did a full 360° spin, then fell over, earning an even more raucous cheer from the crowd.

A voice emerged from the crowd, obviously towards my chaperone, "Dennis! We got league three at about six, you in?"

"Shore as shit! Be a few minutes late on account-a babysitting" His wad of tobacco ejected from his mouth landing on the ground in one putrid heap of spit bubbles and Virginia's finest. In a regular volume he remarked that with, "shit," then back at volume, "I'll be there soon as I can!" Dennis punched his helmet a few times in response before reaching into one of his many superfluous pockets until finding his designated dip pocket and his tin of plug tobacco contained within.

I watched as he dropped his AR from his hands and let it swing loose on his shoulder, nervous about the free swinging blade. After twisting open the tin, he pulled out the whole wad and gave it a good huff.

"You ever get a smell that like reminds you of like... you know, your dad or something? Canadians have dads right? You don't come from like eggs or nothing, right?"

He laughed and twisted off a chunk of the tobacco before repacking the remainder away and popping the brown morsel into his mouth. With his mouth full, "Yeah, mmm. Like that. You know? Makes Canada okay you know," he picked his AR back up from its swing, "You know, like... no offence, I guess."

Sure, no offence. You've got a disgusting habit and a knife-gun likely to poke me in the femur, but sure, no offence.

"Yeah," I say.

"Did you want some dip?" He started to reach into his DDP for the tin.

"No," I say. I don't try to imply too heavily that I have higher standards and I see this thing he was doing as one of THE grossest things I'd ever seen other than maybe poppers– the thing where you have tobacco and weed going into a bong without a filter resulting in a one-hit with a head-rush, coughing fit, and a hell of a time cleaning the thing after you're done. I'd still give dip the edge on disgusting though, as poppers were only truly disgusting in the context of the black bog you'd wind up with. I'd done it once or twice, but not for me, thanks.

Dennis blinked and nodded.

After a while he gesticulated his knife-gun towards a door beside a larger building that would turn out to be the warehouse I was assigned to, which had one of its three roller doors open to the back of a cargo truck backed up to it. Once again, it was in the desert paint job.

"Uh, over there," Dennis spits.

We climb a small lift of three steps on to a steel landing, and after Dennis managed to stab the one-way fire door leaving a scratch vaguely shaped like a cursive J, he rapped on the door twice with his fist and took a step back to safe distance before it opened outward, which Dennis didn't really seem to get.

There was a jumble of bodies, a few comments about the bayonet, more than one "are you sure" and "I got it", and two of the three of us there were dodging the bayonet as we made our way inside.

"Jesus, Dennis," a voice says. I'm behind Dennis at this point so I don't really see them. "I ain't need to shave you fucking idiot."

"What?" Dennis says incredulously, "It's cool. And I wasn't aiming to stab you or anything," he gestures at me, "It's to keep the Canuck in line."

"Yeah, these boys are rowdy," I hadn't said or done anything really, other than look around "oh especially this one," he said looking me up and down, then in a faux-hoser accent he exclaimed "Soh-ree!" which was damn hateful and kinda racist.

Everyone looks at me standing there in my grey jumpsuit emblazoned with the stencil style letters spelling out "CIV" across the chest and my intake number (56) under that.

"Reaaaal tough lookin'. That's why he's doing trucks. Hey. Canadian."

I look over. The head receiver, Ray, is not in a uniform, and instead wears a pair of black dickies and a lift brace. He'd looked at me up and down and probably clocked my Bugs Bunny-esque biceps. My face probably looked like hell too all myotonia'd out because of how tired I was from not sleeping properly.

"Help us unload this deuce and a half and maybe we'll give you a, what do you guys call it, a double-double. Maybe if you do good, we can scare up a tuxedo for you to wear instead of that grey thing. Canadians are into that kind of thing, eh? "

I assume tuxedo, based on the context, is the denim-on-denim two-piece uniforms I'd seen some other detainees wearing. It's true, I was into it. The grey one I was wearing had kind of a janitorial feel and was a onesie, making taking a shit on the job particularly demoralizing due to the need to fully undress.

