The Broken Soldier

I’m writing in reverse chronology.  Cuz I’m fucking artistic and shit (that’s for you JR).

Okay, the smelly guy.  He’s my neighbor.  Italian.  Mexican.  It’s hard to tell.  We’ve not spoke more than two-three words to each other since I’ve been here.  My other neighbors claim the same.

Lately smelly guy has been smellier than usual.  There was talk of a forced shower: Comet and toilet brushes.  The “bucket over the door trick” but instead of water or whatever, this bucket’d be filled with Listerine.  Getting cadre involved.  All good ideas if we were middle school kids.  Smelly guy is smelly because he’s sick.  Seeing the inside of his room, with everything packed against the back wall, only further supported the ‘he’s sick’ theory.  Punishment - meted out by us or by CoC - is the last thing smelly guy needs, but probably the first thing he’ll get.  I shared my concerns for smelly guy with my case manager.  Hopefully she’ll be able to do something before ’soldier justice’ pushes this man over the edge.

Neurosurgeon.  Weird tics.  His eyes roll to the back of his head, and his eyebrows ebb and flow as with a turned seascape.  Each sentence punctuated with what was either a moue, lour, or strabismus.  JR wanted to punch him.

But he did have good info, in spite of his “Ouch!  I’m being raped by a Mountain Gorilla” expressions and gesticulations.  “Good” as in supported by current lit.  He saw no reason for open back surgery.  Instead he recommended an electrical implant.  The implant should help with the radicular symptoms, but the low back pain, probably not so much.

I may have to go to Walter Reed to have the implant done.  Holy Jesus, please keep me from that fucking place.  Look COLs and SGTs, I’m better.  No really.  See?  (Standing straight and walking with a “I’m being raped by a Mountain Gorilla” grimace of my own.)