Of Pens and Swords

Let’s see if I can describe my walk to work everyday. First, I walk out of my tent, notice how bright it is compared to the deep in the belly of the world darkness that the tent provides. (I opened my little window area, so that I could tell day from night inside…) I put on my sunglasses, look right, turn right, then walk. The first thing I notice is the smell of dirt. Not really dirt so to speak, but dirt none the less. There’s a different smell than in the Mojave, which is what I call in my mind the smell of the desert.
Approximately 30 paces later, the next thing I smell is the odd mix of ass from the shitter and shampoo from the shower next to it. Mixed with a dirt smell. I speed up slightly. I come to the road, look right to make sure I’m not going to earn today’s Darwin Award, look left to make sure that everyone is obeying the One Way street rule, then cross. This route puts me between two very large buildings that are used for housing transients. The smells between these buildings is usually a mix of cigarettes, black and milds, occasionally a cigar, and butt cans. Sometimes a new group comes in from up north, and their uniforms have that ‘field’ smell, the one that will never wash out. If you are a grunt, or ever have been, you know the smell. A smell that permanently stains the uniform, Oxyclean doesn’t even work it’s wonder against it. That and the stains on the collar and sleeve cuffs, that never go away.
Towards the end of the buildings, the smell of diesel exhaust from the huge generators hits you first. Then it’s mixed with a girl’s shower smell…Shampoos, conditioners, ton’s of other smells that only a woman could identify. It’s just a woman’s shower smell to me…well beyond the Irish Spring and PertPlus smell of the guys. Another street to cross, look both ways again on this one, since it’s only a one way, but a lot less people observe it on this road. Cross the street. The smell of the largest chowhall in the entire world hits you, and smells of the carnival. The carnival is what I call the little shopping area we have, due to it’s layout and how many people mill around in there aimlessly, like at a carnival. Subway, Burger King, hot dogs, pizza, chinese food…all the smells hit you.
About another 100 feet or so down the path, on top of the chowhall and carnival smells, it’s mixed with diesel exhaust smells again, with spoiled milk, trash, and the porta-potty smell.
The porta-potty smell. It’s as disinctive as a diaper smell, something that you’ll never forget. It’s a combination of old piss, crap, and that porta-potty blue liquid that is supposed to curtail those smells. Yum…

Then, it’s the Salute zone. Technically, this whole post is a salute area, but this particular area, between the chow hall and my office, is riddled with officers. Ever see a line of ants going across the porch? Yep, that’s it, and that’s no exaggeration. I salute about every 3 steps for the next half-mile. God forbid you miss one, some self important LTC will stop you in your tracks and ream you for not fulfilling his wishes. The excuse, sorry sir, I’ve saluted 29 LTC’s in the past 2 minutes, I thought I got you already, doesn’t work. This strip of territory is the sole reason that nobody is allowed to use their right arm for anything but saluting. This is great, because now I get twice the exercise due to the fact that I have to make two 3/4 mile trips instead of one. That’s 3/4 mile one way…by the way. Oh, don’t get caught carrying anything, even a 100pd piece of equipment, with both arms. It is a proven guarantee that at least one officer will make you put that stuff down and salute his self-righteous ass.

Well, after usually 75 salutes, I get into my office. I smell the burnt coffee smell that my Super has mastered. Him putting 2.5 times more coffee into the filter. It used to take me 30 hours to get the same smell from coffee that he gets in 12 minutes of brewing time. Nummy…