On the first day of the second war with Iraq I was wound tightly in Saran Wrap from my ankles to my neck. My tormentress, who calls herself Jasmine, had the TV on, and we were watching missiles guided into buildings, satellite views of a burning city, generals discussing troop movements and the positions of battleships in the Persian Gulf. Already they were saying it was not a question of how to defeat Iraq but how to rebuild Iraq: whom to install in power, how to build a coalition that won’t mobilize the rest of the Arab world against America. How not to go it alone.
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It didn’t end as quickly as some had hoped. Our troops were bogged down outside of Baghdad, they were taking casualties, and public sentiment had turned rapidly. The New York Times, which had supported the invasion, now ran daily editorials questioning the government’s assertions; everyone kept referring to the Gulf of Tonkin, a lie more than 40 years old. The president’s face, slimmer and grayer than before his disputed election, full of resolve and contempt, was everywhere, on the sides of buildings and on the billboard in front of the gas station where they used to advertise Eddie Murphy movies and Snickers bars.
I was running out of money, but the more I indulged myself, the more I wanted to be indulged, and Jasmine wasn’t about to lower her rates. I took to wearing women’s underwear while walking the neighborhood.
Jasmine’s seated on a black leather couch smoking. I’m kneeling in front of her, holding an ashtray. The TV is on behind me, where I can’t see it. I hear the commentator say the Golden Gate Bridge has been closed for the day; submarines are patrolling the bay.
I nod my head. I would like to lay my head in her lap and go to sleep forever.
