Sand Castles
In the midst of the flat and treeless
desert, only about 10 yards away from our base, I sat with my knees sinking
into the ground, and my back hunched over. I
stared over three small mounds of sand in front of me, studying each one
carefully. Buried inside one of them was a small stone, in the others, nothing. The objective was to determine the
pile containing the stone, which had been strategically selected by my
opponent. The odds of winning were 1 in 3. You only got one shot.
I figured the eye would naturally go to the middle pile first,
because it’s the one that’s directly in front, and easiest to grab. For that
reason, I knew the other soldier wouldn’t have picked the middle. The pile on
the right was exceptionally larger than the one on the left, leading me to
believe it was bigger because it took more sand to cover up the hidden
treasure. However, when trying to disguise the rock, you want to try and be as
subtle as possible. The other soldier would never carelessly pile so much sand
on top, it was too obvious, soldiers are supposed to know a few things about
being inconspicuous.
The pile on the left was average, humble, unsuspecting of attack.
Following this logic, I would usually dig into the unsuspecting, average
looking mound on the left. The other soldier’s name is Drew. My opponent in
checkers and ally in battle, he was a smart kid, smarter than he knew. He had
bunked with me for too long now, and knew I would suspect the pile on the left.
I plowed my fist into the mountainous pile on the right, and held my fist out
to Drew, turning
it around and opening my hand up to display the rock, as well as my
victory.
“You son of a –“
“You’re going to have to work on your tactics to get one past me, my
man,” I interrupted.
“What do I know about tactics? It’s all about point and shoot.”
“And the aim part?” I questioned, “Does that ever come into play?”
“Later on, when you go to check out what you hit,” he replied
nonchalantly, “then you find out how your aim is!”
“I can see all that extensive training is paying off,” I started, “hey,
what time do you think it is?”
Yes, of course we were supplied with watches. There was just so
much dirt trapped underneath the faceplate, it was impossible to read. Drew
looked up at the sky, trying to estimate judging by the position of the sun.
“Four? Five maybe?”
“I don’t know,” I sighed, flattening down the remaining piles of sand,
frustrated from heat exhaustion, and suffering back pain from hauling equipment
around.
“Whatever time it is, in a matter of hours I’ll no longer be the only
private with a bad fake ID,” Drew pointed out.
“Now you’ll have a bad real ID, how exciting,” I teased, but Drew was
unfazed.
“I can’t believe my birthday will be spent in this shit hole with
a bunch of sweaty dudes. I should be doing jaggerbombs and having sex with
minors.”
“You are still a minor.” I reminded him.
“The point I’m making to you is,” he said matter-of-factly, “in a
matter of hours, I won’t be.”
“I remember those times, back in the heyday, yeah nineteen was a good
one,” I said looking up, still trying to determine the time.
“Stop trying to sound all wise and wisdomous, just because you’re
old.”
“wisdomous? What the hell is that?”
“Not you, I can tell ya that much,” Drew joked back.
We both fell silent and straight-faced as a roll of thunder roared in
the distance.
“Storm brewing,” I said calmly.
Drew nodded, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. I could see the
panic on his face through a sheer veil of fake composure he always put on in
these situations. We both knew there was a good chance that wasn’t thunder at
all, but being nearly 30 years his senior, I felt an
almost parental need to protect him, or at least put his mind at ease.
We both got up and dusted ourselves off to head back to the base.
We went into our tent, and I lay down on top of my sleeping bag, which was on
top of a dusty, creaky fold-up cot with a foul stench. My eyes
were sandy and shut tight, but I could hear Drew walking around the
tent and rummaging. He sounded like he was dragging his feet and walking in
circles, which became progressively more annoying as it went on.
“Stop pacing.” I told him, still lying down, still blind. At that,
there was silence. I let several moments pass before finally opening my eyes,
which felt like my inner eyelids were lined with sandpaper, scraping against my
cornea. Once my vision focused, I saw Drew sitting
cross-legged on the middle of the floor, holding a photograph.
“What ‘chu got there?” I asked blearily.
“I don’t know,” he replied, with a hint of guilt. The way a small child
would.
“What is it?” I asked again, sitting up this time. “Bring it here.”
Drew stumbled up, shook some sand off his back and came toward me.
He presented me with a photograph of a brunette pregnant woman in a flower
sundress. The edges had curled up and the colours were almost completely faded.
“Do you know who it is?” he asked me.
“Yeah,” I said, taking the photo from his hand.
“Well?” he said, starting to walk around again, “Who?”
I still didn’t answer.
“She looks a little hefty.”
“Hey!” I snapped.
“I’m kidding. She’s knocked up, obviously. I’m just trying to wake you
up!” He said, shaking my shoulder with one hand.
“Well don’t go through my shit anymore.”
Drew walked out of the tent mumbling something to himself. He
would be back soon. Drew was plagued with incredible guilt. One of the reasons
he wasn’t a very good soldier. He had killed several men considering his young
age, and short time serving. He got really into it at the time, but what
everyone else didn’t know, was how much he thought
about those men later. He tortured himself at night with dreams of
their children, their parents, lovers, what they’d achieved, and what they
could have achieved.
Moments later, as suspected, Drew brushed through the hanging flap of
canvas that was our door and stood in the middle of the room.
“Alright, sorry I looked at your shit,” He declared stubbornly. I
still didn’t say anything.
“It’s your mom. Isn’t it,” he said walking towards me, he sat down
beside me and put his finger on the picture over the woman’s belly, “and there
are you!”
I still said nothing, just glared at him.
“Yeah it is!” He said again proudly, grabbing the picture and
holding it to my face, “Oh god, you’re a fetus. This picture may be hundreds of
years old!”
I snatched it out of his hand, shoved him into the flimsy wall,
and raised my fist to his head, but collected myself before it went further.
“Is this your apology? You’re being very ignorant and immature,” I said
trying to keep calm, “go try and sit still.”
He knew I wouldn’t do it. He didn’t have that same scared look he had
when we’d heard the rumbling outside. He was only hiding his smirk this time. I
walked back over to the cot, while Drew stayed against the wall.
“Sorry,” he said, still standing there, “will you tell me what the
picture is…”
Another bad soldier trait, Drew was plagued with insatiable
curiosity. Curiosity that often led to guilt.
“It’s my wife. She was killed in a car accident,” I said finally,
still angry and glaring up at him. “It was a boy.”
Drew paused for a while, still locked in place against the side of the
tent. “Okay,” he said finally satisfied, “thank you. I’m sorry.”
I looked at Drew, and the guilt, resentment, compassion, and
eagerness all strewn across his boyish face. He remained still as a shadow fell
over him. The sun was setting. Thunder rolled through the sky again, lighting
it up the co lour of fire in the distance, if just
for a split second. Drew took a breath in, but didn’t exhale.
“Drew,” I stated, simply to get him to breathe.
“Yeah?” he gasped, finally.
“Happy birthday.”
Copyright©2009 by Kate Bowen
Kate Bowen is a working copywriter living in downtown