#I SAID BEING IN QATAR WAS GOOD FOR HIM OKAY I’VE NEVER SAID OTHERWISE

[brazilnt]

rafinha in qatar eating rice and chicken w his hands from one big plate with friends…

[puttingfingerstokeys]

[untitled]

Nanowrimo day 22 Featuring Sandman, hints of Floyd “Stiletto” Morales, and Cayne McKinnley @jamesonandhotbrass‘s amazing OC Dystopian near-future ft. Vampires  Call of Duty but with Vampires Unfinished and unedited

“Listen, I know he seems soft, Sand’, but I swear to Christ, Gabe is the best fuckin’ doc I’ve ever seen, bar none,” Cayne McKinnley, a gunnery sergeant with the United States Marine Corps insisted with a vehemence the one called Sand’ (Sandman was his handle) had hardly thought possible in the heat and sun. He shaded his already sunglasses-covered eyes as they spoke in the lee of a tent. At high noon, no side made any difference and all the best shady spots were already taken. 

“Medic?”

“Corpsman,” corrected McKinnley. “Guy’s a—”

“SEAL? Him?” Sandman sounded incredulous. He knew better than to judge a book by its cover, but this was like finding the King James within the covers of a pulpy, dime-store novel. Gabriel Steele was, in a word, beautiful. 

“I know how it sounds,” McKinnley confirmed, an amused grin on his scarred face. “But I swear… the shit I’ve seen that guy do.” The marine leaned closer. “He is a fucking miracle worker… Mother Theresa he ain’t, but he does a damn good job. He… might be one of us, too.”

Sandman’s mouth twitched imperceptibly at the corners, but his body did not otherwise move, silver eyes scanning the desolate horizon behind his reflective shades. In fact, he gave almost no sign of having even heard the gunnery sergeant, but this did not distress McKinnley in the least, who knew how the older man operated. 

His kit and various other identifiers marked him as SFOD-D, which meant Sandman was more than accustomed to being the most elite badass on just about any FOB. Having a SEAL on-base evened the odds a little, even though Sandman himself was not a terribly competitive man. He was the sort of fellow who took charge of a situation with his presence alone. 

“He come with your boys?” 

“Yeah,” confirmed McKinnley. He didn’t seem to want to (or perhaps he simply wasn’t able to) comment more on the subject and Sandman did not press. So, the USN had chucked one of its elites, and one of them no less, into the desert sun with a group of Marines and a detachment of Delta troops. This was shaping up to be one strange conflict. 

Sandman did not wish to dignify what they were doing, hunting down a Russian terrorist in semi-hostile territory in the middle east, as a “war”, per se. It had not escalated to that point and Vladimir Makarov had not yet earned the right to be numbered amongst the true tyrants, the antichrists of the modern age, capable of starting a proper war. If war could ever be considered “proper”. 

“And he’s good?”

“Very good.”

Sandman nodded stoically and went back to watching the horizon. McKinnley wondered what was making the guy so tense. He knew some of them could feel danger coming, a sort of freaky sixth sense, but Sandman had never said anything about that. The man was fairly open about that kind of thing, with Cayne McKinnley at least, if not with anyone else. 

He thought he might just ask, but stopped himself as Sandman shifted and patted himself down, searching for a cigarette. It was the man’s one vice. Other than that, he was squeaky clean, not even a real drinker beyond a couple of cold beers on leave, so far as McKinnley knew. 

“Okay, I give,” McKinnley grunted, “what’s got your sigmoid fucking colon in a bowtie?”

Sandman grunted and shifted his attention from his search. As if on cue, his fingers found a stowed smoke somewhere in his many pockets and the other hand produced a lighter. It was like magic watching his hands work as his eyes were on McKinnley. “What’sat?”

“Something’s fucking you up, Sand’, I know the look,” said the marine patiently. He leaned back into the growing shade of the tent, misliking the feeling of that voracious sun upon his exposed skin. Sandman seemed statuesque, the way he was simple taking it. 

“Hammer’s inbound,” he said simply, eyeing the horizon with calculated disdain. No one but Cayne McKinnley could have read that upon his grizzled features, but to the marine gunnery sergeant, the guy’s expressions were plain as day. 

