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My Hometown Stands In For Afghanistan
"What is that? Is that a tank?" someone asked as we got out of the car to say goodbye to Phil. We turned and looked up the street at the large, ominous shadow gliding down the hill toward us. It was dark and I couldn't make out what it was. Probably a hummer or some stupid SUV, I thought.
It was a tank. I watched in disbelief as it rolled by. Two boys nonchalantly looking down at us from it.
"Apparently they are training here," Phil said. "Because the terrain is similar to Afghanistan." He said it like it was a question. I hadn't known.
We hugged Phil goodbye and got back in the car. It was midnight Sunday night. There was no one else on the road. Just us and the tank. As it turned the corner, one of the boys pumped his fists in the air and hooted with glee.
Fucking teenagers on a fucking joyride power trip in a fucking gigantic killing machine. These are the people we are supposed to trust to keep peace in the world? As fucking if!
We made fun of them (Whoo! Look at me! I'm a big man now!), of course, but it didn't make me feel much better.
The tank took a right at the lights, and we kept going straight, to my house. Glad to be getting away from it and the disturbing things it brought to mind. As we drove through the intersection, I turned to watch the tank rolling up the dead-quiet street of my peaceful little town. The snow glittered prettily in the streetlights' glow as the ugly dark lump crawled up the hill.
It was completely eerie. Chilling, even.
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