By Amanda Painter
“So, do you have any idea what your post will be — what your duties will be when you get over there?”
I was sitting next to Ricky on a low bench, the club’s colored lights flashing and loud salsa music pulsing around us, couples twirling to the beat.
“Yeah,” he said. “I jump out of a helicopter or airplane, kill people, get back into the helicopter or airplane, go back to the base and clean my weapon. Then I do it again.”
“Oh.”
The impact of that blunt simplicity reverberated to my core, which suddenly felt empty. I’ve known Ricky more than two and a half years; I’ve known he’s in the army since our first conversation on the dance floor. I knew he was being deployed from Maine to Afghanistan; that was the whole reason I’d come out of my informal salsa-dancing exile that night — to see him off. I should have known this could be the answer.
“For some reason I thought you might have some cushy desk job over there.”
“No — that’s what I had here since there’s nothing going on and they’re closing down the base.”
“Oh.”
I was not ignorant of the fact that Ricky’s seen combat before; I forget whether it was Iraq or Afghanistan. A year or two ago we were talking as he walked me to my car after dancing; I forget which summer. I think he wanted to get together, but I was too caught up in my own little emotional drama to be open to it. He recognized me as someone with a measure of awareness and intelligence in comparison to someone he was describing dating from the Boston salsa scene: the utter frustration — disgust even — of listening to her debate coffee-shop lattes with her friend. “I’ve seen my friend’s head get blown off,” he said.