“You mean Cowboy and his douchesquad?”

“Easy, son,” Sandman warned, knowing prying ears were about. McKinnley bristled but knew Sandman was right, even if it stung to know that. He held his tongue from making further comment. Hammer was a fellow SFOD-D fireteam with a bone and half to pick with Metal, all because their glorious leader, Cowboy, had made a target of Metal’s commanding officer, Sandman for unknown reasons.

The reasons were not unknown to Sandman himself, or to Cowboy, or the rest of his squad. Those involved knew exactly what was going on and, as a result, McKinnley did, too. Outside that circle, it simply appeared to be a Delta rivalry that sometimes got a little heated. But hot did not begin to describe the raw animosity between the two fireteams. 

“They should know better than to do this shit,” McKinnley observed, knowing damn well Uncle Sam was going to do whatever the taxpayers were funding this time around, whatever the spin doctors could convince the American populace to give up for the sake of their beloved troops. It all made him a little sick, but he laid that aside a moment to focus on his friend.

“Shepherd knows what he’s doing,” responded Sandman, breaching military protocol, referring to a (far) superior, commissioned officer by his last name alone, not bothering with titles. Shepherd was a vain man and a court martial would be the least of Sandman’s worries if he had actually been heard saying this. Cayne McKinnley, who harbored similar misgivings regarding the two-star general, was not going to be the one reporting him, now or ever. 

“A little healthy competition then,” McKinnley guessed, his tone acrid. Sandman nodded. If both teams were on edge, it would not improve their performance, but they would strive harder to overachieve in the eyes of their superior officers, if allowed. Sandman, for his part, would not accept such behavior. Cowboy? That was unclear.

Sandman had always found Cowboy (who was ironically of the same rank) to be volatile, brash, self-centred, and egotistical, with a wicked temper and a demeanor that was, in his opinion, shameful to the entirety of the United States Armed Forces. How he had made it past PFC with his belligerent attitude, Sandman would never understand. If there was one thing he had learned over the years, however, it was that the least competent man in the pack was most likely to be put in charge. Whether this was just knee jerk oversight, or a genuine dedication to promoting incompetent mouthbreathers who were easily controlled by their dicks and egos (these things often going hand in hand), Sandman neither knew, nor cared. It sickened him. 

“Healthy,” Sandman repeated sourly. He did not continue his thought, having heard something in the distance which had caught his attention. It was the slap-slap-slap of rotor blades on sand-riddled air. The troop transport bearing Hammer and hopefully some useful equipment was inbound from their main base in Qatar. 

“Let’s go get some chow,” McKinnley suggested, by way of diverting Sandman’s attention to something other than his impending row with Cowboy. Sandman was not the kind of fellow who invited ire and violence. He gave orders calmly and with unbalked authority. Anyone who fought it was either foolish, an asshole, or both. Cowboy was the latter. 

Sandman did not outrank him, however, so he would not likely be put in charge of the man. There was a younger fellow, about Cayne’s age, from an English outfit, who would be their field commander, if scuttlebutt was to be believed. That, at the very least, had a damn good chance of setting Cowboy off. This was McKinnley’s only consolation, knowing a dude who’s handle was Soap would be calling the shots over blustering, Texan, BMOC Cowboy. 

“No,” Sandman grunted. McKinnley did not like the tone.

“How long have you been out in this heat?” He was concerned, truly, for the man’s wellbeing, but also aiming to, once more, get him the fuck away from that transport which drew nearer with every passing second. 

“Am I still standing, son?” 

“Yessir.” McKinnley knew that tone and understood that whatever battle he had intended to fight had been lost long before it ever started. 

“Then I am good to go, understood?” 

“Solid copy.” McKinnley made the decision, then and there, to back Sandman’s play, whatever it was. If it got him court martialed, so much the better. He would have paid good money to get away from Cowboy and his stooges. Those guys carried themselves with about as much class as an upstart garage rock band, playing at a local bar for tips and acting like it was Radio City Music Hall. 

