Free Fives and Twenty-Fives by Michael Pitre Page B

above their boots. And they always trimmed their hair very, very short.
    I walked alone toward him while the old men shimmied over the tailgate on their bellies, looking for the courage to let go.
    “Let me see your identification,” the man said in English.
    “Sure, man.” I dropped my identification card onto his clipboard.
    “Thank you.” The man checked my name on his clipboard and put the card under the silver clip. He pulled a new card from his pocket. “This is your new identification.” The card already had my picture. “I keep the old one. From now on, you only get your old identification when you go home on leave. No name on your new card. Just a number. This is for your safety and your family’s. Now, go down those stairs.”
    The man pointed to the door of the nearest bunker.
    I leaned in close and smiled. “Might I ask you a question, man?”
    “Sure,” he sighed. “Quickly, though.”
    “Where are you from?”
    He shrugged. “That’s not really something you ask around here. But, what the hell? America. Michigan.”
    “I’m sorry. I was not clear. I meant, you know, before then.”
    “Lebanon.”
    I laughed. Who was he trying to fool? The Americans? Believing Lebanon somehow sounded better than the truth?
    “Okay, man.” I said, walking to the bunker. “Try that on the ladies.”
    “What?”
    “Syria—that’s what you meant, right?” I reached the door and called over my shoulder. “When you get back to Damascus, though, tell that to the ladies. Lebanon! Invite them to the beach.”
    “Michigan,” he said sternly.
    “Yes, and I went to Jordan once. But I will always be from Baghdad.”
    The door opened to dark, steep stairs. I saw lights at the bottom and heard men laughing and speaking English. I dragged my hands along the walls and moved one step at a time while feeling for the steps’ edge with my right foot. I reached the bottom, turned the corner into a bright room, and understood at once the original purpose of this bunker. It was not some dirty hole, meant for simple storage. It was a luxury place built by Saddam, so his officers could shelter themselves from American bombs in their customary grandeur. And now, in this new Iraq, Saddam’s old adversaries had found it and made themselves quite comfortable.
    “Schlonak,” an American exclaimed. “Assalamu alaikum!”
    My vision returned fully, and I saw a civilian in cargo pants, boots, and a collared shirt with an embroidered corporate logo. I made special note that he did not wear a pistol. He was middle-aged but still in good shape, hands planted on his hips, his chest puffed out.
    A marine about the same age stood behind him; an officer, I guessed, from the shiny metal on his collar. He smiled and waved, as well.
    “Take a seat anywhere,” the civilian said. He gestured to the plastic chairs, in neat rows on the marble floor.
    “Okay.” I shrugged. I put my hands in my pockets and considered my options. The curses and heavy breathing of the old men coming down the steps grew louder.
    The officer spoke again. Just to me. To me alone. “Safe trip?”
    “Yes. Fine.”
    Deep in the bunker, down the long hallway behind the Americans, a man shouted. Angry Arabic words exchanged in the dark.
    “No worries,” the civilian said, pointing down the hall with his thumb. “Just, it gets a little loud back there sometimes. Don’t stress.”
    Out from the dark came an Arab man, older, fat, and mustached. He wore a marine’s uniform, but like the man with the sunglasses and the clipboard upstairs, he was not a marine. He stormed past the officer and his friend.
    “Liars.” He hissed, “No more liars today. Going to smoke.”
    The officer laughed and patted the angry man on the shoulder. “You’re a saint, Cadillac.”
    I remained still. Cadillac brushed against me on his way up the stairs.
    The officer turned to me. “Please, please. Min fadlak! Relax.”
    I did as he asked.
    And now, the old men came in, one at a