When you join the Marines you start referring to everything in jargon. Moonbeam is a flashlight. Camies are a uniform. Seventy-two is a 72 hour vacation.
My brother Kyle calls me in January to let me know he has a 72 over Valentine’s Day weekend. Two weeks out I buy him tickets. He leaves Palm Springs on Saturday morning and returns Monday afternoon.
Jacob, a high school friend, picks Kyle up from Portland International. Every time Kyle comes to Oregon he crashes at Jacob’s parents’ place.
Kyle’s main reason for the trip is Jeska. I’m not exactly sure how my brother met her. (I’ve gathered that it started with a long drive and a Jones Soda.) They’ve been dating since December. Rumor has it that she’s the only pretty girl on the South Salem High dance team. She’s the quiet type.
My brother is loud. He’s in the Marines, after all.
Two hours off the plane and Kyle is buying Jacob a rifle. A Mosin-Nagant Carbine.
The Mosin-Nagant is a Russian-made bolt-action rifle. The original design dates back to 1891, with many variants manufactured until the 1960s. Millions were produced: it is still a common weapon in the old Soviet territories.
This was the Russian weapon in WWII. Rumor has it that every Soviet soldier was given a five-round clip, but every fifth soldier was given a rifle. Unarmed soldiers would grab a rifle when someone died.
It takes 7.62 × 54R mm rounds. We buy seven of the store’s eight ammo boxes. The bullets are big, the gun loud. We had a grand total of three earplugs for Saturday’s round of shooting. After the first magazine we couldn’t hear a thing. Jacob – being the scrawny kid that he is – had bruising on his shoulder from the recoil.
A blast of exhaust comes from the barrel. You breath this in; you breath out gun smoke.
Whenever Kyle and Jeska are together they’re all over each other. They disappear to the guest room, the garage. He points the finger at her, exclaiming, “She distracted me!” We unload the car to go shooting; in five minutes they’re off in the woods. “Just shoot once when you’re ready,” Kyle says. “I’ll be back.”
Sunday is Valentines’ Day. My brother rents a room at the Phoenix Hotel, the fanciest place in Salem. He insists the room has a coffee table and couch. I don’t ask questions.
We drive to our shooting spot. We shoot. We drive back. Jacob and I drop them off at the Hotel.
Wandering the streets of Salem that night, a girl yells a telephone number from the window of a red Volkswagen bug. Turns out, its a car full of lonely, single females. Jacob engages them in flirtatious banter by phone, but when they check him out on Facebook they decide to leave.
Jacob and I drink vodka and watch Dirty Harry.
We drive to the hotel Monday morning to grab the couple and beat it to the airport. The room smells of sweat. Leftover Chinese in the mini fridge. Drapes drawn. Clothes on the ground. Military tensile chord tied to the chair. My brother, unshaven and shirtless.
The drive is mostly quiet. Kyle pulls up the flight info on Jeska’s phone and reads aloud: Departs 1:32 pm, March 15.
Shit. As it turns out, the 15th falls on a Monday in both February and March. I fucked up and bought the wrong 15th. My brother missed this too, even after looking over the email several times.
We have to change flights. We have to find a new flight. Southwest has one leaving at 6:30 for Ontario, about an hour away from base. My brother frantically calls everyone he knows, looking for a ride back. The flight cost $287. After the gun, bullets, the hotel and an unforeseen phone bill, Kyle is broke. I check the balance on my account: not nearly enough. Not to worry: I charge it credit.
I go to work to pick up my paycheck. It being Presidents’ Day, I resolve to deposit the check first thing in the morning. Jeska’s dad calls wondering where she is. Kyle and Jacob take her back to Salem.
Jacob, Kyle and I haven’t had a bite to eat all day, and it’s 4:30. Pit stop at my apartment, and we break into teams. Jacob cuts Kyle’s hair, I make them a quesadilla. Jacob and I check the route to the airport, Kyle makes me a quesadilla.
Traffic is sluggish on the drive to the airport. We arrive as we often do, thirty minutes before boarding. My brother always manages to slip through security quickly. Jacob circles the airport; I say good-bye.
Kyle calls me on Tuesday to say he made it back. He has a ten-dollar bill to last him until the next payday, two weeks away. “Shitty food, the chow hall, but its free,” he tells me. “We’re heading out to the field for two weeks, it won’t be so bad.” He goes off on the last time they went to the field – about flash floods, no armor support, and firing AT4s into the MOUT town …
When you join the Marines you start referring to everything in jargon.
Greyhound Station, Corvallis, OR.
Andrew and Ben watch a sunrise in a field below Bald Hill.
Ben plays guitar in the Annex dining room. He came to Corvallis for the weekend.
Ben and Cory watch the final hockey round in the 2010 Winter Olympics. (What a game!)
Interstate 84 passes through the heart of Portland, OR.
