Interruptions

Do you think that there’s some people who just weren’t meant to be born when they were? I don’t mean that in a kind of, eugenics crazy way. There are people who are just out of place in the time and society they inhabit. Like me; I don’t dress the way everyone else does, I don’t like new music. I don’t even like new technology.

To be honest, it’s really miserable. I feel so out of place and detached from everyone, I don’t have any real connections with people or the world around me. The closest I get to that is when I’m devouring my books on history and its characters. That’s when I feel a true connection to something, someone. I can relate to them in a way that is just not possible with anyone else and I hate it.

No friends, no family, no relationships. I may as well not exist.

My depressing thoughts were rudely interrupted by both the blazing heat of the Afghan summer and a man barging into the barracks. Snapping out of my daze I jumped to my feet and stood to attention, along with the few others here.

“Private!” he looked directly at me “What’s your name?”

“Private Marston, sir!”

“Marston, what are your current orders?”

“I am awaiting orders presently, sir!”

“Good. Come with me, I’ve got something you can do instead of lazing about jerking off in here all day.” The sun was truly scorching. Almost unbearable heat is everywhere, so the air conditioned Hummer waiting outside for us was an absolute Godsend. It was odd though, normally I only get orders from Sarge and this guy was definitely not Sarge. I started to panic a little on the inside wondering, am I being sent to some death sentence? Am I being discharged? They’re not gonna make me fly one of the planes are they? I don’t know how to fly!

It’s a decently long drive through Kabul - which was full of fleeing refugees and military personnel corralling them to where they need to go. The whole thing felt like an anxiety timebomb, just waiting for the rapidly approaching countdown to full withdrawal with the Taliban knocking on the gates. And one of those said gates it turned out was my destination.

We stopped at one of the checkpoints that we manned regularly to prevent undesirables from entering. It was a pretty easy job all told, particularly this far from anything important. The airport was on the other side of the city, the embassy was in the centre and any military bases around here had been stripped bare by now. In fact, this checkpoint was so devoid of action that I had been given sole responsibility for its operation right now. Great. So there I was, all alone, with my M4A1 by my side - my only true companion as always. At least the kiosk was air conditioned as well.

Well it’s not true that I was entirely alone, I did have my phone with me and on it all the music and reading I’d ever wanted. I kicked back, slapped on my playlist of old 60s tunes and pulled up whatever page I was on of the book I was reading - I think it might have been Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas - and returned to my internal misery of being born in the wrong generation.

What was I to do? Did I just stay in the army my whole life, hoping I get blown up? Or maybe I could go to college, do history and write a book. Who was I kidding? I did depressingly bad in school, that’s why I joined the army so quickly. The experiences of Hunter S. Thompson floated in front of me unread as my thoughts spiralled out again and the total futility of my life and its problems unfurled in full. I was totally without purpose. I served no end, other than the ends of American imperialism. I was lost in a world I was never meant to know, a stranger in a strange land.

Once again my thoughts were rudely interrupted by someone demanding my attention. This time though it wasn’t an army sergeant, but an Afghan civilian trying to get past my checkpoint bastion. I stood up, racked my rifle, and cautiously approached the vehicle as I had been told. It was one of those old Toyota trucks you always see in these kinds of areas, absolutely caked in dust and sand - this thing could well have been here during the Russian invasion. The back was covered and, I assumed, contained some kind of cargo which I would need to inspect. I made sure to approach the driver in a friendly but careful manner, hand outheld instructing him to remain still.

“Excuse me sir, I’m going to need to check your vehicle’s cargo. Please step out of the car.” I recited to him. He was a young man, probably not much older than myself, and was visibly incredibly nervous. I could almost hear his teeth chattering as he shuffled in the seat awkwardly. He snapped to look at me, eyes wide. Something was up, I could tell, and I reached for my gun. “Sir, please step out of the car.”

“N-no.” he muttered hoarsely

“Sir I’m gonna need you to-”

“DEATH TO AMERICA!” he yelled, interrupting me once again. This was to be the final interruption of my life, and it would be a somewhat permanent one.