You Call That Art?

My wife took our four year old daughter Ella to the world famous, Museum Of Modern Art (MoMa).

Mid-way through, the tour guide turned to the kids and said "And what do you think this sculpture looks like?".

Ella raised her hand and said, "Garbage".

Erik With A “K’. As In “Kill”.

I hang with my daughter at the playground a lot. Meet a lot of mom’s, trade a lot of horror stories about how much cake we all ate at the last birthday party. Don’t meet a lot of dad’s, but am happy when I do.

Always cool to trade “guy’s” perspective on child-raising, lack of sleep and the last time we actually set foot in a gym to do more than see if our card-key still worked.

But every once in a while you look across the bench and see a 6’5” rack-of-muscle with a buzz-cut, the dead-eyed stare of a paid assassin and the cool demeanor of a guy who’d twist your head off it’s spinal column as easily as spinning the top off a Bud.

I tried not to stare, but first of all the dude was massive. Dolph Lundgren in Rocky IV massive. His muscles had muscles. He was like Dolph Lundgren on ‘roids.

And he was watching my daughter. Fcuk. It can never be the IT guy from like, Staples. Him I could just slap the pen-protector off of his shirt, push him off the bench and be the hero-dad that saved the playground from the creepy kidless guy on the bench.

“Kid’s are having fun…”, I ventured, wondering how I’d explain to my wife why I was carrying home my own head.

Dolph didn’t even turn his head, just said “They’re innocent. Don’t have to worry about all the shit out there…”.

Great, way to go Dana. I was actually helping the Playground Serial Killer get into character. Good one.

“Yeah, like uh having to pay rent…”., I meekly tossed out there.

“Or worrying about war…war is shit”.

He turned to me. I braced for impact. He reached over and shook hands. Well, he reached over and my hand disappeared into his. He was shaking my wrist-stump. I may have peed a little bit, but involuntarily. And it was really hot out and I’d been drinking tons of water.

“Erik, with a “k”. Like the Vikings. You know the worst thing?”.

Instinctively and motivated by fear, I somehow knew the correct answer was not “When they give you a light cappuccino at Starbucks and you have to ask for more steamed milk?”.

Fortunately Erik The Viking answered for me.

“It’s so loud”.

I thought back to this morning in Starbucks, he was right. The “whurrshing” sound of milk steaming could be startling if you weren’t expecting it.

“The sound of gunfire”.

Oh, that sound.

“You never get used to it. I was in Somalia. We’re the guys who went in to rescue them. Clusterfuck. Shit was wrong everywhere you turned. You read Blackhawk Down”.

I felt actual pee go down my leg and wondered if Depends came in camouflage.

“Yes”, I lied.

“Yeah, shit right?”.

“Definitely…”, I tried to listen for a siren somewhere, wondered if I could jump the playground fence and flag down a cop before Erik pulled me back.

“You know that one guy, Spec Ops dude, wrote the other one…”.

Fantastically, miraculously, I actually knew whom he meant. I’d seen the paperback out years earlier, remembered the author’s cold eyes.

“The guy with the long hair, mustache—kinda wild looking?”.

Erk with a K nodded. “That’s the guy we read. He knows. I did nine tours in Iraq. No one does nine tours”.

I was not about to argue with him, call him a slacker for not going back for number ten.

“Know the difference between us and them?”

“The Iraqis?”

Erik smiled like a parent watching his child try to spell banana with a z.

“Between SEAL’s and Rangers. When it comes down on you? Fucking Rangers are a joke”.

Erik pantomimed a wild-eyed soldier, firing his rifle everywhere—hi, low, to the left, to the right.

“Not us man, we keep our shit together”. Erik aimed his rifle to the near tree line, about fifty yards from us. “Tzing”, he mimicked the sound of rounds traveling half a mile a second. I could feel myself sweating.

He slid his rifle over ‘bout five inches, “tzing…”, moved it over anther half foot, “Tzing…”. He picked his targets out carefully, never rushed the shot and put a round center mass every time.

“Know why most guys flunk the training?”

