In My Element

As much as I hate to admit it, North Carolina is a rather big part of me. I mean, shit, I've been here on and off since 1996. And while I can't really stand the Fayetteville/Fort Bragg area, I can't deny feeling a small sense of home there. And, yes, it's no secret that I love Wilmington.

All that said, I love Southern California even more, but therein lies the problem. Over the last decade-plus, my operational network has shifted from the West Coast to the East Coast. What am I talking about? Well, let me lay it out in terms of what I like to call "just desserts."

Okay, for those of you that know, I embarked on a bit of revenge late last year. My favorite enemy dealt me a nice one to the junk, and, admittedly, I'm still reeling a little bit from it. It's really not a big deal anymore, however, and as far as I'm concerned, it's water under the bridge. My favorite enemy was smart about things and made sure she didn't deliver a mortal blow until she was all the way across the country.

Regardless, I tried to get back at her anyway. The problem is that, even though my "operational network" was in place, I was not, and money becomes very important when one is not there to oversee something personally. And, as fight would have it, my favorite enemy took care of my "play money" before she took off. Yes, some of you know of the "other funds" I have access to, but I'm really not allowed to use those for personal ventures.

Long story short, she was smart, very smart, and ultimately the desire to end her was replaced by a strange desire to see her again. Weird, I know, but that's what happens when you work for the government for nine years.

So, in summary: operations intact, funding not.

But, here I am back in North Carolina and the subject of another attempt at being put down. Problem here (for the antagonist) is that I'm here, and so is he. My network is here, and so is he. No more cryptic phone calls to my friends and acquaintances... I can go see them in person. On top of that, I can go see "him" in person. And trust me, "he" isn't going to like that.

Ah, the good old days. Off to war with an enemy well within reach. I am, no doubt this time, in my element, and I can't help but smile a little.

Have a nice day.

Afterthought

As I'm typing this in my rented room in Wilmington, North Carolina, there's a strange and constant curiosity floating around the back of my mind. An afterthought of sorts. It's asking me what the fuck I'm doing here, once again in the place that I left not 14 months ago. Strangely, despite the plethora of reasons for being in North Carolina, I can't really answer that question. What the fuck am I doing here? How the fuck should I know?

And that's the million-dollar question, isn't it? How the fuck should I know about anything? The answer to that shouldn't surprise you: how the fuck should I know?

Maybe it's me, maybe it's this place, maybe it's the fact that my three dogs are split up in three different locations, but I really feel like I shouldn't be here. During one of my first days back I was driving down Market Street headed for downtown, and I could've sworn the trees were telling me to leave. No, I'm not crazy (not certifiably, anyway), but that's the sensation I got.

I know what you're thinking and you're probably right. It's just me. Nothing new there, everything I've done right and done wrong has always been just me. This shouldn't be any different. But it is somehow. My whole life I've been little more than an afterthought to most people, but here I'm practically nothing. The person people roll their eyes at when his number shows up on their caller IDs. It's worse than afterthought... it's not being thought of at all.

Of course, again, that's mostly my fault. I didn't really make an attempt to embrace Wilmington when I was here the first time, even though I love the place. Then again, that logic might not work here, since I hate Fayetteville, North Carolina, but feel absolutely at home in the shadows of Fort Bragg.

I've never been remarkably good at anything. Baseball, maybe, but with most things I was merely competent. People say I'm a good writer, but most of that is undoubtedly false encouragement, and until I make a living as a writer, I won't ever make the mistake of agreeing with them. There was, however, one thing that I was among the best at, and that was being a soldier. Now, I never fit in well with the Army system, but nobody in uniform anywhere in the world could tell me that I didn't know my job, and know it well. Whether it was demolitions-related or reconnaissance-related, I knew what I was doing better than most in my field. Jumping out of planes I can't claim such confidence with, but I'm not really confident with anything that you can do perfectly and still maintain a good chance of dying.

The irony here is that I treated the Army much like most people treat me: as an afterthought. It was merely something I was doing until I was ready, financially and mentally, to pursue other things. My dreams, in particular, and we all know how those are turning out.

Still, as Memorial Day approaches and the notifications from the Army become more frequent, I can't help but feel some guilt in not being a soldier anymore. There are friends I will remember this upcoming holiday, though I remember them always, and the burden of not being there when they were killed is sometimes too much to bear. Maybe I came back to North Carolina to fulfill some fucked up destiny. I, with my good-for-nothing left foot and bad attitude, just might wind up back in uniform. Half-unwillingly, of course, but who knows? I have a tendency to leave things unfinished, and maybe this is one of them. This is all, of course, afterthought to me. But then again, it's probably even less to you.

Still, I'd rather be an afterthought buried next to my friends and fellow paratroopers than "that guy" you sometimes hang out with.

