The Letter (Part 1)

"Education - the progressive discovery of our own ignorance. " -Will Durant

May 19th 2004, Kirkuk, Iraq. More than 140 miles north of Baghdad, east of the ancient Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, long convoys of olive green trucks entered Kirkuk Air Base. The occupants of these vehicles quickly dismounted and retired for the day, weary and fatigued. The day had been blistering hot, and now the night was becoming freezing cold - both extremes were equally unpleasant. The giant pumps of the Kirkuk oilfields in the distance churned as usual, permeating the dry desert air with the thick smell of petroleum. Also in the distance could be heard the sounds of an occasional gunshot ricocheting, which were sometimes accompanied by the stentorian boom of a mortar round. The power of these explosions seemed to shake the very earth, or at least rattle every window and fixture in the old dilapidated building which housed the weary soldiers.

In this building, the same group of soldiers who had just retired for the day were laying in their bunks; some already sleeping soundly, while others lay staring absentmindedly at the rusty ceiling. In one of these bunks, lay a certain soldier, who perhaps due to the sounds of distant gunshots, was unable to sleep. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. This particular chapter that life had presented to him had proven to be lonely and tumultuous, but writing the occasional letter seemed to alleviate the insipid drudgery of daily life on the other side of the world. Using a small flashlight for illumination and a considerably thick book for a writing surface, the ink of his pen was scribbling furiously onto a crinkled piece of paper. He signed his name at the bottom, "Your friend, In Kyu", and inserted the piece of paper into an envelope addressed to a certain "Erik Johnson". He would drop it in the mail bin tomorrow morning, but for now, he decided to return to the book which had temporarily used to write on, "The Count of Monte Cristo". He read on in hopes that the day's fatigue would cause his eyelids to become too heavy, and eventually fell asleep.


June 5th, 2004. Mililani, Hawaii. In the vast azure firmament, could be seen an arc of prismatic colors along with a lone cirrus cloud carelessly drifting away with the tradewinds of the Pacific. The brilliant rays of the summer sun radiated over the beautiful island of Oahu, the most densely populated of all the Hawaiian islands. A cool breeze blew gently, causing the ferns and leaves across the island to dance quietly. If one were to listen intently deep within the tropical verdure, one might hear the clangs and clanks of bags upon bags of recyclables being exchanged for handfuls of coins. This was the Mililani recycling center, which offered a juicy 5 cents per any can or bottle. For a certain lanky man-child, business was good. He had just completed his weekly transaction and was tabulating the lucrative profits gained by the exchange, "Four dollars and five cents... Four dollars and fifteen cents.... Good week". Appearing satisfied, he proceeded homeward bound. He checked his mail and proceeded up to the 12th floor via the "Urine Elevator" (aptly named due to the recent string of instances where one would find a mysterious puddle of urine standing on its floor). He carefully maneuvered around these mysterious puddles, and successfully reach his destination floor. "Ugh. Gross", he muttered. The door of Unit D-1201 was unlocked and opened, and he was finally in the comfort of his own home.

Wiping the sweat from his brow and removing his black army boots which had been soiled red by the Hawaiian clay, he felt the hunger pangs usually associated with this time of day, or for that matter, any time of day. He inspected the contents of the refrigerator. "Some old bread. Boiled eggs from last week. Ugh. Good grief. Absolutely nothing to eat... again.", he sighed to himself. Closing the door in dismay, his attention shifted from hunger to curiosity, and was drawn to the stack of mail on the countertop. He sifted through. "Hmm... phone bill, pizza delivery coupons, credit card pre-approvals, junk, junk, junk, and... ", he paused, discovering an envelope. Its edges looked dingy and worn, as if it had undergone a long arduous journey. His eyes brightened. It was postmarked from Iraq, and addressed from a certain "Private Cho". "In Kyu!", he exclaimed. This was the name of his best friend; a noble soul he had not seen or heard from in at least six months. He hastily tore open the envelope and read the letter contained within. Once. Twice. Thrice. Each time reading with a little more scrutiny and enthusiasm. If a casual observer were to examine his facial expression as he read, they would remark the evidences of joy and perhaps inspiration over his physiognomy. Upon finishing the letter for the third time, his hunger pangs once again commanded his attention. A plan was quickly developed to employ those newly acquired profits from his recycling ventures into resolving the pressing needs of the moment - dinner.

(To be continued...)