Jack did not know why they had to walk through the streets. To him it made no sense, but then again that was the Marine Corps. So here they are walking through another market, in another place that smelled like someone farted and left. That was just one more thing he could not stand about these people, they stank. It was not just a small bad smell , or like a workout stink. No this was the stink of all stink. It was almost like they bathed in B.O. The smell was everywhere. As Jack walked and looked around at the faces staring back at him he knew one thing for sure. He had on a helmet and a vest and had been walking for over an hour in 100 degree temperatures and he still did not smell as bad as they did.

So they walked, as they always did. They would spread out enough so if a grenade or I.E.D. went off it would not get more than one or two of them. They stayed close enough to be able to support each other if small arms erupted. Today no one expected much. It was more a show of force. A few days ago, the gods of war had unleashed them on the small city. The insurgents never knew what hit them. It was a real success and the haji’s had been caught by surprise. They attempted to fight, but once they found out it was Marines that they were fighting, they ran.

Jack’s platoon had cut off their escape. It was a good, high body count and the gods of war were appeased. At least for the time being, so this stroll was nothing more than putting a dick on the table to allow everyone to gawk at its size and strength.

Even so Jack stayed alert, as did everyone else. To say they stayed alert was to say that they were all normal. The “Death Dealers” from 8^th Marines had been in country for eight months now. They had learned fast. Mistakes here were very costly and Jack’s platoon had not had to “pay the toll” for months now.

So Jack walked at the rear of the formation. He was able to see all the movements of everyone in front of him. His dark Oakelys hid the hate in his eyes. Jack could have cared less about these people. They were cutting each others heads off before he got there and they would still be doing so after he left. Jack had come to the conclusion that these people did not know how to live in peace. War and conflict was a way of life for them. It was as necessary as food and water for survival. Without it these people did not know what to do. So Jack did not walk the streets for them.

Jack did not walk the streets for all those assbags back home either. They all had some option about the war. How this was wrong or that was right. How they supported the troops but not the war. Sell that shit to the Army, because Jack wasn’t buying. A person either believed in their country or they didn’t. That statement just showed how pussified America had become. Nobody wants to lay it on the line, but nobody wants to be left behind either. What a bunch of shit.

Jack walked the streets for the 13 guys that walked the streets with him. He was there for them as they were for him. At this point, in this smelly market, on this dirty street, that was all that mattered.

The point man came to a stop. The formation stopped. Everyone faced outward and took a knee. Jack faced to the rear. He watched as a woman bought fruit from a stand to his left. Three young men were drinking warm sodas sitting at a plastic card table. A man that looked about a hundred years old was shooing away a group of kids from his fly covered meat.

Jack’s M-4 was in his shoulder. The barrel was slanted just enough for him to see the entire area over the front site. Jack looked for the slightest thing out of place. A bag unattended, a man moving to quickly through the market, anything that did not belong, his thumb rested on the safety. The Copenhagen in his mouth had become dry. He sucked hard on it and spit. A woman looked at him in disgust. Jack always got the feeling that something bad was about to happen, but he could not stop it. He controlled his breathing, but he just could not shake that feeling of impending doom. Jack dug the butt of the M-4 tighter into his shoulder.

Then a voice from behind him spoke.

“Move out!” The Lieutenant commanded.

No, Jack thought. Something is wrong.

Everyone got to their feet and relaxed a bit. Jack stayed down.

No! No! Stay down!, his brain was screaming, but he could not speak. I’ve been here before! We’ve been here before! To your right!

BOOM! The explosion knocked Jack down. His helmet flew off his head. His ears were ringing. He could hear the screams of his brothers in front. He looked around. They were in the middle of the street. The people in the market were running around, he could smell the car burning. Then the rifle fire started. It was the crack of AK-47s. Jack attempted to orientate himself. He looked for the muzzle flashes. He had to get out of the street. He shouldered his weapon and let a burst of fire fly towards the noise of the firing AKs. He searched for cover. Jack stood up and ran towards the mud wall near the hanging meat. Johnson was in front of him and went down with another burst of AK fire. Jack tripped over him and fell into the wall. He looked back over at Johnson lying in the open. Jack jumped up to go get Johnson. Another burst of fire erupted. Jack fell back against the wall. He went to raise his weapon, but he did not have it. He looked frantically for it but it was not there. Johnson was screaming for him, screaming for his mother, his God, anyone who would help him. Jack reached out to grab him and pull him to safety. BOOM! Jack Felt a pain shoot up his leg into his ass. He fell flat. His leg felt like it was on fire. He looked up to see Johnson’s lifeless eyes staring back at him. His leg hurt so bad, he pulled Johnson towards him. He was so heavy.

Why didn’t they listen? He thought. He pulled with everything he had. Then he felt the cold metal touch his leg. He quickly let go.

Jack sat back against the wall of his apartment. He was covered in sweat. The bed had been pulled over to him. He was pinned up against the wall. He could see the digital clock on the nightstand. It read three a.m. He knew where he was, but he could still smell the market. He leaned back against the wall and kicked the bed. His badly scarred leg was throbbing. There was no telling how long he had been on the floor.

Jack slowly stood up. His heart was pounding as if he had just run a marathon. Jack could taste the sweat from his brow. He looked around the dark room. He could see a few cars moving down Magazine Street from his window. The fan spun overhead. He sat down on the bed and caught his breadth. He rubbed his bad leg. He wiggled the toes that still moved. It had been six months since he had gotten back and things weren’t getting better. Really they were getting worse.

