The School House

Boys crowd the iron bars
like jailbirds
in an old western

All singing the same song,
like an out of sync choir
'hey mista, hey mista
hey mista you hungry
hey mista you thirsty?'

The faces in the crowd
are cracked
the hands
stained orange

They look like
they've been eating
Cheetos made of
60-grit sandpaper

I call over the one
standing off to the side
refusing to belt out the same tune
with the rest of the chorus
his head down
his hands clean and tan

"How much?"

The tenors join in
as well as the baritones
immediately undercutting
one another

'Hey mista,
three for five,'
'no mista,
three for three'

For a third world country
they sure understand
commerce and trade —
supply and demand.

I pay the quiet one
the original price
he runs off to
fetch my order
while the others insult me
in broken English

'Get the fuck out of yourself,'
one says
while hoisting up
his middle finger

They laugh
and take turns
showing off
hand signals

Flipping birds and
throwing up gang signs
one even air-pumps
two orange fingers in the pink
and one cracked pinky in the stink

They are very proud
of the foul language
and gestures
they've learned
at this fucked up school house

The constant rotation
of young Marines
who stand guard by the
front gate of the base
always take time to play professor

Children
teaching
children

The clean boy
returns with my order
and even says
'thank you mista'
for his tip

The others
smirk at
him

Modesty is not often rewarded
on this playground

They are vulgar
because it gets attention
and attention means orders
and orders mean tips

Who needs textbooks
when you can make
more money
than your father
by saying 'fuck'
and running to grab sodas


by Mark Fayloga

--
The School House is about the ‘runners’ at Forward Operating Base Joker. At almost all of the FOBs and observation posts you can find a way to have somebody go out into town to pick you up desert groceries: soda, flatbread, rice … even chickens. Most posts out here have makeshift outdoor kitchens, so the men get together on many nights for cookouts instead of eating sodium-packed rations. But no post has a system in place quite like at FOB Joker. The base is right by a bazaar and market, so not only is there more to choose from, it’s more readily available. It’s like walking into a bank but instead of a bunch of tellers behind counters and glass windows there are a bunch of pre-adolescent boys on top of a mud wall behind iron bars all vying for your attention money. -M.F.