"there is nothing more beautiful than za sparks from ricochet bullets when you are in a k-hole."

god hes wierd. i cant tell if hes being honest or not.

"there is nothing that you can do, ees like you are .. you you .. are totally helpless - becausze of za drug. you can just hear your commanding officer screaming, its like he is far away and all you can hear is the 'ting -ting -t-ting' and everything is so beautiful but- "

hes not smart enough to make up this kind of thing. or.. or is he? you never know.. the fucking isrealis.. semitic thinking is so hard to figure out, there is a different standard for truth - .

"-you are feeling.. . so fucked up when it happens."

he touches the wide scar that runs from his chin down to his collar bone. I imagine the pinkish flaps fo skin, the thick blood, the exposed musculature, his dusty Isreali Defense Force uniform as he is dragged away by his friends.

does the isreali army really issue ketamine to combat units? i know it was originally used as a vetrinary anesthetic, i know it. i know the drug that we call Special-K, the one that raver kids snort in long lines from coffee tables while 26 year old managers of Pizza Huts named Curly call their 19 year old friends "Sex Kitten" as they disappear into a back room with a waterbed - i know it works on humans too.

"combat is crazy." he says. "sometimes you need a drug."

--

he moves mechanically across the dining room, quickly and precisly pulling plates off tables and stacking them on his arms and hands. he is our best busboy. i shouldnt be surprised, as according to him, he was the best sniper in his unit. with 32 confirmed kills, clearing tables correctly shouldnt be such a challenge.

do they know he was a soldier? they sit there sipping on boutique drinks - "Peridot Pop", "Shanghai Cosmopolitan", "Fragrant Cloud" - could they suspect that his steady hands blew open 32 heads?

--

the dishwasher and i are taking a second to relax in the middle of a shift. we all call him "Papi - puerta rican for "pops".

i am chewing on a "mongolian glazed lamb chop", which is appealing somehow to my middleeastern roots. i chew on the bone, and wonder how it was that someone threw this away, this wonderful peice of meat? grease shines on my fingers. Papi drinks a beer we brought down for him. i drink a large glass of straight vodka.

i should be worried about the security cameras but not tonight - papi has pointed them towards the floor.

"mira, papi i say as i point to a leftover peice of crunchy fried squid "para ti"

im drunk, on the job, as usual, at about 8PM.
i love the restuarant life.
but i havent been sober for

for 3 months.