tour of duty redux APOSTROPHE NOW

 

Two tours of Nam back in 66 & 67 ? Pshaw. Six months in Afghanistan embedded with some fucking suicide mission US Marines half of them addicted to smack & the other half packaging smack up to ship back home 2 kg at a time inside each body bag ? Yeah nah. Oh sure you've probably got PTSD, but you think you've been through hell ? You know nothing. You have not taken a three year old to Billie Lids in Preston East on a Sunday morning. At ten-thirty. You do not know. You can never know know. Not unless you were there, man. 

1030 hrs Sunday June 15. "Billie Lids" is a medium-security indoor adventure playground, entirely covered in vinyl and small children. Sartre in Hui Clos (No Exit) said hell is other people. Hey Jean-Paul, I see your "other people" and raise you twenty kids and thirty parents who've gathered to help Tallulah celebrate her fourth birthday with bells and whistles and pate and Peppa Pig I'd got the call 30 minutes earlier. Just finished watching "Insiders", conscientiously working through the five coffees and twelve cigarettes I require on any given Sunday morning. I was half-expecting the call and didn't know if I wanted the call or not. Did I want another mission so soon after the black ops foray into NZ in search of Paua  shell ashtrays and fresh comedy from the South Island ? I diddn't know. I wanted to go home but I knew I couldn't. I went home and it wasn't there anymore. I was here, wherever the hell here was. Saigon ? I couldn't remember any more of Martin Sheens delirium dialogue from the opening scenes of Apocalypse Now and I'd run out of cigarettes. The Call

"I have to go to Spotlight to return some fabric and the only way to get Niina along is to promise her Billy Lids. Wanna come along ?

This is not a question. The correct response is " Hell yes I'd love to can you give me maybe half an hour to finish breakfast and tidy up and finish this scintillating bit of satire ?

Short weighty pause " No we need to get going now to beat the crowds and Niina's driving me nuts, she won't finish her cucumber sandwich and she's painted the Eye of Thoth on Ziggy with indelible maker I'll pick you up in ten minutes.

And so it was to be. 

Get there. I insist on a smoko break so they go ahead and I smoke a mini Monte Christo outside Chemist Warehouse looking at large posters advertising vital rehydrating products at $23 which when added to water will do everything for you that mere water cannot. Like make you less thirsty. It's a sign. No really. It's a eight-sheet poster sign (in old movie-theatre money) which should read Welcome to Hell, one of our Demons will be with you shortly.

In order to blend in with the crowd I have worn my hand-painted Matsuda (straight from Tokyo, motherfuckers) linen jacket , matching bone-coloured linen shirt & Saville Row midnight-blue Oxford bags, midnight blue suede Chelsea boots & rainbow striped NZ Wool socks (Not many people know this, but in this part of the world it is compulsory for men over the age of 64 to wear brightly-coloured socks) So anyway. 

I venture in. It is the carefully curated chaos that I'd been expecting, but with noise levels approximating those used by the CIA to torture people. Bron appears from the Bouncy Castle of Death & Disfigurement, gestures wildly in the general direction of where our small-but-determined 3 yr old was last seen & gasps "You're in. I'm knackered". Oh shit. You mean "In" as in I have to go in there. Yes. Now. 

I spot the small feral one and head after her. A worried looking woman in charge of her two six yr old thugs Stafford and Talmud whispered I should look out for Niina as her boys could be a bit rough & I just looked at her pityingly and thought oh dear woman you have no idea about legs of steel and core strength that causes the gym teacher to gasp. Niina charged past without doing them too much harm & headed to the highest and most inaccessible-to-adults point. Which is what three-year-olds do. Because the little fuckers know.

I'm sorry. I apologise for that outburst. I'm still suffering PTSD from the time at the playground where she decided to applaud herself right at the peak of the upswing, took both hands off the chains at the same time and ... I'm sorry I can't go on ... 

At this stage Bron is looking at me and says I suppose you need to go outside for ANOTHER cigarette. I do. And a Seconal, two pipes of opium, and a coffee and a nice lie-down for about a week. The beautiful and ferociously talented but merciless Bron (aka The X) tells me I have five minutes. Max.

Luxury. I smoke in a leisurely fashion but make the mistake of idly doom-scrolling through the Billie Lids website and find a lengthy description of Tallulah's mother's two week struggle to curate Tallulah's 4th Birthday Party which she survived (just) with the assistance of the Centre's Co-ordinating Commander Mr Juan Delight who was just invaluable when it came to bringing together lighting music food and the correct (if expensive) Peppa Pig Character Performers. OMFG get me the fuck out of here before I kill.

I'm sorry. I apologise. PTSD remember. Rosalita (my Brazilian carer) I think you'll have to light this cigarette for me. My hands are shaking too much. It's Niina's 4th Birthday in November, which means we only have four months to get ready.