Shy Statesmen

It was late 2005 when I first met Pacman. He had been brought over for the seemingly innocuous purpose of inventory control in the headquarters of the U.S. Armory, securing paper. Lockheed brand paper. These kinds of shenanigans were hardly out of the ordinary, and caused so many thousands of death even the irony of calling them "shenanigans" tasted bitter in my mouth. So did the cheap Afghani chocolate I had been eating for the last three and a half years.

"You must be an old dog indeed," said Pacman, shaking my hand as we first met. Just like that I had a nickname—Rummy. Apparently he had an old dog named Rummy, and calling me old dog that one time made him think of that. Though he started calling me Chim-Chim by the end of our friendship. Not sure what that was about.

Young dog, old dog. Pacman had no idea how right he was with that description. This endless, unbeatable war cycled through dogs like a bitch in heat, only none of us got stuck to the war and had to be hosed off by disgusted neighbors. It tore through all my friends in a hell of a short time, and we were only correspondents to the U.K. and Europe. I can only guess how they shredded the solders. It makes more sense why they call them dog-faces, although cutting their hair like Johnny Unitas doesn't help.

Three-and-a-half years in Afghanistan, bleeding innocence everyday. Watching had once been a respectable strategic retaliation devolve into the violent dance of the hall monitor. No matter how many bullies you dragged back to a corner, three more were always waiting to come and vandalize what you had built back from the destruction. Like Nero I stood by helpless to witness Rome burning, as a special correspondent for The Guardian UK For Kids.

Pacman, though, he was that most hated of all species among the intellectuals: A nationalist. He spoke daily on the gains made in the war, ground recaptured and thugs re-routed, paying no mind to the disintegrating good will surrounding us. Pacman read books by the barrelful—every time I saw him he carried with him another text of blind dedication to the U.S. perspective on the war. Either he really, truly believed in all of this jingoistic nonsense or he had a lot of couches missing one leg each. Either was a possibility.

Despite his best attempts to socialize with me, Pacman had no lasting effect on me. Until he confessed to me he had fallen in love with my own Al-Dooby. I had known Al-Dooby for more than the past year, even before Shaleikmabadass fell. She was the one comfort I had in all the Middle East, the only thing that kept my cynical mind from going insane. She was polite and docile, like a British woman from the Victorian era, or a modern British man. She had the loveliest eyes, and the most beautiful face—I presume. Behind that burka, anything could have been going on. Might have been a man, I suppose. She smelled a bit mannish. But that hardly mattered as the rest of the world around me spun out of control. Pacman had stated his own intentions for her, and I would rather see him dead than see her get him. Her.

I had no idea how much that wish would come to affect me. When I arrived home at my apartment, local police inspector Bob Souandabad was waiting for me.

"Mr. Dilley," Det. Souandabad said to me. "I have unfortunate news. Your friend Pacman is dead."

I shuddered. What if my thoughts had taken form, become ghosts of my vengeance, and pursued Pacman down a twisting and turning maze until they consumed him? Had I ended his game before it even had started?

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