The Photo Shoot.

There are three things in life that really bring out my awkward side. 

1.      Silence. I feel the need to fill it. 

2.      Elevator rides- usually because of the silence. 

3.      Having my picture taken.  I was not blessed with the photogenic attribute.  Not even a little.  

 

I write because I love to tell stories and I’m not a good public speaker.  I write because I’m not photogenic.  So it really threw me for a loop when I was “strongly recommend” to provide a picture and bio for my book and the publishing website.  Ugggh. 

 

I begged my sister to help me out, as she is building her photography company.  (Studio 308) We both knew it wasn’t going to be easy.  One does not simply sit for a picture, and not get awkward.  I felt the need to talk back to the camera, hoping it would project a ‘friendlier’ face.  “Hello!  Oh, I would love to have lunch with you!  Chipotle?  How did you know?  I agree, hormone-free range chicken is the way to go!”  Talking to the camera did not end up helping.  In the end, I just ended up with more awkward pictures.

 

You can imagine my relief when the idea for my book cover photo shoot this past Saturday was to be ‘shot’ from behind.  Oh thank god, we don’t have to work with my face.  Anna, my other photographer and best friend was also relieved- as she knows all too well that I am “photo-challenged.” http://annaliseriley.zenfolio.com/

 

So this past Saturday, four of my good friends that I served with in the Navy and I lined up in flight suits at parade rest.  We looked on as if we were gazing out into space at the great unknown- imagining this secret aircraft to be photo-shopped in the future as flying by.  As we stood there, it was silent.  And we were being photographed.  Naturally, I could not just stay silent.

 

“Thank you so much for coming today," I began chatting as Anna clicked on.  "I really appreciate your help on an early Saturday morning.  So how’s everything?  How are the kids?  Any plans for Halloween?  You must be retiring soon!  What are your plans after retirement?  I can’t believe it’s been that long…”  This went on and on- for as long as the photo shoot did.  Then we would move to another place to find better lighting, and the mostly one-way conversation began all over again. 

 

Finally, when it was all done, I believe everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief.  It was over.  We got the shot.  And I could finally stop talking. 

 

“Happy Halloween!!”  I called out and waved as the grown men drove away.  Yes, I’m so awkward.  But in the end, thanks to an amazing photographer, we nailed the shot.  So awkward or not, my cover for my novel is done!  Whoo-hoo!  We are so close to the final printing phase I can taste it.  And I could not be more excited and/or in disbelief that this moment is so near. 

 

I cannot release the book cover just yet, as it is not quite complete.  However I'll post my not-as-awkward photo that we ended up using for the bio.  (found at https://tactical16.com/)  I labeled it in the "Not Horrible" folder.  And thank you Liz and Anna for putting up with me always.

 

 

Photo Credits Studio 308
https://www.facebook.com/studio308photo/?fref=ts

 

Crossing the Line

This week I was prompted by Red Writing Hood to write about a time someone crossed the line.  This is a piece about a time I did just that.  Literally.





I had an hour left on my 12-hour shift with 2 flight schedules left to deliver.  It was New Years Eve in Keflavik and most people had already begun their drunken rendezvous.  How I longed to be one of them instead of Duty Driver.

I decided to take a shortcut across the backside of the flight line since it was empty of taxiing aircraft due to the holiday and the hour. I was cruising along, jamming to the only American station that came in- elated to hear English.  It had been too long.

Suddenly flashes of red and blue lights from a base security vehicle cascaded in my mirror and blinded my eyes.  Alarmed, I immediately stopped the van.  Instants later, muffled shouts came from my window.  I glanced in their direction and my gaze was met by the muzzle of an M-16.
  

“EXIT THE VEHICLE IMMEDIATELY KEEPING YOUR HANDS VISIBLE AT ALL TIMES!”

I was paralyzed.  Surely this was a mistake.  I was in uniform, driving a government vehicle.

“SHOW ME YOUR ID- NOW!”  I snapped out of my trance and obeyed.  The dark figure in uniform escorted me in front of the van- directly in the beam of the headlights.

Other vehicles soon surrounded us. 

“On your knees, hands behind your head!”

This has got to be a bad dream.

My American aggressor trudged through the snow away from me and began talking on a scratchy hand-held radio.  This forced him to remove the rifle from my face.  It was nice of him.  The ice began melting under my knees.  I thought of the two flight schedules I had left to deliver.

“Please, what is going on?”  I pleaded to one of the other guys walking over.  I glanced back at our hangar a few hundred feet behind me, wondering if anyone in my squadron could see the chaos.

