Biggie's Lifetime Ban, or: Leave

I’m running the FOB-gauntlet, complete with stops in Molasses Swamp and Gum Drop Mountain from the Candy Land board game. It certainly would appear that these super-fobbits graze in Candy Cane Forest more than three times a day, too. I didn’t know they made uniforms that big, you dig? My battle buddy, LT Demolition’s driver who’s going home to North Carolina for leave with his well-deserved Purple Heart in hand, and I are trying our best to play nice and hide our contempt for this land of excess. Like SSG Bulldog always says, “it ain’t their fault, LT. They just don’t know no bettah.’” I’m sporting the cleanest of my uniforms, which is still trulymadlydeeply filthy for these parts – dirt, grime, and lacquered gallons of man-sweat permanently stain the ACUs, apparently. This revelation and accidentally shocking a too earnest Brigade staff lieutenant with tales from the front over breakfast have been the highlights of the trip, thus far.

Anyhow, getting from Anu al-Verona to Europe may not be easy, but at least I’ll be able to do so, legally. (Yes Mom, I remembered my passport.) As I hide in the lodging tent to avoid the judgmental eyes, waiting for the next Bird out of here, I can’t help but remember one of Biggie Smalls’ classic life anecdotes; one he retells to the Gravediggers at least once a week before mission for entertainment’s sake. In short, our interpreter is banned permanently from the nations of Italy and France – something that still doesn’t sit well with him some twenty-five years later.

It’s so much more than that, though.

And it always starts out exactly the same.

“You know LT,” he begins, with his characteristic British-taught English peppering his words. “I have not always been a man of family. In my youth, I was very wild.” (My soldiers usually cheer and applaud at this point, which causes Biggie to giggle. With a professional comic’s touch, he waits them out before continuing.) “I thief, I fight, I drink the whiskey-”

“You don’t drink alcohol anymore, Biggie?”

He shakes his head morbidly at this point. “My wives, they make me stop three years ago. They say that we have kids to spend money on instead. I have to sneak it now.” (Note: This has not stopped him from repeatedly stating he could acquire Guinness for me, if I ever change my mind about following General Order No. 1.) “So, in my youth, I journey to Europe in search of women and whiskey. I tell my father I look for better work.”

(More cheers and nods of knowing understanding from the Gravediggers.)

“I first go to Greece, then to the Hun-gary, and then to Italy. Ahh, Italy!” His eyes tend to look skyward at this point, and the wonder that seizes his speech when he talks of the free world returns. “Whiskey, tequila, beer … it was the excellent time for me. You know how everyone love Biggie.” It’s true. If you can’t picture my terp as a local bar champion, wheeling and dealing and laughing and celebrating life with new friends and old buddies alike, you haven’t read this blog closely enough. He’s like a big, black Jerry Lewis, and could probably put more than few brews down back in his prime. “And best part is, even if you fail to find woman for the night, you go spend money on prostitute. Many beautiful prostitutes, in Italy.”

“Biggie!”

“What?”

Nevermind. Disregard my American, puritanical sensibilities. Continue.

“In eight months in Italy, I spend all my money that I save for five years work in Africa! Too many whiskey and women. Worst part, my papers (work visa) terminated during those six months. I could not find the work even now that I actually look for it.” He shakes his head again, and bites his lip, recalling lost opportunities. “A friend of mine write from the Portugal. Come to the Portugal he say! Good work and you don’t need papers! So I hop on next train to the Portugal.”

A dark cloud comes over the horizon of Biggie’s face, as the dreaded F word comes into play – France. “But they stop me in France!” His voice changes tones here, as he mocks the French accent. “They say, no African man, you cannot go to the Portugal, you have bad papers! It’s … it’s…”

“Profilin’!” offers SSG Bulldog. “Dose mutha fuckas even gettin’ us in France. That’s some bullshit.”

Biggie is clearly unfamiliar with the problem of racial profiling on the American continent, but that doesn’t stop him from agreeing with SSG Bulldog’s point. “Yes! Yes! So they say, you cannot go to the Portugal. You go to jail instead. I stay there for three months and then they put me on boat and tell me I can never come back to France or Italy. Not ever.”

I told Biggie I’d see if some of his old haunts are still open while I’m in Italy, although it isn’t my first stop. Until then, I’m killing time like it’s an IED-emplacing terrorist, daydreaming about a smiley face with a bloodstain shot through its’ yellow skull, and wondering why Dos Passos isn’t more of a household name. Keeping my mind off those damn midair Black Hawk drops, flyboys fucking with their ground-pounding cargo.

I guess I deserve such for all the disdain I had for those chAir Force guys a while back.

Shrug.

Onto the Interludes.