They stood then, side-by-side, watching as the distant troop transport neared their FOB. It was traveling rapidly, but distance had a way of distorting itself in the desert. Sandman did not seem to mind, however. He stood passively, arms crossed, watching it, studying every angle of the bird. Despite the supplies it likely carried, McKinnley thought that if Sandman was capable, he would have shot lasers through it and downed the thing before it arrived. It was a rash thought, but the marine had to grin at the idea. 

Out of a nearby tent, General Shepherd expelled himself, alongside a surly-looking, mustachio’d man of an equivalent age wearing a boonie hat that had been his trademark since he and his crew had arrived at the FOB. The two men moved swiftly across the grounds toward the landing site, passing troops jogging, playing ball, doing push-ups, and generally preparing or remaining in the ready position for whatever deployment was next. 

“That’s Captain Price, i’nnit?” McKinnley’s grunt was barely audible, but Sandman caught it fine. He nodded in response, but did not take his eyes off the approaching bird. This worried McKinnley. He did not know Sandman’s connection to Price, but understood they went back as far as Mogadishu. If Sandman was paying no mind to Price… things were bad. 

“You’ve gotta get outta the sun,” advised McKinnley, knowing he had been brushed off once and assuming he would get the same again. This time, however, Sandman did not even respond. He kept his gaze fixed upon the bird, eyes narrow, jaw tight, lips drawn into a line so thin, it could have been a scar. 

There was no more talk as the helicopter put down. Its landing gear hit solid hardpan and the rotors spun down. Maybe the bird itself was part of their gear. McKinnley appreciated the presence of a potential gunship in the area and he saw platforms on either side of its open fuselage made for mounting a fifty cal. This pleased him greatly, but not enough to distract. 

What came out of the ship was half a dozen men, five of them clearly Delta and one from another outfit, possibly accompanying the goods. Sandman’s already-tight jaw tightened even more than McKinnley thought possible, but he did not move. He watched. No matter how irritated he was, Sandman would never make the first move. Cowboy would start the dance. Sandman would finish it.

McKinnley, in his way, desperately wanted to see how he finished it. If it came to blows, he needed to be there for it, to witness it firsthand. His only regret was that he did not have a recording device on him, because this would absolutely go in his victory spank-bank later… assuming it went down how his wildest fantasies promised. 

Rarely, however, did fantasy play itself out properly in reality. The mundane world had a way of bitchslapping the hopeful, repeatedly and without mercy. McKinnley was one of those who knew better than to hope, but hoped anyway, which somehow made reality worse.

[totallyinedible]

T-16

Things will have to change around here...

It's been almost a month now since the bomb exploded. It was a smoke bomb that blurred vision rather than a fatal one. Still, it was quite effective.

Let's be clear here - not that I wasn't earlier - but I think I am writing all this now with a clearer head and a heart (more or less) at ease.

When the bomb first dropped, I didn't take it lightly. In fact, I might have even dramatized it. It might have not been a mere bomb to Yazan, but to me it did. Yazan had to leave. He was unhappy, even after we bonded a lot over such a short period of time. At the time, I felt like I am not only losing a co-worker. I was losing a potential friend.

I want to say potential considering the timeframe, but who am I kidding? I spent more time with Yazan this month than I did with any of my older friends. I exposed one of the most vulnerable sides of me to a person I barely knew. So there is no reason for him to be labeled "potential".

It took 3 weeks and a semi-rejection from the other company he applied to in order to make me calm down. Last Wednesday, Yazan wore his positive attitude and spread cheer around the office. I thought it was only me, but Sara noticed it too - even though he was clearly unhappy with the decision made by the other company.

The selfish side of me, which is the same one that crossed the line of being on edge a really long time ago, was relieved. What that meant is that Yazan wouldn't leave us. At the same time, however, I was extra worried about his reaction. I was scared that a sad face would now be glued over his fun presence.

