There’s something about Juan Vandendorp’s writing that reminds me of Hemingway.  His sentences are spare and plain.  He describes what the narrator is thinking from moment to moment without a bunch of flowery sentiment. The action may include a flashback, but it feels linear. And there’s not always a happy ending.  I’m posting this on a sunny summer morning, and thoughts of mortality are far from my mind – but Juan (who won highest honors in our Coffee Shop Chronicles contest) has a good point in his entry for our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest:  someone, somewhere is about to die.  Is it luck which separates the living from the dead, or is it our choices?

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Waiting

The room I’m in must be at least fifteen feet high. There’s a window the size of a small pillow close to the ceiling, and the sun shoots through in the afternoon; that’s the only time when I see where I am. The rest of the time, it’s  pretty dark in here. That’s what I’m waiting for before they kill me, for the sun.

I want to feel the sun on my face one last time. Yesterday, when the beam of light came in, I could hear the Iraqi kids playing soccer outside. I grabbed a handful of dirt and tossed it into the cube of light; immediately I saw the dirt become billions of particles. I leaned against the red brick wall and watched the particles dance in the light. They made intricate designs. I put my face into the beam of light and its warmth took me to Venice Beach, to one afternoon with Marion. Her eyes were so blue and her skin so white. We were playing in the cold Pacific that made us feel so alive. My reverie ended when I opened my eyes and was blinded by the powerful light; I kept my eyes open as long as I could and when I closed them, all I could see was the rectangle that the window carved in my mind.

Sean’s body lay in a corner; the pool of blood behind his head had turned black and flies were all over it.

The locals warned me about Wanda’s, but why was there no written warning at the Base? That escapes me. When you first arrive in Baghdad, you learn that “the Locals” are the guys who have two or more tours under their belt.  One of the locals, a guy from Arizona, said Wanda was an Englishwoman who was against the invasion; she was friendly with insurgents and her place had the best drinks, legal and illegal, and the best hashish.

My wife had pinned a newspaper article entitled “Your worst habit will be your worst accident.” That was her way of making me quit pot. It turned out to be true, since it was a sudden desire to smoke hashish that got me to Wanda’s.

The place was about two miles from the Green Zone. It was a brick house with tall trees and a shabby awning that gave shade over old wooden benches and tables.  Mainly old Iraqi men were scattered around, playing cards and smoking hashish.

We left Michael and Sanchez chilling in the humvee, and Sean and I entered the house. I saw Wanda behind the bar. She was a woman in her forties with blond hair and a tattoo depecting a dolphin on her right shoulder. She glanced at me and gestured for us to sit wherever we pleased.

Sean and I odered beers. Wanda placed them on the table and gave us half a smile. In a corner of the smoked-filled room two very old men were rolling tobacco and hashish joints. The one with the white beard caught my eye and, in a very friendly gesture with his hand, raised a white joint for me to see. I looked at Sean and joined the old men at their table. I took a deep hit and felt it right away. The stuff was strong. The old man urged me to smoke more, and I did. Soon I was fighting to retain my attention. The room became a blurr and I passed out.

I woke up in this room and found Sean lying next to me. He was still alive then. It took me hours to regain a sense of myself and when I did, I realized that we had been made prisoners.  They had taken our weapons and papers and our boots and left us only with pants.

The day they came to kill Sean, I heard the same noises. First the arrival of cars, and then trucks, then I heard voices speaking in Arabic. They were shouting as they approached our door. Sean looked at me and he was shaking with fear. Our feet were tied, but not our hands. I crawled to where he was and he came close to me and leaned his head on my shoulder. He was hugging his legs. I heard the sound of many boots approaching.  The door slapped open over the brick wall, which bounced it back, only to be stopped by a hand holding a 9mm gun. When I saw the armed men, my stomach rose into my throat.  I knew what they had come for. A strong- looking man grabbed Sean by the armpits and threw him againt the brick wall. The one with the 9mm put his gun in Sean’s face. I saw Sean’s eyes for a brief second. They were scared. His white face seemed like a stone. The man pushed him to his knees and shot him.  After he shot Sean, the man holstered his gun and took a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket. I watched Sean lie on the floor like a doll, the blood slowly streaming over his neck to the dirt floor. Seeing Sean took away my fear and I watched as the men left the room. Before closing the door, the last one left a cigarette by the door and threw a matchbox toward me that landed at my feet.

Everybody, at one point or another, thinks about how they’re going to die. I thought I was going to die old. I thought Marion and I would have three kids who would go to college and play ball with us. But I was wrong. I will die in some room in a suburb of Baghdad and the guy who will shoot me in the back of my head doesn’t even know me. I never stole his girlfriend. I never keyed his car.

Now I am waiting for him and the sun and hoping that the sun will beat him.  My eyes are fixed on the window. I can smell coffee and incense in the air. I can hear the faint sounds of cars approaching. I zero in on that sound which has become defeaning outside my window. The trucks grind the pebbles on the dirt road and the engines come to a stop.  A silence follows and I hear the men come inside the building. My eyes remain at the window. I hear the door that bangs open and four men come inside. Two of them lift me up and make me stand in the center of the room. Sean lies to my left. I struggle to keep my balance.  I lift my eyes to the ceiling and I see the face of Marion smiling at me, and the face of my mom. I turn my face around and see my killers:  they are all young kids. One of them comes from behind me and positions the barrel of the 9mm over my head. I can smell the coffee and the rose incense. I feel the dirt floor under my bare feet and my eyes are glued to the window, waiting…

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It may be fiction, but it rings all too true.