Jack could not remember the last time he had slept through the night. He reached over and lit a smoke. He took a long drag. Jack knew from experience that there was no going back to sleep now. So he stood up and got dressed. He had finished the first smoke and was working on the second as he walked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

The small one bedroom apartment was not large, but it was enough for Jack. He opened up the refrigerator to find a half full 2 liter of coke, some condiments and a plastic bag that used to contain bread. Jack had not had the chance to go to the grocery, but his stomach was telling him that it was time to eat. He checked his watch. It was almost four. The morning paper should be out by now, he thought. 

So Jack grabbed his wallet and his keys. He slipped on his black cowboy boots and pulled the jeans down over the top of them. Jack put on his L.S.U. baseball cap and walked out the door.

The door from his apartment opened up into a driveway. The dim porch light barely lit up the narrow path. Jack lived on the bottom floor of a three apartment “complex”. Really, it was just a large house that someone had bought and converted into apartment rental space. This was not uncommon in Uptown New Orleans. Jack liked the space. It was small and maybe not in the best part of town, but Jack still liked it. The owner had renovated it after the storm, so most of the wiring and sheetrock was new. Jack did not know if the space had mold or not. He did not know if the space had flooded or not. Jack really did not care. He was happy to have found a place at all. Sure he could have lived at home with his parents and he did for a short time, but that just did not work out. Jack’s mother thought he was still 15 and she had no idea how to really relate to him. Jack knew that if she witnessed one episode like the one he had this evening, there would be calls for therapy and expressing feelings. Hell, it might have even lead to a visit to Father Mike. Jack could go without hearing about how Jesus could save his life, from a guy who probably fantasized about young boys.

Jack knew within a week of being home that he would have to find a place. He was lucky to have found the one bedroom apartment off Magazine Street. Well he was lucky and it belonged to a friend of his father.

The house sat on the corner of Magazine and Jackson. Jack’s truck was parked out on the street. He could have parked in the narrow driveway, but Jack did not like the idea of being blocked in.

 His upstairs neighbor, Gary, was a grad student at Tulane. Gary drove a 1986 Ford Mustang. When Gary would start the car up it sounded like an old steam engine coming to life. Gary wasn’t your typical grad student. Sure he looked the part with the tweed jacket and the long stringy hair and his car was a real piece of shit. Gary wanted the American dream. He spent hours typing away on the next great American novel. He once tried to interest Jack in the novel’s plot. It was about some sort of self exploration, told through hundred dollar words and endless symbolism. Jack listened politely and knew that he was just full of shit. Gary himself had never been on any kind of self finding journey, Gary had never really believed in anything enough to risk it all. Jack wondered how he could convey emotions that he had never felt himself. Jack did not even know if Gary bought into his own bullshit, most of the time Jack thought that he did not. Gary would often end up back at his place with undergrads. Jack figured those hundred dollar words did serve at least one purpose, they got Gary laid. Well that and the fact that Gary always seemed to have an abundance of weed.

Next door lived Mary. She went to school at Loyola. She was the true granola chick. Mary wanted it to be 1969 so bad that it hurt her. Her front porch always smelled of incense and cigarettes. Mary came from a powerful New Orleans family. She hated everything her parents stood for, but not enough to let them stop paying for school. She majored in Cultural Studies. That was a major that would lead to a wonderful career of living off of her parent’s money. She often talked of law school, but that might be a bit too structured for her. All in all she was a nice girl. Her heart was in the right place, she just knew nothing of the real world. When talking to Jack about how the world could change, Jack would just sit and listen. It was like talking to a child as they told you of their dreams, Jack just did not have the heart to burst her perfect little bubble. He did really like her, because he did not even stop her when she would talk about how the U.S. was destroying a way of life in the Middle East. She had no idea that Jack had been part of the destruction. Every week Mary had a new cause. The blessing of being rich is that one could afford to care. Mary would get excited and jump up and down a lot. Mary often did not wear a bra and Jack liked that also.

At four o’clock in the morning Jack was the only one walking by the “complex”. He made his way up to Magazine and headed towards Toby’s. That was the nice thing about being in New Orleans, even after the storm; there was always someplace to go. Toby’s was one of those places that had been on Magazine forever. The place was always open, seven days a week three hundred and sixty five days a year. It was a New Orleans institution. It could not be found in any tourist brochure or advertisement for the city, but if a person lived or went to school in New Orleans and did not know about Toby’s, they either were homebound or lying.

Jack’s apartment was within walking distance. He could taste the cheeseburger and cheese fries. He just hoped that being it was a Tuesday night that they had not already shut down the kitchen. As Jack approached he could hear Janus having another little piece of her heart taken. The front door was propped open to allow a breeze into the bar. Jack walked in.

The lights were low, as always but not so low as to not notice that the place was empty. Not even the washer machines in the back corner were occupied. Toby’s was a one stop shop. A patron could get a beer, a meal and do their laundry. They would even cash checks if they knew you well enough. Phil looked up from his paper that he had spread out on the bar.

“I was hoping that I would not see you tonight.” He said.

“Is the grill still hot?” Jack asked.

“I’ll warm it up for you.” Phil said. He put a coffee cup on the wooden bar and filled it. He poured some milk into a plastic cup and put the sugar next to it.

Jack sat down at the bar and placed his cigarettes next to the coffee cup. Jack poured the sugar and milk into the coffee. He stirred it with a straw. He took a sip. It was all those little things that Jack had missed while overseas. Being able to take a shit in peace, watching T.V. alone and a good New Orleans cup of coffee. Jack reached out and grabbed a portion of the paper.

“Anything good in here?” Jack asked.

Phil was over by the grill.

“Same shit, our mayor, Willie Wonka, is still taking us up the chocolate highway of despair. Everyone is going to rich off this highway except the working people that live here.” Phil said. The hamburger patty sizzled as it hit the grill.

“At least it is entertaining,” Jack said.

“Sad and pathetic, but entertaining none the less.” Phil agreed.