The Fog of Memory

I’m not an anchorman, but I play one on TV.

It was 2003, we were shooting behind the lines.

The fighting had been going on for a while. It had just started, but it felt like it had been going on for a while, because that’s how it feels, look it up in any book. Maybe not a cookbook, that wouldn’t make any sense. Either way, it had been a long two years that month.

Did I say 2003? I meant 2004. So one year. It felt like two at least, maybe more. Time has a funny way of doing that, telescoping out the further you go.

What were we shooting? Video. I should think that was obvious. Yes, we did get a chance to fire a gun. It was a flare gun. We got a chance to hold it. We shot video of the flare gun, the colonel was explaining how it worked. He didn’t let us hold it, but we didn’t ask. I bet a flare gun would be useful in certain situations.

There were six cars in the convoy. Trucks. Four of them. We were flying over the road, headed to the Green Zone. Did I say trucks? Choppers, of course, don’t be silly, trucks can’t fly. We had five, I think. I was in the lead one, ahead of the rear three and right behind the pilot chopper. So four, not including that first bird. The soldiers call them birds, except the ones that don’t.

No, no, you’re right, it was 2003, but two years later.

So we’re in the Hummer, it’s humping and bumping along—that’s a legit quote right there—and shaking everything that wasn’t nailed down—that’s not quite right, nothing’s nailed down in a vehicle like that—and there’s a flash, then another, I had to tell the sound guy to stop taking pictures, this wasn’t Disney World. Wait, no, a soldier said that to someone. I was taking pictures.

Here’s the thing. Life happens. It happens fast. You don’t have time to think sometimes, you just hold on for dear life and hope to God no one’s shooting at you. That doesn’t happen in your suburban parking lot, Marge, and if it does—and goodness knows it does, it’s not like I don’t pay attention to the news, who do you think you’re talking to here?—then maybe you should move to the country. Which country? Yes.

Where was I? Right. Life comes at you fast, and maybe you remember that phone number, maybe you don’t forget the marinara at the grocery, but dear God, how many times have you told a story from your point of view whether it was your story or not? Maybe you didn’t save the day, maybe you were just a caterer for the Nakatomi Christmas party, but what kind of story is that?

Nope, I was right, it was 2004.

Anyway, the choppers, there were two of them, not counting the one in front of ours. We’re swooping in low, and I see this samurai at the top of the ridge, he points right at me like he’s angry, like what did I do? So, what did I do? I do a Chevy Chase thing like in Fletch, right? “Who, me? You? Me?” He draws his sword and—

No, wait, I fell asleep watching Rashomon again.

It was 2005. I remember it well. Good movie.

Good night, and good luck. Also good movie.