More to eat than I bargained for

I was eating dinner the other evening, when a soldier asked to join me for a bit. We were having Asian-Pacific American night, and I was eating tandoori chicken, curried potatoes, and fried cauliflower. He sat down and explained that he is a mechanic, which requires him to work on HMMWVs, including suspension and other parts underneath the vehicle.

He asked about getting a wash rack up and running, or at least a power washer, so they can spray off the bottom of the Hummers. See, the issue is that the sewers don’t work so well in town, and our soldiers often drive through puddles of raw sewage. “It’s pretty nasty under there, sir” he said. With that image in my head I looked down at my fried cauliflower and sighed.

He said the some of the guys in his section have pink eye, and they think it might be from contact with the nastiness. While he was talking, he was kind of rubbing his hands, with his forearms resting on the table. Typical mechanic’s hands, rough and infused with black around his fingernails and in the wrinkles around his joints. He pointed to the nicks, cuts and scabs on his hand, and said “We can’t wear gloves all the time, and we worry about getting that stuff in an open cut.”

I assured him he had my sympathies. I worked my way through high school as a mechanic, and recall plenty of stuff dropping down into my hair, eyes, and on my lips, so I was feeling his pain. I told him that I would check into it and work the issue, and let him know what I find out.

This pleased him. He stood up with a relieved smile, said “Thanks, sir” and stuck out his hand. I looked at it for a second, then shook it. Glad I wasn’t eating finger food.