My Desert boots

I have several pairs of tan boots in my wardrobe; however, I am particularly fond of two of those pairs of boots. I have worn them on many missions whilst on deployment, and literarily stand in awe of them. I have spent many Christmas holidays in the comfort of my boots amidst the violent frenzy and uncivilized nature of war. Those particular boots have also accompanied me on perilous journeys where many have ventured but few seldom returned. A great number of my brothers in arms occasionally lost boots and so much more in combat.
I was fortunate enough to return home with my two, trusty leather boots.

I guess by now you must be asking yourself, “What is the story behind Joe's Tan boots?” I can only begin by giving you a little background about my leather sidekicks. You see, like any other soldier, once you receive your marching orders, or in my case, deployment orders, you know that you will be going into combat. With this in mind, a soldier then begins a series of trips to central issue supply point on base. This is where you get all your toys and goodies for use in combat. Now, we also know that 'Uncle Sam' always takes the lowest bidder when it comes to filling and acknowledging supply tenders. Basically, the unspoken rule has always been quantity over quality when it comes to buying soldiers their tools of the trade.

What I am saying is that the basic necessities work but may not unnecessarily be pleasant to look at or even feel comfortable. We braced the chilly North Carolina morning breeze as we awaited our turn to be processed. It is the same as going to the mall and picking out a simple suit and shoes, but the only difference is that you are with 1200 other men like yourself! So it was an all day affair, this shopping for combat gear on base. Our unit, the third battalion, 504th Parachute infantry regiment was gearing up for another long dreary voyage into the unknown. All the soldiers know that it was the day they did not want to ever reach. As I heard my last four numbers of my Social Security Number ring out on the public address system, I jumped and said, “I guess that’s me?” And I bolted off toward the clerk. It was like an assembly line for the poor lady. She did not even give me a second look. “Sir, don’t tell me your size, just take off your left boot and wear one of these. Next, stand in the line that corresponds with the boot you just pick up!” and she proceeded to call off the next number for the list.

I stood behind size 13 wide. Yes, they had sizes for every Tom, Dick and Harry. When it came to providing you with the tolls of the trade, “Uncle Sam' did not slack off.  I picked up my two pairs of Gortex boots and went on to the next clerk. We were in a huge hangar like structure. I guess they used to store planes and oversize vehicles in this corrugated structure.

I had these mixed feelings, I was happy to receive new stuff. I mean who doesn't? The only sad part of this picture was that I knew where I was going to be wearing my new boots. That night after unpacking my duffel back and perusing my spoils, I found a little note from the manufacturer. It read 'The Best Gortex Boots for any Condition...' and I joked to myself, “Yea right, like I can wear these to the shower?”  I went on to unwrap all the other items I had been issued.

 It was only ten days after I had received my combat gear and once again here I was in the land of the Euphrates. I can only imagine how much history has been touched by this perennial  River and Persia in general. It was a magnificent sight and I was taken aback by the vast contrasts of nature. I was in the desert for my second tour of duty and this time I got to see the most beautiful sight I had ever seen in this Godforsaken place. As I looked around for snipers, I noticed that there were camels deep in the horizon. I told my Gunner and T.C; the T.C is the navigator. up to this day I still do not understand why they do not just refer to the person ' Navigator” I guess T.C stands for Team Captain, or maybe even 'the coolest'? I was the driver and lowest ranking among a team of three personnel in this vehicle. I dismounted the Humvee and whipped out my digital camera and snapped away at the magnificent site of this beautiful river. There were goats and herds boys all around the banks. What a sight to behold when you forget all the destruction around you!

Each night as I lay down on my bunk I would undo my laces and take out my in-soles. These were the difference between having athletes foot, fungus or all that good stuff. I always kept a bottle of the finest “Gold Bond' foot powder close at hand. The minty fresh smell was always welcome in my nostrils. My colleague and gunner, Sergeant Wing was already a victim of the notorious ' athletes foot'. However, we suffered more because the odor emanating from his boots smelled more like decaying or rotting carcass! Yes it was that bad!

