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| Boots of fallen soldiers |
I finally find Iraq. He’s jumping up and down screaming in front of the Canadian Embassy. He jumps into my truck and says “Drive down this street I’m going to file my appeal!” He tells me to park, blocking the crosswalk, with my blinkers on and runs away down the hill. I try and remember my high school French in case a cop comes for me thinking I might not have to move as it might confuse the police. Iraq comes running up the hill quick as a jackrabbit. Somalia has joined us by now and we plan to get Iraq’s stuff out of storage because he got “kicked out” of his (girl) friend’s place. We open the storage locker. I say, “This shit’s never going to all fit in my truck.” Some of the stuff was really out there too. Sorry, no Christmas in April, dude. Iraq had many canvas prints of himself with other activists. There was one he gave to me that had a bunch of activists in tribal dress from their home countries in front of the White House.” None of them were doing the famous late Bob Fosse’s “jazz hands,” so I conveniently “forgot to pack” the picture.
Somali and Iraq spend about a half hour arguing and with me rolling my eyes asking about having to separate them but we finally get it all into the truck. I let Iraq drive because DC may be the worst city to drive in the USA. It’s some bizarre-ass grid, some streets are named after states, some are letters, some are numbers, some are named after cupcakes - it’s just a RIDICULOUS city. Yeah, I said that.
Iraq has a road rage incident with an African American woman. He starts screaming at her. Somalia and I tell him to shut up. Iraq, being a Korean American, says he must fulfill the Asian stereotype of being a bad driver. The argument gets heated. I tell Iraq that I am searching for my knife in my bag and that, “I will cut a bitch.” Fortunately, the police broke up the fight, we returned to the condo and Somalia and Iraq unpack in record time.
Iraq wants to go to the Capital Grille for lunch and the only place I can think of I would want to go less to is the Olde Ebbit Grille. We are talking no people of color in those places. Unless maybe, perhaps, Van Jones. Iraq tells me it’s where the Senate hangs out. SHOCKER!! Iraq demands we order the most expensive items on the menu while Somalia tells me the government is poisoning all of our seafood. I say, “I’ll have the lobster, Charlie.” Iraq’s poison is a Bombay Sapphire martini. I think to myself, “This is going to end badly.”
We get outside am I am told we are being spied on the whole day. I am so scared. Not.
Somalia needs to buy a bouquet for his cheating cougar ex-girl friend who has custody of his guitar he’s hoping to win back at a 9/11™ rally later. Somalia has MANY opinions about what really happened that day which I shall not elaborate upon.
We get outside. Iraq acts happy and giddy when people recognize him as we walk through the neighborhood. I design a bouquet for Somalia’s evil girlfriend and Iraq decides to buy half the flower shop to decorate his condo.
On the way home we stopped at “Freedom House.” Now I had been in any other city than DC, I would have thought I had walked into the house of the Manson Family, but these were all veterans in the house that time forgot. Made the people that were at Occupy Wall Street look like bankers. Very nice people though. And no, thank you, I don’t care for hummus.
Somalia goes to buy a birthday card for the cheating cougar. I think I will furthermore refer to her as “Cheeta.” Iraq walks upstairs and has buyer’s remorse over mugging for the masses and I try and cheer him up by giving him martini recipes. I give up and go get Somalia and tell him, “He’s at it again, you have to go pick him up.”
Somalia waves his magic wand (being Iraq’s communications officer) and Iraq is springing around like a rabbit again. We hoof it home.
Somalia has a freak out for about an hour over what clothes to wear and whether to get Cheeta a birthday cake – VEGAN. I have an hour’s worth of flowers to arrange for the condo while Iraq screams songs from “Les Miserables” into my ear. I tell him if he doesn’t pipe out some Sondheim he’s going to get the shiv. He AMAZINGLY belted out “Johanna,” which is my actual favorite song from Sondheim so he didn’t die on the battlefield.
Iraq unpacks the kitchen, continually leaving the cabinet doors open that have sharp edges, so we could all lose an eye. Somalia gets dolled up and has a fight with Iraq over the rally and THEN Cheeta calls to blow him off.
Iraq gets a very nastily worded email from some “friend” (translation: bitch) who tells him to go to a Zen retreat for a month to deal “with his issues.” I warn him not to reply to the email for 24 hours. Apparently, the bitch was some big deal. Like Federal judge or someone. “I told him dude, unless you get your skinny ass in front of the Supreme Court, I’m not paying attention to these judges.” He said, “You’ll be writing my legal briefs.” I’m like, “Whatever.”
Somalia and I go to Chinatown to get some beer, etc. I notice a syringe on the sidewalk. So hey, if you think Washington is a town where no work gets done, I can tell you work does get done: catching AIDS. We’re number one! Yay?!?
Iraq serves some Chinese food that must have been made by Mexicans and passes out on the floor in his combat jacket.
Somalia and I go up to the rooftop terrace to chat. He tells me awful war stories and I thank him for his service but remind him that girls don’t like war. He really just wants his guitar back. I offer to help. Then he asks why it’s so hard to meet girls? I tell him just go to a bar and only ask them stuff about themselves. Compliment their shoes and wear a wedding ring. He says, “REALLY?” I said, “Yes, I have had more men try and pick me up since I’ve been married than when I was single. Two-way street dude. Everybody wants to be bad. Just buy a silver one and claim it’s white gold.” He thinks on it. He also REALLY liked Zombies. I mean really.
We come downstairs and Iraq has gone from sleeping in the fetal position to transforming into Bruce Lee. Fights with Somalia, kicks him out of the apartment. Back to Freedom House for Somalia.
Iraq asks me if I read his Wikipedia profile. I’m like, “Duh.” He says, "What did you like about me and what did you find most interesting?” I said, “Dude, you already know what I like about you, but after today, more importantly know you know what I DON’T like about you.” That gets a smile turned upside down.
More drinking ensues. I conclude Somalia stole my bourbon. And then Iraq and I get into this big fight about hot tubs. He says he hates them while I say they could contribute to World Peace. I say, “So what do they teach at West Point? Just how to be a total bitch and speak Arabic?” He said, “Yes.” That explained a lot.
We pass out on the floor and I wake up in the weirdest possible way. First he’s blasting Handel’s “Messiah” with Private Bradley Manning’s testimony from the Wikileaks trial dubbed over it while he’s setting up his new office. I open one my eye and see an entire wall with stuffed animals lined up like troops. I close my eye again. THEN he runs the vacuum cleaner AROUND MY HEAD. I say, “I love the smell of Dyson in the morning.” It’s like okay, I get it. It’s SHOWTIME again.
We inspect the office, which is in his closet and I make the classic “No WIRE HANGERS!!!” Crack. Iraq gives me the stink eye.
