The Wall
The sun beat down. I was in some far-flung corner of the world—Marine Corps business, the kind that keeps you moving but leaves your soul stuck in neutral. Days blended into each other: same gear, same chow, same faces. The monotony was a weight, heavy as the pack I carried. Sitting by my gear, I stared out at the ocean, its endless blue mocking the grind of my routine. Then I saw it—a lone tree, gnarled and stubborn, growing right up against a stone wall. It cast a pitiful patch of shade, the only relief in sight.
Something about that tree sparked a flicker in me. I stood up, dusted off my cammies, and walked over to my buddy who was fiddling with his rifle like it owed him money. “Hey,” I said, “what you doing for lunch?” **He squinted up at me, sweat streaking his face. “Lunch? Man, what are you on about?”
“I know this dope restaurant,” I said, grinning. “Wanna check it out?” **He stared like I’d grown a second head. “You good, bro? Heat get to you?”
“Come on, man!” I pressed, leaning into the bit. “They got great food. Five stars, trust me.”
He shook his head, muttering something about me losing it, but grabbed his MRE—reluctantly, like it was a personal betrayal. I led the way until we reached the wall and that lone tree. I spread my arms like a game-show host. “Welcome to The Wall.”
My bro snorted, catching on. “This your spot? Classy.”
We plopped down in the shade, atop the stone wall. I held up my MRE, squinting at the label. “I think I’m gonna have… the spaghetti. Heard it’s good. What about you?”
He laughed, a real one this time, and picked up his. “Beef stew, I guess. Five-star dining, right?”
We ripped open the packets, the crinkle of plastic mixing with the distant crash of waves. The ocean stretched out forever, a blue so deep it felt like it could swallow your thoughts. We ate in silence for a bit, the kind of silence grunts know well—comfortable, no need to fill it. The spaghetti was… well, MRE spaghetti, which, by the way, tastes just like Chef Boyardee—delicious! My bro chewed his stew with the grim determination of a man who’d eaten worse.
Then we started talking, the way grunts do. But it got deeper, the way it does when you’re staring at the ocean with nothing but time.
The shade from that tree wasn’t much, but it was enough. The Wall wasn’t just a wall anymore—it was our spot, the best damn restaurant in this nowhere corner of the world. No Michelin star, no waiter, no menu. Just two Marines, some MREs, and the kind of talk that makes you remember why you signed up, even on the days you regret it.
We finished eating, packed up the wrappers, and headed back to the grind. “Yo, that place was alright. We going back tomorrow?”, my bro asked.
“Hell yeah,” I said. “They take reservations.”
And just like that, The Wall became our ritual. Every day, we’d trek to that tree, sit in its shade, and turn MREs into memories. Each trip to the wall brought with us another Marine. The food never got better, but the company? That was five-star, every time.