There's a pretty famous short story out there by Tim O'Brien called "The Things They Carried". It's about a platoon in Viet Nam, the story of a Lieutenant who got one of his men killed because he wasn't paying attention, and the effect it had on everyone. The story is told a little through dialog, but mostly through a description of the items that each of the men carried with them. Our assignment in class was to write our own version of this story, trying to mimic the author's style as closely as possible. This like the classic exercise for the aspiring art student: head into the gallery and paint a copy of one of the masterpieces you find there. The idea is that in doing this, you learn technique. Below is my effort... it's quite a bit shorter than "The things they carried"; I only used five characters, and I only introduced them.

The things they carried - count team The name on her California drivers license was Gabriella Banks. Shed always liked the name Gabriella, thinking it sounded French and sophisticated. This was childish, and she would have never admitted to it, but when Flaco had asked her for a name without even thinking shed reached deep down and come up with Gabriella. Hed had California and Oregon blanks, and she thought being from California sounded more stylish. She had never been to California, any more than she had ever been named Gabriella, except in her imagination. But after fifteen hundred dollars and ninety minutes of Flacos time Gabriella Banks from 1212 Windward Lane, Palm Springs California, born 6-2-79 stepped into the new Miracle Mile casino in Chicago. She was the Handler of her team, and along with the fake drivers license she carried a smart, small bag containing the keys of a rented black BMW, eighty-five hundred dollars cash, and a non-working credit card, also in the name of Gabriella Banks. As Handler she should be able to step into any role on the team. Across the wide marble foyer she carried her confidence and an intimate knowledge of they layout of the casino. She could stand in high limit slots, close her eyes and be able to point to Pai Gow, the Casino Hosts office, the fountains where theyd be wheeling ice sculptures in or the railing that overlooked the high-limit blackjack lounge. That was her place, as overwatch. Her hair recently cut in a stylish bob, now dark, worked with her designer glasses, the Carolina

Herrera blouse, and a bra bought for the occasion so that if she took off her coat she could step into the Distractions role. She had the blackjack basic strategy tables committed to memory and could run the shoe almost as well as the Counter could, so she didnt need to carry the small reference card some players did. The bag weighed 48 ounces, the damn bra that bit into skin weighed 4 ounces, the designer blouse less than half that. Her drivers license weighed under an ounce, and the knowledge of the casinos layout, personnel, operation and schedule, as well as knowing the habits of gaming hosts in general and blackjack players in particular weighed nothing at all. The two hundred and twenty thousand dollars she owed to people in New York City weighed much more. The importance of the next few days also weighed much more than nothing. Practiced calm, calculated flirty smiles, and an almost virgin gin & tonic in her hand went with her as Gabriella Banks from Palm Springs settled in place above Blackjack 201, a commanding view of the High Limit pit below her. Overwatch was key. The earbud weighed two ounces, was the precise color of her skin, and couldnt be seen even if you looked right at her silver dangling earrings. The black microphone in the top of her blouse weighed almost nothing at all, and looking like she was fingering her jacket lapel she tapped it three times, and over the next half hour heard a series of two taps in response as her team came into the casino, getting her all-clear. She paid no mind to the cameras. Amateurs looked at cameras, and she was no amateur. ... Thomas Dolby weighed two hundred and seventy pounds, according to his own fraudulent Oregon Drivers license, and this was being generous. Thomas was a former casino surveillance manager let go from the Bellagio three years ago under circumstances neither party could legally discuss in public. In addition to the fake drivers license and his own non-working credit card, on the side and on the down low hed paid Flaco and extra two thousand dollars for a set of counterfeit United States Secret Service credentials, also in the name of Thomas Dolby, with his picture threaded into the material. It was the new Secret Service ID with the hologram, and although Thomas was the Spotter and it was his job to remain invisible, he felt he owed it to himself to have a little fun. To be a little wild. That's why he'd chosen the name of a kind of crazy 80s pop star as his alias. The weight of being invisible was beginning to wear on him, as much as his own

accumulating weight was. He put both out of his mind, though the tooshort belt digging into his waist struggled to remind him. He wore a suit he'd gotten on sale two years ago, unbuttoned by necessity. He also wore his wedding ring, although he knew Veronica had taken hers off for the job. He thought this was a mistake, and said as much, but it led to yet another argument with her and their Handler had to step in and put an end to it. The credentials weighed 23 ounces, his wedding ring was 4 ounces, the suit weighed 40 ounces, and his own fraudulent drivers license, credit card, earbud, and microphone weighed almost nothing at all. He carried these across the marble foyer of the Miracle Mile, felt his belt cut into his waist, tapped his microphone twice, and put the thought of Veronica insisting on removing her wedding ring out of his mind. He replaced it with the memory of badging his way past TSA at LAX just to see if he could do it. The Handler would have called this beyond foolish, yelled it really, but he was done staying in the background. Hed do his job, but nothing would keep him from having a little fun while he was at it. He knew there might be four surveillance agents on duty this evening, and a supervisor. Five for their own five. A week ago hed paid two street people $20 a piece to start a ruckus while he watched casino management and security react, taking in the response the way a conductor might read an orchestra. Hed slipped the unattended slot technicians radio into his coat pocket during the fracas as a bonus, and now his own earbud also toggled the security/surveillance frequency. As he walked into the casino and the sounds of ringing, talking, and shouting washed over him, he heard in his left ear clear as a bell. Sierra three-hundred from Hendricks, leaving Cage One with an impressment to the vault, A few seconds later came the response. Hendricks from Sierra Three Hundred, ten-four. He looked to his left, to Cage One, saw Security leave with a rolling lockbox towards an elevator, smiled, and felt the weight of the stress about Veronica lift from his shoulders. It was all in his head. ... Veronica figured you could probably run a count team without a Distraction, but if you had one it was an extra ace for your team, and she definitely loved her job, loved the attention. A Marc Jacobs cocktail