“Do you know what a ‘red line’ is?”
 

I stared at him blankly as if it were a trick question.  Of course I knew what a red line was.  They surrounded all of the places that were off limits.  I had been warned extensively.  My legs were going numb from the cold and my nose began to run.

Just then, Mr. Rifle Man came back.  “What are you doing on the flight line?” he asked sounding more like an accusation than a question.

           

“I was... delivering... flight schedules."

“Are you aware that you have crossed over a point of no-entry?”

           

“I did?  Where?”  I was confused.  I had driven here before- without a rifle shoved in my face.

“That is where you came from.” He pointed.  "The point of entry is approximately 20 feet to the left.” 

           

I squinted out into the blackness, straining to see my tracks.  Maybe it was the darkness, or the endless snowdrifts, but I saw no such red line.  Still, I nodded.

“Stand up,” he commanded.   “You're gonna have to come with us.”

“Please- my squadron- my SDO is right over there.”  That day the SDO was my 3P (third pilot) affectionately called “Sweet Pea” because of his cherub-like face.  I pointed to the hangar that was a good baseball’s throw length away.  By a professional player that is.

Oh, I was done.  I could see it now.  I’d been in this squadron barely over a month now and already in a dire predicament.  I began shaking.  Partly from the cold, and partly due to the anxiety that began welling up inside me.

Mr. Rifle Man began talking on his radio again.  The guy next to me tried to talk.  In that moment he could have told me that he enjoyed licking spotted frogs and I would not have remembered.  All that I could think about was what was going to happen to me.

Then, in the small light from the hangar, I could make out the SDO trudging down the snowy flight line.  I was flooded with relief upon the sight of a familiar face.  As he approached I shot him the best I’m-so-sorry-please-don’t-be-mad face I could muster.  He simply shook his head.

           

I don’t know what he said to Rifle Man, but soon after, they released me to him.  We drove back to the duty office in silence. 

At last, I broke it by saying the only thing I could.  “I’m so sorry, Sir.”  My voice wavered.  Don’t do it.  Don’t get emotional.

“Airman Maki, stop.” There was a long pause.  Then in a business-like tone he continued. “I trust you will be more careful around the red lines from now on.”
 

“Yes, Sir.”

And true to my word, I avoided red lines like the plague.

Old Enough to Fight

Inspired by a prompt from Write on Edge, I was to write a memoir piece in which one of the following features prominently: Wine, Coffee, or Chocolate.
"Conjure a moment."

The following moment came to mind...

I couldn’t stop thinking about the thick, succulent steak and lobster I would devour that night.  I would order the steak cooked my favorite way- medium rare- knowing I would not have to worry about contamination.

It was the first time I had dressed like a girl in months.  My short legs were finally long again, as they appended sparkly heels.  My hair was full, curled and fell down past my shoulders.  I even took the time to paint my nails fire-engine red. I was completely out of regulation. 
 

I couldn’t stop staring at my handsome date, and my love.  Tonight we were going to be ‘real people’.  I smiled and squeezed his arm close to me as we walked inside the restaurant.

We sat across from each other at a table that overlooked the water, holding hands.  The waves glistened in the moonlight and crashed upon the shoreline.  No expense was spared as we celebrated at our favorite restaurant.

I glanced around and was met with stagnant expressions from my fellow diners.  I wanted to shake them and say, “How are you not smiling?  Don’t you realize we are all here and that all of us have it so good?!”  Instead, I just fashioned them the biggest grin I could.  Surely, they thought I was daft.

The waitress read the specials of the night in English.  Her New England accent was music to my ears.  She asked to start with our drink order.

“I would love a glass of your house Red and a side of water, please,” I requested, thinking how wonderful the wine would taste with my steak.

“Can I see some ID?”

Without thinking, I handed her my military ID- the same 2-inch rectangle that dictated whether or not I was allowed to pass through the safety and familiarity of armed American gates in the middle of a foreign country.  It was the rectangle that held my entire identity and fate for the past 6 months.

“I’m sorry Hun, but you’re not of age.  I’ll bring you that water though.”  She placed the card on the table, and headed back to the kitchen.
 

It took me a second to register what just happened.

“Welcome back to the states, Babe.”
 

Embarrassed, I sat back in my seat. Maybe I was going crazy.  In my head I felt seventy- I had worry lines around my eyes and dark circles to prove it- despite their mere twenty years.  It had been so long now that I was away. I had simply forgotten that I was not old enough to drink a glass of wine with dinner in my own country- though I was old enough to fight for it.