They were questions to a quiz which I was not expected to get the answers correct, but to just not answer “cappuccino foam?”.

“The physics. Lot’s of guys can survive ocean training. Most of ‘em flunk the UDT though. You know what UDT is?”.

Now I was getting a little pissed. I wanted to say, “Hey, you know how many calories are in an iced mocha with skim, not whole milk? Now drop and give me twenty, asswipe…”.

But he beat me to it. “Underwater Demolitions Training”. Guys never pass the written physics. Nitrogen mix at 60 meters, exothermic reaction in saline, yeah. That’s what fucks ‘em up”.

Just then a three-year-old blond-haired boy ran over, jumped into Erik’s arms. A perfect little Mini-Erik. Small “k”.

He kissed his dad, ran off.

“I watched every one of my friends die. Was just waiting for mine. But my kid softened me up. Figured I’d get out while I could. My background, lots of jobs I can get out here”.

Strangely, I didn’t feel compelled to ask exactly what those “jobs” might entail.

About two months later I was walking down the street, saw Erik going into an apartment building on my street. “Erik..with a “K”, I called out.

He turned around really slow, like a gunfighter secretly gathering himself before turning to face the enemy.

I hadn’t noticed how pale his blue eyes were. Or how clear. They gave away nothing. But took everything in. I could feel him running a threat assessment on me, like the alien in Predator “Male. Multi-ethnic. Loves donuts. Threat assessment n/a”.

I realized guys like Erik may not always have their finger on the trigger, but they sleep with the safety off. We talked for a minute, then went our separate ways. He never really registered any emotion, it was like we’d never met but he was giving me the benefit of the doubt.

I don’t think Erik puts a lot of stock in relationships, doesn’t have real long-term expectations. I do think Erik remembers people, but the faces he conjures don’t belong to the living. They belong to memories, wisps of reality that fade in and out of his mind, and exist in a world that is filled with sounds most of us can’t hear, and that he can’t forget.

Thank God, For Me…

No really, hold the applause. I do it for the children. And margaritas. But mainly, the children. Who by the way, if they’d quit jumping around like a *&^%($#! sack full of tree monkies could carry my margarita. How sweet would that be? I’d be doing it for the children, who just happened to be carrying some frosty drinks.

But I digress. Here’s my point:

“Dana is very polite, honest and great buyer. Even I delayed the work but he cooperated with me in such a way that was impressive. I am really very thankful to dana for his cooperation, and also thankful to God that I got connected to such a Great man. Thanks a lot, dana”.

I said I wouldn’t cry. Tissue please….

Do you not love the guy who wrote this? I fcuking do, I may marry him. Dare me. I mean, can’t you just hear the truth in this guy’s voice?

I mean, I think he’s a guy. Hmmm, actually he may be a she. We’ve actually never met. But that’s beside the point says The Great Man.

Our connection spans time and distance. Which could explain why he/she/it was 10 days late completing a coding project for my website. But hey, when you’re a Great Man you can overlook the foibles of lesser humans.

What you can’t overlook is the fact this tech had my website files and could’ve burned my site to the ground. Which he/she/it clearly would never do, because why? See Great Man reference above.

No, my connection to my little Malaysian brother/sister/goat runs deeper than any simple cash transaction. It runs all the way to my credit card. Again, not the point.

We’re all family, connected by the unseen bonds of humanity. I could care less that my newest brother/sister lives in Malaysia. Or Hong Kong. Or for that matter, King Kong. Like the sisters said, “We Are Family…”.

Oh and did I mention the part about GREAT MAN. Just wanted to make sure you got that.

So next time you’re in Singapore or Calcutta. Hmmm, or um, Viet Nam just sit back, order a cold beer and tell ‘em to put it on the GM’s tab. They know who I am. And man, they love me there. Wherever it is. And uh, whoever they are.

Oh, and can you also ask them if they charged like $200 worth of internet porn, 7 quad-ban cell phones, a Pamela Anderson calendar and a George Foreman grill to my credit card?

*clink*

Cheers.