If you could only see the botched copies of Department Of Defense material passed out to us, in a broken binder – I assumed sarcastically as training material, you would cry to death.
Lamest experience ever.
Thank God I had received real training, by appointed professionals (i.e. Military personnel) on certain terrain expectations before landing in Afghanistan the first time or else I would have shat myself for months.
Daftar Terminal you are:
Werk Load. Zab was really swamped and I had been hired for the same position; however, HR kept delaying my training with their complicated reservation system. We both wondered why there was so much mystery surrounding committing to a start date.
But really, I didn’t really care I just wanted to sleep.
My first day with my Blackberry
Everything was evolving rapidly, everything except our friendship. It remained the same stagnating rumble of insignificant arguments. But she was still entertaining and any doubts I had that our friendship could suffer from our different yet same personalities was gone the minute I went into this overdrive adrenaline rush of completing everything prior to my departure.
Although it was annoying not to receive an apology. After all it was clear she had been out-of-bounds for no logical reason, I thought. I replied her a “not to worry shit happens” from her email response.
If I have to be perfectly honest I was proving myself at the same time I was having sex (or starting) with this very tall ex-kickboxing champion, who was a bouncer at work. He was a clear revelation that I had hit rock bottom. Beautiful man, but as dirty as pork he’d never eat. Moroccan man I had flirtatious banter at coat check, where he hung around my side most of the nights. He only had this job on Thursdays til Saturdays and trained the rest of the week. The first time he brought me to his place I wanted to run back to my car drive home and never speak to him again, which I should have but I didn’t. He had a six-pack so I stayed. Horny makes you stupid. His apartment was shadiest til grey, cause if anything had ever been white it had furled and died in this place. I did it in the mess but it was scary. I’m surprised no boils or herpes miraculously appeared as I was supposed to contract a fatal disease from his bed sheets alone, as I later learned had never been washed either. It was just too filthy. He lived in a studio apartment bathroom right next to the entrance door where tub was crusted with black and toilet didn’t flushed. His floors had never been washed (he said he didn’t know how), clothes on the floor bed by the window facing his tiny laminated kinda white kitchen table filled with crumbs and food from yesteryear’s. Disgusting. It was gloomy, I don’t know how he found the energy to buy the darkest drapes for his ridiculously small windows, which were dusted over with crap. It was the lair of doom after the apocalypse had struck and he was waiting for the zombies to come eat him.
At work he was always so clean, shoes shined, hair clipped and clean, immaculate suits, clean nails. My whole theory on man changed and I should have figured it out when I had to drive him home all the way to no where land and crossroad to garbage life. I had never met such a guy and I deduced that he was probably on welfare and used that bouncer gig as extra money. He had no other skills and he clearly didn’t have the money to pursue his passion. He had been a champion in Morocco and tried to succeed in North America but quickly discovered funding for this sport was scarce and that help or opportunities for immigrants are not as Hollywoodian as they are lead to believe in their country. His rival had gone to Sweden and had risen at an international level.
It was a desolate situation hence the fact I didn’t mind so much about Zab’s comments, because at the moment she was not the worst thing in my life. If I could stick to such a guy who had no potential and was obviously not a kickboxing champion, just a guy with a six-pack who wanted the ladies, leaving far away was clearly a good decision.
When I arrived from my sexual escapade which I swore was the last because as sex was not even that great, I saw something that made me very happy. Finally, a confirmation. My life shades of grey was slowly dissipating itself into clearer skies and bright and luminous horizons.
My paper work was progressing at the speed of someone chocking on their own saliva. The whole process was surprising and unexpectantly I jumped in this bandwagon named “get me out of here.” I could have stopped to think for a minute and rationalized on my diverging path, you know like wasn’t I supposed to work in the fashion industry in Hong Kong? But no, I decided it was less effort to just wait and see what happens. I’m a self-inflicted door mat.
I don’t know why I never put my foot down against my flawed vagabond self. This could get me out of some serious trouble (or discernment) if only I listened to the almost non-existent voice of reason hidden in a speck of an atom in my mind. But I didn’t so I went and I sent all y information to Daft For Sure and had less than 10 days to move all my shit, pack my bags, settle my accounts, finalize my taxes and say goodbye to friends for a long while. It seemed impossible but TV tells you that nice people always prevail. Right?
It was winter, I felt a warm vortex pulling me to another world. A world in the Middle East.
A Criminal Background check. Doesn’t it usually take 6-8 weeks to be issued? I think I had a NATO Secret Clearance hidden somewhere in my piles of kept paper work. I didn’t know if I could or wanted to secure this job at all. In the Letter of Offer I found that I had more than 60 days of unpaid vacation per year, I was underpaid (for Kabul) but was rewarded by a great health plan and free tickets to/from home.
I also mentally bargained with myself to never divulge my present and future plans with my family- that I may work in a war zone again. You know now, that my parents had issues with departures.
The first time I went to Kabul my mother cried and told me I would come back in a coffin. My plan was to tell them – that is my parents at the last possible second but prior to catching my flight. However, I was usurped of that right as the hiring company called my parents house and in their introduction they fully disclosed who they where, the nature of their organization maybe all the way to the regularity of her bowel movements and, and, annnd that I was going to be deployed to Afghanistan. Baffled? I was too.
The second time I had been hired to work in Kandahar, which once I arrived I discovered was worst than Kabul who had been quiet and the epitome of all parties and hedonism; that the environment was different, this was war. When I arrived in Kandahar or KAF as we called it, everybody from civilians to military personnel had the same reaction. “You should have lied, we all told our families we are working in Dubai. Duh. Why bring excessive stress to your family? It’s not like you are going to go out of camp.” I recall this was said by a meddlesome captain. I told my father of my plans while we were in his car and he bluntly told me: “If you die I am not going to your funeral.” Sigh.
Yes. I was still going to Hong Hong and I would successfully learn Cantonese, to the great dismay of my parents.
But if I had to pack. What would I wear in the land of sad sand and woes this time…