I often rotated my boots leaving one pair to air out at a time. These gortex boots had taken me to Kuwait, twice in Iraq, Spain, Iceland, Germany, Ireland, Syria, and all over the United States of America. Yet they never stank, I didn't get any blisters and even more so, they were very comfortable. I guess the hide they made them with must have come from a very good cow or bull. My guess would be an Angus animal.

Either way, those were the best boots I ever wore and I still keep them well cleaned, aired out and standing tall in my wardrobe awaiting one last mission before I send them to boot heaven. Where they shall never be trodden upon or made to wade through fine, hot desert sands. They shall never be made to drive a Humvee for long hours, or march tirelessly in an unsettling land where many given their all for you to have it all. Freedom is not free.  

What inspired 'The Mean Streets?
Well,I used to walk from 135th. St to 125th St. everyday to catch the Metro North to Hyde Park. I saw many ills and thrills.
Some days I was alone on the streets. Others..werent quite so.
The daily walks inspired me to write'The Mean Streets'...

The Mean Streets

I guess you could call me a hustler or a hoodlum. I was always on the prowl like a night owl. Walking the meanest streets of Harlem as a kid was the ultimate crucible in my life. Many defining moments in my short life took place in the big apple. No one calls it that anymore! Anyway, I look back and reflect on ‘those good days’, and a smile leaves me gleaming as if I was a journalist who’d just won a Pulitzer.

I imagine a ‘Gary Coleman’ looking kid sporting a corduroy suit during summer. He approaches you and, with bible in hand, proceeds to recite a lengthy chapter form the Old Testament. I and my stuttering self sounded something along these lines: Hey ya….Mmm….Madame? Eyes g….g...Got m…m….me here ddd…d…de L….Lords B….B...Book! Eyes…K…K...Kinda re…re….read you a ch…ch…chapter f…f…for a ppp…penny!

It was an instant goldmine. I made more money than most black cooks in Harlem. I guess this fake stutter and the combination of the sweltering summer heat, the bible and, a young ‘picker-ninny’ was a moneymaking scheme of the highest order. This was where I learnt how to prey on the weak. This was my college folks. Like a hungry lion preys on the innocent gazelle, or the crafty vulture that waits patiently for its victims last breath, I was a master in my game. This was the prelude to bigger and more dangerous stuff to follow.

Back home I was the bread winner. My dead beat dad was what most people would call, a master at multi-tasking. I don’t know how he did it, but he always managed to deliver a resounding ass whooping to my step mom, with a forty in hand. I’m sure you know what a forty is…If not, then Google it. Our house was like a homeless shelter. One wouldn’t imagine that this ugly duckling would one day be the graceful swan that was the envy of all.

My stepmother was a loser. She hobbled in her cast, with one of her twins in hand, the filter less cigarette hung loosely on her chapped crusty dry lips. Her half buttoned blouse, tattered and torn, was to say the least, a shameful example of the black woman in a struggle. This was a person who had lost all hope in life. Crack cocaine had taken away the best years of her life, reducing her into what we now know as a ‘crack head’ or ‘crack feign’. I was not moved by her situation. I had a master plan.

You see, every day after school I walked the beat, hustling at least a dollar or two, and sometimes even more by the end of the day. On most of the weekends I went to Times Square and pick pocketed the unsuspecting tourists who always had plenty of cash for me. The police officers at the local precinct knew me well. One of them was my father’s cousin and that was always enough for me to ‘get out of jail free.’ Fortunately, I never went ‘picking pockets’ more than once a month and this ensure that I never got caught!

I worked alone. However, I had one close friend. He never took risks and whenever he did, he always got into trouble. By the time I was in high school I had a back account with enough to see me through college. He was on his third strike and was facing the possibility of a lengthy stay in the penitentiary over at ‘Sing Sing Prison’. That name ‘Sing Sing’ sent shivers down my spine. Had I been a pirate, no statement would have summed the feeling best than; ‘Shiver me timbers!’ I had heard stories of men who went in for a 2 to 3 month stretch, but never returned. Some say that the bodies often floating in the Atlantic were those of black convicts who had met with their maker.