Mobility

Ah, what a sweet thing to be able to hop in the car with minimum possessions and go across the world to wherever it is you want to live. Very sweet.

And very, very difficult.

I was mobile once. After high school, I think. I had few real possessions, if any. When I joined the Army, I took a suitcase full of clothes with some movies and some books; maybe some CDs. I lived that way for a while. I had nothing, I needed nothing, and I wanted (figuratively) nothing. And then it happened... I started buying "stuff."

I seriously got away without having a car for a couple of years. I left my old, semi-classic '67 Chrysler in the possession of my sister back in Nevada, and arrived at Fort Bragg with two feet and cab fare. That was early 1996. And despite living off-post, I didn't buy another vehicle until 1998. And it all rolled from there.

Some furniture, a home theater system that seriously rocked the apartment complex, kitchenware. Everything that someone planting so-called permanent roots would need (though I didn't buy a bed until 1999; sleeping just fine on the floor). Only I wasn't planting roots of any kind. I was just accumulating stuff. Large, heavy, volume-filling stuff.

When I went to Korea I enjoyed a "return to mobility" of sorts, only taking my laptop computer and some clothes to the East Asian country. It was nice. For an entire year, I didn't have to worry about anything. No stuff, no moving stuff, no keeping stuff safe. Nothing.

Last year, as some of you know, I embarked on my long-awaited move from North Carolina to California. Regardless, I had to move a ton of stuff. Lots of furniture. Lots of large, heavy, volume-filling stuff. And let me tell you, it wasn't cheap to do. My mobility was limited by cost, weight, and pets. And, to add insult to injury, I got stuck in Nevada.

Okay, on to the point... in a couple of days, I will be leaving Nevada for whereabouts unknown. In all likelihood, it will be a temporary return to North Carolina, but I really don't have a clue as to my final resting point. And the first thing I did (or rather, am doing)? Getting rid of all of my heavy shit. Gone will be the furniture. Gone will be the crap I don't need or want. Gone will be everything that limits my mobility. I will not, until I'm filthy rich, be anchored to a place due to money, weight, space, animals, or people ever again. Sounds simple, doesn't it? I assure you, overcoming the mental realization of not "having stuff" in such a materialistic society is anything but.

I, quite literally, am taking nothing but clothes, a cot, a chair, my cell phone, and a laptop. Okay, yes, I have my animals, but unlike last year's insane 2-people, 3-dog, 6-cat move I undertook, I'm only undertaking a 1 person, 3-dog, 2-cat move. And by the end of my journey, there will only be 2 dogs.

My intent for the rest of the year is to be cheap, lightweight, a completely and spontaneously mobile. Of course, this means the lack of any kind of social life, but I don't care... I've got a goal and I need to make it.

And if you don't think I can do it, ask anybody who knew me when I slept on the floor or when I dated my ex. I'll put up with a ton of shit before I start to cave. A ton. Literally.

I'm wired, I'm excited. Pardon the staccato formlessness of this blog entry.

Have a nice day.

A Sleepless Night

I'm a pet owner. Dogs and cats. A lot of them. And like most pet owners, my pets are a part of my family. A part of it. They watch my television, they listen to my music, they eat in my kitchen. Sounds dirty, I know, and it is... but I wouldn't change it for the world.

On Wednesday, May 24, 2006, I took my dogs for a walk in a wide-open field. Not quite the middle-of-nowhere, but a good couple of miles from the nearest house and the nearest highway. In fact, other than a small livestock farm, a gravel quarry, and a water tower, there's nothing but acres upon acres of playground (for a four-legged friend, of course). It was 12:30 PM. I walked my usual route around the field, with my loyal German Shepherd in tow. My two other dogs, an independent "king-of-the-hill" pit bull/pointer mix, and a super intelligent, yet super stubborn beagle/pointer combo, decided to check out a small hill to the north of our location. Somehow, I knew it was going to be hell to get them back. And it was.

4:30 PM. My truck is stuck on an outcropping on top of a different hill. My German Shepherd is terrified of the squealing tires. My pointer mixes are nowhere to be found. Nowhere. The longest they've ever stayed gone before was two-and-a-half hours. Not three, and certainly not four. As my rescue vehicle approaches from the south side of the hill, I start thinking... start thinking about the poisonous snakes that live in the area, about the groups of coyotes that run rampant, and about the wild horses that can kill a dog with a mere flick of its hoof. And let's not forget the people who shoot dogs for getting too close to livestock, or just for fun. It's 4:30. Where the fuck are my boys?

My truck's out, but I'm tired, hungry, and my hand is bleeding from a multitude of splinters from an old, weathered two-by-four that I probably shouldn't have picked up. I have to leave the area, get my German Shepherd some water, and take care of my hand. One last look across the horizon. Nothing.

