Last night, election night, I spent a
good deal of time stranded at Chicago’s O’Hare airport waiting rather
impatiently for a flight to wing me home to Minneapolis. Matthew and
Natascha were hosting what I’ll call the LME
Election Night Love Fest (hey, we’re all liberals and it ain’t a
liberal event unless there’s incense, illicit drugs, tie-dye, and an
orgy…one that features various gender lines being crossed) at my
house. Okay, it was a bunch of wonky Minnesotans (part of what I so
love about Minnesota) staring at the TV and drinking. I wanted to get
home to enjoy the communal (word chosen deliberately as code to other
lefties…y’all know we’re really communists, right?) experience of an
election night and was anxious to see election returns start rolling
in.
I could have parked in front of a TV monitor in the airport and
watched the early returns. But my political addiction pales in the face
of my craving for nicotine. So, of course, I was sitting on a dirty
sidewalk out front of O’Hare, sucking down diesel fumes and a few
Camels.
When you have a lighter at the airport you are the most popular boy in town. I got to meet alot of people.
Best among them was Chelsea Lane. We were compatriots in the pursuit of emphysema.
She’s a month shy of 22, cute as hell, in that bouncy, giggly, almost 22 kind of way.
She was killing time waiting for the flight to take her home to
Springfield. Taking her home for the first time in nearly two years.
She had just spent three months in South Carolina. Three months during
which she was debriefed in regard to her 18 month hitch in Iraq.
That’d be Sgt. Chelsea Lane. I don’t know what her last name is.
She had signed up before Iraq. She didn’t much like being there. She
shared, in an eerily calm manner, the stories of sleeping with her
weapon, getting hit with gas attacks, and losing more than one of her
“combat buddies” in the fighting in Baghdad. A couple of times she got
one of those thousand yard stares…the kind where you know the movie
in her mind is playing a horror that you cannot, will not, will never
be able to conceive of. She was scared while she was there. She is
scared to go back and is hoping, hard, that she will not. She was in
the Reserve. She hadn’t thought part of the deal was a year and a half
in combat. Or had hoped. Or something. And I learned, in the course of
our short conversation, that scared or not, she was braver than I will
ever be.
When she spoke of her friends, her comrades in arms, she would
bounce and glow and act like a 21 year old girl talking about her very
best friends. Except these were friends she shared blood and bullets
with. Some were friends who came back scarred forever, some came back
with flags draped over the wodden boxes bearing them home. And though
she is scared to go back…though her experience there led the Army to
put her under a psychiatrist’s care (to their credit this is something
they are doing with most returning soldiers) during her debriefing…if
called, she will of course return. She will return because it is her
duty. She will return because she is a soldier. She will return
because, “all of ‘em are still over there and if they need me I’m sure
as hell gonna be there for ‘em.”
So, last night once I finally parked myself in front of one of the
airport TV’s…once I made it home to the company of friends and
acquaintances and warmth and joy…once I got to drink in a long
awaited and (to my mind) much needed shift in the nation’s political
landscape, much to the enjoyment of the LME posse…and as I put my
head on the pillow to fall blissfully asleep…I did not think of the
‘wave’ or the Pelosi Era or the outcome of the First 100 Hours or
Tester or Webb or any of that.
I thought, instead, about a young, pretty woman with a gorgeous
smile that could quickly be doused by a thousand yard stare. I thought
about her as she gathered her things to go to her gate, twitchily
awaiting the last leg of the long journey home to family and friends.
To the way her face lit up when she said “Nice talkin’ to you. And
Happy Thanksgiving!” as she turned to disappear into the terminal.
I thought, as I closed my eyes, of the happiest thing I had
encountered on a politically happy day. A happy thing that made this
whole election yee-hah seem, well, stupid and trivial.
Chelsea Lane is going home.