I often took the Metro North upstream to Ossining. The white man had bought this piece of land (Ossining) from the Native American tribe called Sinck Sinck in 1865. It now housed a maximum security prison that held at least 1700 souls. I wasn’t one of them. I often took the Metro North upstream to Ossining… Riding in the caboose or hanging onto the handrails also meant a free ride or a one way ticket to hospital.

Did I ever tell you about the first time I kissed a girl? Well, it was right before I got drafted. I had made friends with some’ white boys’ and they had invited me over to their in SUNY New Paltz. I was a college student at the prestigious CIA in Hyde Park and often went reveling at the local hangouts. My ‘64 Chevy Nova’ was a chic magnet. Her chrome wheel hubs and crisp white seats left her spectators yearning for more. The blaring Philips radio played the best tunes in town. The Beatles had just attacked America. My favorite song was ‘It’s been a hard day’s work, and I’ve been working like a dog…”. I was still too shy to ‘pick up a girl’ and take her to the top of the hill and show here the best view of the Hudson. So, my new found friends told me about this place called Woodstock. They said that this was chic city and that everyone there was always high on ‘grass’ or many other niceties…

Being the only black kid at the CIA meant a lot. This is where my lips made their maiden voyage onto the warm, luscious, velvety lips of a fine princess. They say that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and lo and behold, she was a thing of wonder. No guy dared talk to her. She was as graceful as a giraffe: tall and elegant. She looked as if she walked on a cushion of air, like a cat, she was as graceful in her step, like a peacock. Her long silky hair flowed majestically, like the mane of a lion. Her skin was as smooth and soft to the touch as a Japanese cherry blossom in the winter.

We met by pure accident. I was running to the bookstore to purchase some index cards for chef Fatigatti and she was trying to reach for a….As soon as I walked in I saw her, back turned against me, tiptoeing trying to reach for the thing. I saw that her petticoat was hanging down and I could see the lacey fringes. This was exciting. It was better than Hug Heffner’s new periodicals. She had a nice strong back and big broad shoulder that seemed to invite me to ‘massage her. After what seemed ages of drooling, I gathered enough courage and pulled the ‘thing’ off the shelf for ‘my damsel in distress.’ I was her knight on shining armor. Maybe I soon would be her jousting partner...?

Not knowing what to say or what to do, I reached for her breasts as she reached for my hand. Clearly, I wasn’t thinking straight. She saw right through me and giggled. Right then, I knew I had a chance. All I needed to do was to relax. I was much taller than her. She was almost a foot shorter than I was. After paying for the recipe cards, I offered to carry her books for her. She was very polite. I drove her to her room and even got invited in for a cup of pop. Those fizzy drinks were very tasty and addictive.

‘My girl’ lived with three other sweethearts. One was Korean, the rest were Caucasian. She was a half breed: Half Arawak Indian and half black. Her complexion however, was so light that she could have passed for a white, well tanned lady. We went to the movies every month as I had saved enough to see me through college. The drive in movie was perhaps the best place to explore the nuances of a girl. Sometimes her friends would tag along, but this meant that we could not fool around. After a year of movies, dinner, church and parties, we were finally sitting atop the hill in my Chevy Nova. No one would not have imagined a better scene; Picture this: A cool breeze blowing from the west indies, a shooting star reaches across the horizon…dusk, the sun behind us…her head resting ever so gently on my shoulders…the fresh fragrance of the spring flowers, the brisk notes of the cooling Hudson river, and Sonny & Cher on the radio singing, ‘I got you babe’! She turned, looked deep into my brown eyes and whispered, “I love you”. She pressed her thick, voluptuous breast onto my great big chest and her silky soft lips laid the most subtle kiss ever, on to mine. This was my first kiss.

One might often wonder how I left my street ways and turned into such a fine & outstanding citizen? The truth is not far from a fairy tale. Soon after graduation, in fact, days after I graduated from culinary school, I was drafted in the corps. The war is a whole other story that would take too long to relate.

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