FEMALE ON THE FLOOR: Tropical Rides

Specialist Austin’s military buddies liked Aaron. The kid was always so friendly; it was hard to ignore him. Aaron forced conversation, and since the little family lived right across the training field from Austin's unit, Aaron visited his mom regularly. It wasn’t unusual to see him in her BDUs and combat boots, just a size three, but still the second grader clomped around in them pretty good. It wasn’t hard to hear him coming.

When his mom had C.Q., Aaron would cross the field and bring his homework over for her help. He didn’t like homework and he loathed reading. Although Aaron had arrived from Texas with a straight “A” report card, the child couldn’t read. Well, not very well anyway. So every night he read with his mother. He’d crawl up on her bed and lean deep into a pillow, throw his dirty feet on the bed despite her warnings. “Can’t we read double tomorrow?” he would ask.

“No, now,” she’d say as she flipped through the chapters of what she hoped might be the book that captured his attention, if not his heart. A plot that would bring him back for more and more in the world of books. Instead, what she faced was one bargain struck after another, over and over, until thankfully, for both of them, the lesson did end.

“You read a page and I’ll read a page,” he’d offer.

She’d read a fluid and expressive page while her son fidgeted and yawned. Much too quickly it was his turn to sound-out, stumble and argue….

“How about if I read a paragraph and you read a page?”

“Well then, how about this?”

Eventually they’d get it done and in the process destroy any intrigue the book might possibly have to offer. Though the consistent drills paid off as far as reading, his mother feared later on they had destroyed any hope of the love of the escape. And too, he was always just so darned busy.

This was his. Wild beauty, the protection and schools of the military, trips to Tobago Island, feasting on large platters of shrimp at Las Cascades with a group of Mom’s friends from 536th, swimming, biking and Nintendo, the game he’d always have to talk her into playing. “Come on, Mom, I’ll get you over the first bridge,” he’d say, until she’d give in and sit on his bed; they played until one of them got tired of Mom falling into the second hole.

Mango trees and the fruit they bore then dumped, dotted each yard, attracted flies to the stringy orange meat. Kotamundi, not at all intimidated by mere humans, pranced in packs down hills and streets, helped themselves to thrown-out Burger King, snatched it out of metal cans; their monkey tails swaggered nearly as much as their attitude. Somewhere close, a small man mowed the hills and yards with a weed eater, its engine punctuated and reverberated against the wildlife of the jungle. Start-stop. Start-stop. The man who labored was covered in discarded camouflage; a bandana protected his face from the strong sun. Small and sturdy, he resembled a Teenage Mutant Ninja, and no doubt he planned the night’s promise with its cerveza and maybe a little one-two, one-two of the Salsa, if the mood was right and a partner prevailed, but didn’t one always?


Then later, olive-skinned women in bright sweaters smiled bright white smiles and fiddled with sequins or rhinestones; they waited at the post's gates, waited at the beaches, waited at the bars, fixed themselves in the public bathrooms or even an occasional visitor appeared in the latrine of the barracks, making ready for the soldier they’d make esposo before the week was done.

Soldiers walked, taxis honked, love bloomed, promises broke ... in the dark of night, amidst croaking frogs as they tuned-up for the night's tropical drama. Nearby, a little boy flew down a hill by way of his bicycle, his size three combat boots struggled against the bike's pedals even as he contemplated one more turn up and down the hill.