"Yeah, maybe you need a few to get going, eh? What'd they say on that show? You know the cultural training... tappa pappa, eh?"

He probably means 'pitter-patter', but based on the way he was saying eh with a hard H, so to speak, I wasn't inclined to move efficiently or quickly, pretending instead, as I had been doing previously, to be an idiot, so as to fuck around and find out how to do as little work for these scumbags as possible.

I decided to make a noise.

"Ehh..."

It was good start. Then, unplanned, I continued.

"Ehe..."

I was thinking like, where are we going here Matthew?

"Don not under stan."

Then once I saw what I was saying I was thinking... yeah, yeah, yeah, genius.

"Parlez-tu Francais?"

It's a dogshit accent, but I make sure to use the disrespectful 'tu' as a little treat for myself. Num num num.

The Americans are stunned. Dennis spits in a garbage can and makes that dumb open mouth look, "You weren' speakin' no French when we were talking earlier."

"Maybe you were doing the talking? I learn say yes please, no thanks, you did the talking. I say yes or no. What he's saying, he wants me to unload these boxes? I can prove it. Look up uh.. French Canadienne disease."

I relax my muscles in my face to really sell it, even though my fake accent was like borderline cartoonish, and not even convincing to me, the good ol' boys did as I said.

"You want me to shit on the floor okay but I shouldn't lif'."

They're tapping on their phones. I do my best to look like a pissed off Quebecois. A cigarette or a can of Labatt Bleue would really sell it.

"Well you're assigned to receiving today Matthew. Wait a sec. If you were French, wouldn't it be Le Matchew or something?"

"Mes paronts appellez-moi a-la Anglo."

Whooof. I have crossed over into territoire plus racist with that one.

The Americans keep looking at me and their phones, except Dennis who has his bayonet ('ees' bayonette?) kinda tipped toward me in a way that is meant to convey suspicion, and actually conveying the "you will be turned into thin sliced ham if I sneeze" kind of vibe.

"Hey uh," says one of the two other guys on the dock, "How much English do you speak?"

"Uh, I get bai, if want me to understan speak slow."

They decided to huddle up. After they jbberjabber about what to do with me, they clearly come to a decision.

"Aa-right Pierre. Listen up. I. Will. Speak. Slow. So. That. You. Understan me, ok?"

"Okay, but liiiike, you can speak more fast than that, maaaan. I speak two languages and like I think maybe you only kind of speak one sort of?"

"What's THAT supposed to mean?"

"I just saying you're not like Billiam Shake speare, more like uhh... Adam, eh, knife-gun, right Denis? Je m'excuse... Dennis" I make sure to seem like I've never said the name Dennis before in my life, opting instead for the French pronunciation.

"As-tu. Speak. English?" I used the same pacing he did to me.

This earns a chuckle. "You're all right, Frenchy. So look, you're stuck here, irritable bowels or not. There's a shitter over there anyway but clean up after your gross dumps and it should be fine for today. See about getting you reassigned if you shit yourself outright." Ray pauses, "Or maybe we'll have Denny, I kinda like that for you Dennis, how about Denny like the French guy? No? Anyway Denny over here... uh... I dunno take you out back and turn you into Salisbury Steak. Who knows."

Everyone but me laughs.

"Relax Frenchy, it's a joke. You like, get, American jokes, right? Or did you not understand?"

"Oh yeah," I say, "I understand."

I remember the hair on my neck standing up as I looked over to see Dennis-or-Denny grinning like a jackal ready to take a notch off my ear at any opportunity.

"Loud and clear." I say, as I head into the bed of the cargo truck to grab a box, being sure to pocket a couple of box cutters, one of which I planned to walk out of here with.