Yazan didn't show his sadness the following couple of days, which even worried me further. He didn't talk about it, and when I asked on Wednesday about what they said, he kept it brief. And you know what they say... never trust a man in briefs... okay lame joke but you should give me credit for trying to lighten up the mood. ANYWAY, not talking about it was even more worrying. Was he so bothered by it that he didn't even want to address it? Was he dealing with it in an unhealthy manner? Was he doing what I normally do and suppress things inside until they finally erupt and cannot be stopped? Because that's something I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemies.

He continued to not talk about it for the next days. He called me and came over on Saturday, which was refreshing for 2 main reasons. First of all, he was worried about a completely different matter, which is not really a good thing, but the positive side of it is that he's no longer fixated on the original matter. The second thing is that he found some sort of escape in me.

I don't say this a lot, but it feels good to be wanted or just remembered. The downside to moving to many different schools and befriending many groups of people is that you do not necessarily become the go-to person. You're just part of the group, but not a key player. In fact, I feel like I'm always the last to know whenever something happens with people. I want to blame it all on my friends, but I guess having to hide a huge part of my life that really affected how every little detail went certainly doesn't help the situation.

Yesterday, Yazan told me he was expecting me to text last night, which came as a surprise to me. I know I always text people, but they never initiate texting either. Even with Abdullah, whom I see on average 3 times a week, he doesn't really initiate. I have to text first, plan shit, etc. And if I don't text, I don't get asked why I stopped texting per se. Yazan seemed to have expected me to text, so it was surprising to him that I didn't. I didn't because I took a nap and slept until a late time. But even when I woke up, I felt like I'm being a sticky note again and putting my nose in places it's not supposed to be.

I was clearly mistaken - and I say this gladly.

Today, Yazan gave his answer to the company... and I couldn't be any happier for him!

Aside from all of the obvious reasons of a better job, (hopefully) better teammates and so forth, I was really worried about losing Yazan. Based on my expectations and experiences, I am a desperate human who tries to befriend people who do not care much about him. Pretty much developing Stockholm syndrome. Turns out I am a desperate human who befriended a person who cares about him to some degree.

This post has been written over the course of two days; before the final answer and after. I just edited the parts to make it seem like it's all written in one sitting. I am trying to work on my insecurities one day at a time. It's not easy. I'm scared of abandonment, even if it's just in my head - and even if it's not even abandonment. I really should write about my abandonment issues some time because this post is not about that. It's about expressing how I feel about this one thing.

To put it shortly, I am over the moon for Yazan; he's going to a better place (no puns intended, please). My experience with people who leave an environment is that their dynamics change greatly. Even the people that I care about a lot, like Ahmad and Claudine, they still go to university and I see them like once every month. With my so-called Platonic Babe, Awwa and I grew really close and then grew apart due to his ever-so-busy schedule studying medicine. Sara moved to the US for good, and even though we were inseparable the last year of university, we barely text now for time different reasons and busy schedules.

On the other hand, I had a number of successfully maintained relationships! Saif came back from Ireland last summer to spend a year in Amman, and ever since, we started a weekly game night. Osama is now in Qatar and we still talk quite often, and he's coming back soon - YAY! Faisal left to the US in 2013 and I haven't seen him since. He never came back. Yet, we talk like he lives right around the corner. It's only been one month with Yazan - and even though my obsessive mind that likes to imagine things that may never happen, Yazan has been trying hard to prove my ridiculous mind otherwise. FFS even his girlfriend whom I never met knows about my attachment issues. If that isn't concerning enough, I don't know what is.

T-16... 2 weeks left before we say Yazan has left the building. But sooner than later, I'll be archiving this as a success story along with Faisal, Osama, and co. If my imagination assumes the worst, then it won't see what's in store.

Bottom line of this awfully long post, I am certainly not as annoyed as I first found out about the departure a month ago. I am truly happy for Yazan and the steps he’s taking. It’s just that acceptance takes time for me, but I've come a long way!!! I should be proud of myself for that. The second time the news hit, I didn't get an overwhelming feeling of abandonment like typical Amer would have. I was comforted by the abundance of time spent together. However, I felt bittersweet. I met a good person and had a much needed faith-restoration, but things are going to get shuffled sooner than later. But it's better to go through the high for a short period of time than never at all...

Right?