My pit bull/pointer is easily the coolest dog I've ever had. He was the first dog I'd owned since I had left the Army (Hell, since I had joined the Army) and, like my previous dog, was a stray. My roommate and I had found him, along with another lost dog, in front of our rental house outside of Fort Bragg. While the other dog was clearly trained (she wouldn't even climb on the couch when called), the pit bull/pointer was young, and was apparently still in the process of being potty trained. A good Samaritan (sometimes), I posted signs for both dogs around the neighborhood. A couple of days later, the trained female was picked up by her rightful owner. But the pit bull/pointer... nothing. Probably left by some G.I. who couldnt take him with him, and couldn't (or didn't feel the need to) find a home for him. Weeks passed, I got attached, I took down the signs that the weather hadn't blown away. The pit bull/pointer became mine.

Over the years I discovered just how gentle this dog was, and yet, how protective. I would baby-sit my friend's infant daughter from time to time, but to be honest, the pit bull/pointer did most of the baby-sitting. He would curl around the baby, keep it warm. He'd lick her when she started crying. And, if for some reason I left the room, my dog would act angry until I came back. Obviously, he'd grown up around children, and every so often I would wonder if a small child yearned for their lost pit bull/pointer. I didn't care though... by this time, like I said, he was all mine.

It's 5:30 PM. I'm back out at the field. I drive a few mile radius around the spot I last saw them. The only thing I find is a small red hatchback parked on a closed road with two teenagers trying to have sex in broad daylight. They see me, try to hide, I laugh my ass off as I pass them. But still no dogs. At 6:30, I leave again, eat a quick dinner, take a quick shower, and head right back out. I'm there from 7:00 to 8:00. Nothing. So I leave again, watch American Idol to distract myself, and then head back out at 10:30. Still nothing, not even jackrabbits.

The beagle/pointer is another story entirely. Extremely needy, extremely stubborn, and so fucking smart, it blows my mind. He's also so self-conscious, when he takes a shit, he buries it meticulously with his nose and his front paws. I'm serious when I say this... you'll never know he pooped. I had built a privacy fence at my last house. Now, this could be a testament to the sloppy work, but no matter what I did (chicken wire, rocks, boxes, planking), that damn dog would find a way out of the backyard. He's like those velociraptors from Jurassic Park: if there's a weak spot in the defense, he'll find it. He's also a master at getting to the cat food bowls. It doesn't matter where they are... on the counter, on the table, in the garage in a secluded area... he'll get to it. I've seen him walk on his hind tiptoes and turn his head upside down just so his tongue could flick at the cat food. It didn't matter how much he knocked around... as long as one or two morsels stuck to his tongue, he was happy.

He's a bit of a sad case, too. I wasn't his first owner. His previous owner used to beat him because he barked too much. That explained why I had him damn near a month before I heard him make a sound. His previous owner used a crate to try to potty train him. Unfortunately, he would be left in the crate even when the owner was home. And the fucker wondered why the dog would bark The dog would also get carsick. Every single time you'd put him in a car, he'd hurl. I don't know why. When I drove him across country, he quit doing it, so I'm guessing he was afraid of cars... probably something to do with that prick first owner. But it didn't matter now... he belonged to a new family. One that wouldn't abandon him... one that would look for him until he was found.

It's 4:30 AM, Thursday morning. I haven't slept a wink, although I've tried. I'm attempting to wait until 9:00, so I can call animal control to see if they've picked up two pointer mixes, but I can't. My anxiety overtakes me, and within 15 minutes, I've got my German Shepherd loaded up and am on my way back to the field. I get there, and there are jackrabbits up the ass, now. Everywhere. Running from my headlights, taunting me... cottontails up as if saying, "Here we are, where are your dogs?" The fuckers.

I roll down my window and start calling for my dogs, futilely, I figure. I drive slowly... maybe they'll hear the truck this time... if they're not dead. What am I doing? I should be asleep, but instead I'm driving around the same field I've driven around 50 times. I'm approaching a bush that I stop to piss on every time I walk by it. Why? I don't know... it just happens to be the right distance from the point where I drink a glass of water to the point where I need to go. A beagle's face is poking out of the bush. I stop the truck, get out, and blink. The face isn't moving. I'm seeing shit. I call for my boys. The pointer emerges from the bush behind the beagle. The beagle finally moves. Holy shit... They stayed together. I've found my boys.

They're mad at me, of course. They act as though I left them there on purpose, as if I'm supposed to wait until they're done wandering the countryside. While the pointer enjoys the hot air from the truck's heater, he growls at me a bit. I guess it was my fault. I might as well take the blame, or they'll hate me for a week. I laugh. Pet them both. Pet the German Shepherd because he feels left out. Pet the two pointer mixes again.

Then I laugh again. They're home, and they can be mad at me all they want... they slept in my piss.