Driving north on the Interstate 5 today, I saw a couple of those big Marine convoy trucks from Camp Pendleton. The kind that look like something out of Indiana Jones, with soldiers sitting at the back of the open canopy and looking back into traffic.
The two guys in the back of one of the trucks could not have been older than 22, and it crossed my mind that it was lucky for them they were in that truck instead of getting shitfaced in TJ and then trying to drive back to Base.
Those guys in the back always have very curious eyes, and I bet they get really excited when they see a woman driving behind them.
Still, they made eye contact with me as I got closer.
It wasn’t quite obligation I felt, but I did recognize a need to communicate something to them. And I couldn’t really give a gesture that said, “I’m sorry for you guys that this pinhead president is sending you guys to die a horrible death in some cockamamie War on Terrorism.”
Truth is, I kinda admired the guys for signing up for a job and doing it. Not everyone follows through on what they say they’re going to do.
My right hand was on the steering wheel.
I lifted my index and middle fingers in the familiar V.
It could’ve been a reference to Nixon, peace or Verizon.
It was up to those guys to perceive it as they chose.
All I meant was, “What’s up? I feel ya. Take care.”