Red 5 going in

I’ve gotten a new job, finally. My bosses are terrified I might loose my cannon and make a mistake. As such, I haven't done much. It’s a long way from the NGO world, where they send you out on the 30-yard line with no play book, and the quarterback hands you the ball, hoping you’re at least better than George Plimpton. I haven’t done much for the money I’ve earned since July first, but I have learned how to iron shirts. Do them wet, as my mother in law says. Different from party till you puke on her back.
I was ironing my shirts tonight, August first, Saturday night, which was the July fourth of Switzerland holidays. Between booms I smoothed sleeves. My wife was passed out on the bed. We had drunk two bottles of rose at the village fair. The town brass band’s repertoire had opened with “The Eye of the Tiger”, oom-pahed through “Bohemian Rhapsody,” and climaxed with John Philip Sousa, but without the bravado of the Gulf War. Ironing midnight a major holiday. A terminal patient's disconnect from television news. A bell jar. Another shirt.
Ironing after two bottles of wine also reminded me of my drinking days in the Peace Corps, and how I’d learned to ride the momentum of a drunken lurch. Sometimes I had the grace of a John Woo shootout. After one bottle of vodka, you leaned out of the carousel to snatch brass rings as they passed by, or in more practical terms, grab your keys or the toilet basin. After two bottles of vodka, you learned to bounce off of the pitching sea deck. Three bottles of vodka, and you learned to apologize.
But those days are over, at least while I’m still married and parenting. Sunrise, sunset. In the meantime, it has been a delight to pass on my Star Wars action figures to Emma. She found the Yoda action figure, and my Yoda hand puppet, and immediately called them “Baby Yoda” and “Papa Yoda.” We watched Episode IV today. I handed her my R2-D2 action figure and my Land Speeder when they appeared in the movie. She called the Death Destroyer a “bateaux,” and already knows who “3PO” is. Serena was making fun of Carrie Fisher (“She did cocaine after that”) and I said, “I don’t make fun when you go into church,” and she said, “Yes, you do, you put Yoda in my nativity.” but I asked her to please let me enjoy the movie. She realized I was touchy. In truth, my analogy wasn’t far off. What else did a kid have for religion in the Seventies? Pete Rose?
Days before a hurricane-force desert storm had weeded three UN containers up and out of the UNMIS compound. Toukles were left untouched. Capacity building.
I remember bouncing my head off a roof. There were still lots of holes in the road.
“There's good and bad with the war,” he said. “My father, he keeps the most cattle of this area. No one can beat him for cattle. Then they come with guns and steal the cattle. I am born. A year later my father died. We have nothing. My mother takes me to the bush. We sleep on the ground. Then someone tell my brother that he saw our sheep.” He pointed out the window, indicating where they had been taken.
“Everyone tells my brother if he try to get the sheep they will kill him. My brother goes to the man who took the sheep. My brother says, 'Those are mine.' He said to the judge that they are his sheep. They put the sheep in a...” He shaped a pen with his long k fingers. “Two hundred sheep. People said it will take years to get the sheep. After three weeks, the sheep start dying. One, two sheep each day.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
“After three weeks, my brother say to the judge, 'Those are my sheep and he took them. Those are my sheep, and if you will not give them to me, I will kill him.' The judge gave my brother the sheep. I helped my brother. After two years, they take the cattle. Again. If we have the cattle, I will not go to school. But I go to school. So the 21 war help us to be educated.” His story shortened my trip.
That evening, I joined an Irishman from GOAL for a jog to the airstrip and back. He said, “Try to keep op!” and then was gone. I am half Irish and half Danish. The Irish in me would not be beaten, and staggered on, but the Danish would not run, only muse.