know.
Paco was a short guy, shorter than Kaz, but don’t let that fool you. He was thick, and could seriously kick some ass. He had been in a gang, and he had a massive, intricate tattoo of “XIV” inked across his shoulder blades. At first, I was afraid to ask what it meant, but Paco explained, with neither pride nor shame. It was the Roman numeral for “14”, which represented the gang he’d been in. I didn’t feel embarrassed for not knowing. I’m from small town America. What did I know about gangs? All we get back home are a few whacked out anti-government militias. Nobody threatens anybody else with a gun where I’m from, because everyone has one.
Paco told stories that rivaled Dubois’. In fact, his were often more interesting. They involved fights and running from the cops and tripping on drugs. I believed him, because he wasn’t trying to be cool. Once he got to know us, he told us that his little brother had been shot by the cops. You just don’t make up stories like that. He had too many “dead homies” from “livin’ the life,” and after getting busted for carrying a gun, a merciful judge had given him a light sentence.
He had been given a second chance. He found Jesus and restarted his life. He had a big tattoo of the Virgin Mary on his left calf, which he would proudly show off as proof of his faith. It was as if, in his mind, the light of the religious icon on his flesh counteracted the darkness of the gang tattoo, returning him to neutral.
Paco had chosen to clean up his act. He admitted that if he hadn’t, he probably would have died by the time he was 21. It sounded like he had tried almost every drug, with the exception of the really expensive stuff. But if it was cheap and could be bought in the barrio, he had done it.
According to him, that shit was all behind him. It was a part of his youth, in the distant past. He was
23. Paco did have a sense of humor about his life. He liked showing photos from his life at home. His car was a classic low rider. If he had driven it over grass, it could have been a giant, pimped-up lawnmower. He also showed us a picture of his girlfriend. She was a Hispanic girl. She was kind of hot. She had a big booty, which I’m not really into, but Dubois really approved of that. It was balanced out by big boobs, so that was good. She had really big hair.
Paco described her as a “fine-ass hair bear,” and we all busted up. Dubois said, “Paco, you’re such a Mexican. You like low-riders. You like hair bears ...”
Far from offended, Paco proudly said, “I like hair bears.”
Yeah, I liked these guys. They were all so different. Ironically, the guys I didn’t relate to were the two remaining white guys – the same guys I flew in with.
One of them was a big farm boy from the Midwest named Barnes. I didn’t know enough about him to like him or dislike him.
The final was a big white guy, bigger than Barnes, which was pretty damn big. His name was Stillman. Big guy from Texas. I don’t know what his deal was, but he obviously didn’t like being part of our group. He didn’t want to be there. He insisted this was some type of punishment and we didn’t realize it yet. He said we had all been shafted by being transferred here “to the ass-end of nowhere.”
–––––
Shortly after we first met, our handler came and ordered us to fall in line. We were about to meet our new CO. We snapped to attention. We heard the heavy boots stomping towards to our barracks. The door flew inwards as if it had been kicked in. The sergeant entered, his wide-brimmed hat covering his face. His “vibe,” or whatever you want to call it, overpowered the combined might of everyone in the room. Even the big guys like Boudreaux and Stillman seemed to shrink before him.
His voice sounded familiar, but I might have been imagining things. I guessed all yelling sounded the same. I kept my head and eyes locked forward. A hard, chiseled face came into my view.
Paco was a short guy, shorter than Kaz, but don’t let that fool you. He was thick, and could seriously kick some ass. He had been in a gang, and he had a massive, intricate tattoo of “XIV” inked across his shoulder blades. At first, I was afraid to ask what it meant, but Paco explained, with neither pride nor shame. It was the Roman numeral for “14”, which represented the gang he’d been in. I didn’t feel embarrassed for not knowing. I’m from small town America. What did I know about gangs? All we get back home are a few whacked out anti-government militias. Nobody threatens anybody else with a gun where I’m from, because everyone has one.
Paco told stories that rivaled Dubois’. In fact, his were often more interesting. They involved fights and running from the cops and tripping on drugs. I believed him, because he wasn’t trying to be cool. Once he got to know us, he told us that his little brother had been shot by the cops. You just don’t make up stories like that. He had too many “dead homies” from “livin’ the life,” and after getting busted for carrying a gun, a merciful judge had given him a light sentence.
He had been given a second chance. He found Jesus and restarted his life. He had a big tattoo of the Virgin Mary on his left calf, which he would proudly show off as proof of his faith. It was as if, in his mind, the light of the religious icon on his flesh counteracted the darkness of the gang tattoo, returning him to neutral.
Paco had chosen to clean up his act. He admitted that if he hadn’t, he probably would have died by the time he was 21. It sounded like he had tried almost every drug, with the exception of the really expensive stuff. But if it was cheap and could be bought in the barrio, he had done it.
According to him, that shit was all behind him. It was a part of his youth, in the distant past. He was
23. Paco did have a sense of humor about his life. He liked showing photos from his life at home. His car was a classic low rider. If he had driven it over grass, it could have been a giant, pimped-up lawnmower. He also showed us a picture of his girlfriend. She was a Hispanic girl. She was kind of hot. She had a big booty, which I’m not really into, but Dubois really approved of that. It was balanced out by big boobs, so that was good. She had really big hair.
Paco described her as a “fine-ass hair bear,” and we all busted up. Dubois said, “Paco, you’re such a Mexican. You like low-riders. You like hair bears ...”
Far from offended, Paco proudly said, “I like hair bears.”
Yeah, I liked these guys. They were all so different. Ironically, the guys I didn’t relate to were the two remaining white guys – the same guys I flew in with.
One of them was a big farm boy from the Midwest named Barnes. I didn’t know enough about him to like him or dislike him.
The final was a big white guy, bigger than Barnes, which was pretty damn big. His name was Stillman. Big guy from Texas. I don’t know what his deal was, but he obviously didn’t like being part of our group. He didn’t want to be there. He insisted this was some type of punishment and we didn’t realize it yet. He said we had all been shafted by being transferred here “to the ass-end of nowhere.”
–––––
Shortly after we first met, our handler came and ordered us to fall in line. We were about to meet our new CO. We snapped to attention. We heard the heavy boots stomping towards to our barracks. The door flew inwards as if it had been kicked in. The sergeant entered, his wide-brimmed hat covering his face. His “vibe,” or whatever you want to call it, overpowered the combined might of everyone in the room. Even the big guys like Boudreaux and Stillman seemed to shrink before him.
His voice sounded familiar, but I might have been imagining things. I guessed all yelling sounded the same. I kept my head and eyes locked forward. A hard, chiseled face came into my view.
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