A throat clear, "Wait." The man in a trench coat with ballet shoes around his neck like a locker room towel issued the order to a chaffeur of a Chevy. "Why you cry baby?"
It was a headful of impressions. All of us, ten, fifteen years on. Mostly ahright, a little worse for the wear, with a lot a heart, darkness closing in, and this, now, (i)this now like an eye of a storm(i), she said raising her eyes up to him.
"Well, it's a funny thing. People have historys, or herstorys, with themselves and with each other," the man had picked up the eyeglasses smushed into the matted grass and slight mud and was endeavoring to explain. "And that's why people can't stick together?" A strong hand took the glasses. "Any fingerprints on them?" Asked the person who did a cast of the bootprint over the smushed glasses. This was checked. Photographed. Handed back. Dirt rubbed off on a shirt bottom.
"Maybe it was because we were brainstorming."
"On what?"
"A script. We want to look at the saga of Russian revolution up 'til now, post Soviet Union."
"That's what you young people were up late talking about?"
Nods. "And then we got blitzed."
Someone else well versed in the history of war was quick to point out that getting roughed up was not a blitz. "Well, we were asleep so it felt like it."
"Anyone missing?"
"Some people got an early start."
"You think they took human shields?"
"It's a complicated topic. More so at some times more so than others."
"Break it down."
"The tent?" Another person came over and asked.
"That too. I need to know what you mean."
"A lot of hardcore diplomacy depends on where the fronts are hot and cold. And, well, in some fields of work, people have to pay someone for safe passage or the people in a zone can be considered captured or hostage or used as human shields."
Faces drained pale.
"We should get to our destinations."
With that the barbeque was concluded.
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