“A back scratcher? I ask for a DVD and I get a fucking back scratcher? Those guys got a PS 3 and a Ferrari and I can’t even get a lousy movie? What the fuck? I’m going to scratch my fucking nuts with this!” He was waving the bamboo device in the air like an antelope femur so I could see.

I looked up at John and smirked. “Well, it’s the thought that counts.”

“Yeah, well, I think about my nuts being scratched with this.”

“You could get a splinter,” I offered, not really believing that I was having this conversation.

“No, it has this smooth roll-y thing on the other end. It’ll probably feel pretty good.”

“Too much information,” I replied as I got up to get a cup of coffee and go out for a cigarette leaving him muttering to himself. Life in the headquarters office was a lot of things, including dull, but there was always the redeeming quality of the surreal at random intervals.

Myself, I was mulling over the latest package from the States for me, one that had come from some school that had adopted us. Each of us basically got packages from one or two kids. Naturally, those who responded back were rewarded by their assigned children telling all their friends that their soldier was The Coolest^TM because he actually responded back. As a result, all of the other ignored urchins would dump their particular deadbeat G.I. and start writing someone else, someone who had at least a history of writing once in reply.

This was my situation. I had a package from some new kid, one I hadn’t heard of before. Some youthful hussy moving in on his pal’s turf, trying to get some attention from some G.I. in response to the packages and notes that he or she had packed in school. Nice enough, but that means that I have to write back and maybe get wrapped up in some middle school drama. Well, we will just have to see about that, and I went back inside.

I opened the package and saw the usual assortment of prepackaged goods and the obligatory note. With enclosed picture. Wrong. This is going in a direction that I just do not like. This was too fast, too soon. I barely knew the kid. A picture? On the first package? I’m not that fast or easy, mister. Just what kind of G.I. did he think I was? Sitting down, I started penning a response when Rod came in.

“Dude, it looks like aliens invading out there!”

“Come again?” John was ignoring this and doing something like the hominids from the opening 2001: A Space Odyssey with his scratcher. This was not happening.

“Aliens! Out there in the sky! Seriously, come look.”

“Rod, I was just out there. There are no aliens. They aren’t real. You’re not for real. None of this is real.”

“I’m telling you, it’s aliens coming down out there! There’s lights everywhere in the sky, right out there,” he said pointing to the door.

“Right. Look, Rod, I like you. I really do. But right now, you are out of it. Aliens don’t exist. YOU don’t exist, as far as I’m concerned. It’s probably just illumination rounds being fired. Now get out of here, or I turn John loose on you.” John was grunting in the corner, cracking open a can of Swedish Fish with the Bamboo Device and doing something that vaguely resembled sucking out non-existent marrow. From candy fish.

Rod left, still glancing at the sky as he walked across the porch, and I got back to work.

“Dear…” What the hell is this kid’s name, again? Oh, yeah, Johnny McGuire.

Dear Jerry,

I don’t like that Johnny nonsense. I’ll call you Jerry from now on. It’s easier for me that way, and you had best learn up front that making things easier for me is what it is all about, especially if you know what’s good for you.

The soothing sound alarm thing that you sent was cute. I especially like that it had cool sounds like Heart Monitor and Train Wreck. I used the Heart Monitor last night and woke up in the middle of the night imagining that I was back in the hospital. In the confusion, I started pawing at imaginary tubes and lines that weren’t there, screaming like I was on fire again. In fact, I was so freaked out that I let off a couple rounds into the darkness. Too bad the walls are paper thin and I am a lousy shot. My neighbor is in the hospital for real now, Jerry. Thanks a lot.

Look, I can get any old kid to be my school kid back home. You need me as your G.I., Jerry; I don’t need you. C’mon, Jerry. Who do you have besides me? No one. I’m looking to get a multi-year deal out of the army, and you need to come through. I have a shelf life of twenty years tops. Show me the Dinar!

This is what you are going to do for me, Jerry. It’s kind of personal to me, a sort of family motto. Ready? Who’s your Amriki, Jerry, huh? Who’s your Amriki? Yeah, that’s right. Scream it louder; I can’t hear you. In fact, I want you to jump up at school and scream “I love the Iraqi People.”

I love the Iraqi People! I can’t hear you, Jerry: I love the Iraqi People!

Never mind. You had me at Soothe.

I hope that you have a good holiday and like your new name as much as I do.

John was furiously pecking away at the touch screen on the tracker that showed the disposition of local forces. “Whatcha doing?” I asked. I know better than to ask.

“Playing Madden Insurgent 2006.”

“Say what?”

“Madden Insurgent 2006. Look,” he said changing his voice slightly to imitate the sportscaster. “Second platoon is set up over here on a little screen and Hajji comes around and *BOOM!* Stuffed right there. All day, just dig, dig, dig. Then comes up and stuffed cold with a slobber knocker. They keep going for the ground game because they don’t have anything in the air, but they just can’t pull it off. ”

Blink.

“See, it’s a simple post play. He goes out here to where the shovel is, but then he just waits there. He doesn’t make any effort to get open and is all wrapped up in coverage. You just can’t do that and expect it to work.”

I stared at John.

Good thing that he didn’t write any kids at all.