photogrammatical

I seem to take a lot of pictures of my siblings. I think eventually I’ll probably just have a section devoted to them. It works out nicely because I enjoy taking pictures of them and they enjoy having a higher quality of Facebook photos than the unwashed masses. Recently I was going to make some large prints and when the question came of what images I could stand to have staring back at me from my office wall, the answer was these two. We get along pretty well, the three of us. Not all siblings have it so good.

I’d kept flakjacketphoto.com as my url for a while after I got out of the Marines. I didn’t see any reason to change it at first. Even though I was out and didn’t plan on reenlisting, it still seemed to suit me. I hadn’t yet started feeling the former part of being a former Marine. I was still within a window of time when I could have just changed into my uniform and been welcomed back. It took some time for that urge to wear off, but gradually I started to see myself and my future differently.

I was sitting on an ammo can in the desert the first time I said “I’m going to be a photographer.” That was in 2003. The time had come for me to really make good. So I stayed out, put on a little weight, grew a beard, got a dog, and started making life plans that didn’t involve weapons and body armor. I made peace with the idea that the Marine Corps could keep on without me.

A couple of months back I was sitting on the bed of a hotel room in San Francisco. My girlfriend was fixing her hair in front of the bathroom mirror, putting on her earrings. We were going to a fancy restaurant that night. It was a date night. The weather was perfect and we were planning on walking along the waterfront for awhile before dinner. I got a call from my Mother, her voice was nonchalant in the way it gets when there is something wrong.

She said, “A large manila envelope came from the Marine Corps today.”

I’d listed my Mother’s house as my permanent address.

I was taken off guard for a moment. I remember looking in the mirror and thinking, this is what I get for becoming complacent, this is what I get for becoming this paunchy, bearded asshole in a pink dress shirt and tweed sport coat. I thought about the large plastic tub in my garage, my uniforms neatly folded inside. My canteen cup now a pen holder on my desk, my Ka-Bar used as a letter opener. I felt that mix of dread and resignation you get when you realize something is coming at you faster than you can step out of its way.

“You’d better open it.”, I said.

And as the words left my lips I recalled standing at the edge of a dance floor, my buddy Franco and I dressed in new suits, scotches in hand. We were watching the groom in his Dress Blues dance with his bride. Franco pulled out his cell phone and said, “Take a look at what I got in the mail last week.”

So that, I suppose, is that. A closed chapter in my life. One that I’m very proud of, often sentimental about.

The chances of my donning a flak jacket again for anything more than old times’ sake are pretty slim, though I won’t rule it out completely. I met more than one salty corporal who had checked back in saying “I went through boot camp when your Momma was a sophomore.”

But I won’t hold my breath for the day I feel like the Marine Corps needs me again. If there is one thing I can rest easy knowing, it’s that there is nothing my boys can’t handle.