dress hung off her substantial curves, the small bag in her hand held two thousand dollars cash, a California drivers license in the name of Meghan S. Rand, lip gloss, designer sunglasses, a pack of Marlboro lights, a gold lighter which she never needed, and a tiny vial of Shalini perfume. The cocktail dress left little room for a microphone except maybe deep in her tan cleavage, and while she probably could have easily hidden it up in all her platinum hair, but she didnt wear one. She only needed to react, not to direct, so she wore only an earbud, listening in and doing as she was told. Taken together her equipment weighed 72 ounces. She was absent three ounces of wedding ring, and this thought gave her a thrill even now as it occurred to her. She absently rubbed her thumb over her bare ring finger yet again, feeling more naked without it than she did in the Jacobs. She loved being candy, loved being underestimated by drooling men half her age, and loved the risk involved with being part of the count team. After having to leave Vegas and her job at The Venetian as a showgirl, things had gotten worse as her husband had gotten more depressed. Hed gained all that weight. He wasnt interested in her anymore, in anything like that, and just wasn't fun anymore. This weighed on her more than she could bear, but lately the attention of other men seemed to counterbalance this. None of this emotional weight showed on her as she moved like a model on Manolo Blancs into the queue. Earlier shed only bit on her lower lip and a nice man in a red leather jacket had bought her the Seven and Seven she held. Do you come here a lot? hed asked, as she turned and pretended not to hear him while she walked away. Shed smiled at him as he paid for the drink, and now she let him enjoy the view of her backside, in what she felt was an even exchange. Her makeup was perfect, and hid the hickey Rod had given her. Shed pouted when she saw it in the mirror and she made a fuss to him, but secretly shed been thrilled. The risk of it, the idea that her husband might see it, might pay attention to her in that way for once was intoxicating. Besides, shed given Rod deep scratches along his back, so maybe she deserved her own marking. She kept touching her neck under her ear near the hickey, feeling hear earbud deep inside, and as a result kept showing off the diamond tennis bracelet she wore. This drew more eyes, but mostly from the women, and much of this attention was not positive. Whether it was good attention or bad didnt matter to Veronica. The attention weighed deliciously upon her, and she carried it all the way to Blackjack 201 where she asked a nice older Jewish man if she could sit at first base, because it made her feel so

lucky, and she wasnt very good at Blackjack. The man looked into her deep cleavage and happily moved aside a moment later, happy to sit next to her and give her all the help she wanted. More biting of her lower lip followed, and soon the table supervisor and dealer were also giving her pointers. The tennis bracelet weighed weighed 5 ounces, less than it would have if the diamonds were real. ... His California drivers license said his first name was Rod, and he was the only member of the count team whos current ID reflected a real name. Rod was the teams Counter and although he had a very sharp mind for math and blackjack, if you called him something other than Rod he tended not to answer, not noticing you were talking to him. So the Handler decided it was worth the risk and had Flaco use his real first name. Rod carried his fake drivers license and college ID, a basic strategy card that would help mark him as an amateur, and his new iPhone. In his pocket he also carried Veronicas wedding ring, and the pair of plum-colored lacy boyshorts he pulled off of her last night while the Spotter was calibrating his radio and drinking at the casino, prepping for tonights job. Coming to his room last night shed been on him like a wild cat, yowling and scratching his back up something fierce, saying the filthiest things into his ear as he pushed himself deep inside her on his hotel bed. Hed done it three times to her and shed mewled more, but in the end they both thought it was better if they stopped for the night. Her husband would be coming back, and theyd have time once they got to Florida to have more fun while setting up the next job. The basic strategy card was weightless, the iPhone weighed 12 ounces, the panties weighed less than an ounce, the scratches less than that, the wedding ring with its big diamond weighed three ounces, and every time he fondled it with his fingers in his pocket, he got hard all over again. Hed taken it off of her while pinning her to the bed, and when he was done he went to give it back to her she told him no, that he should keep it for now, and that it made her hot, thinking he had it on him and how naughty that was. He was fingering the ring and getting distracted as he remembered the way she moaned last night, and not paying attention to the crowd, and so he didnt notice as he moved in right behind Veronica in the queue as they waited to enter the casino.

Strict rule: none of the team were supposed to be anywhere near each other except at the table, as planned, and when Rod realized where he was he went to move away but found he couldnt, the line now formed up behind him. He then got pushed up close behind Veronica, and he could smell the faint trace of vanilla and cigarettes in her hair. Rod didnt think she even knew he was back there until she casually reached around in the crowded line and started rubbing the outside of his crotch. He looked around for a moment, startled. Youre a very naughty boy, Roddie, she whispered. And I know what to do with naughty boys, He throbbed in her hand as she started rubbing him with slow easy strokes, and along with an ache he grew more nervous. He knew he wasnt supposed to look around up at the cameras, so he began doing math, practicing the count even though he didnt need to. He also kept touching his ear, feeling the earbud inside. Surveillance would notice this, after he did it for the fifth time at Blackjack 201. He counted hats, employees, people with glasses, dividing all of them by six because Miracle Mile used six-deck blackjack shoes, and none of it worked as she kept stroking him. He was still distracted a minute later, when without a word she walked left and he went right, knowing hed now needed to wait for a while before heading to the high limit tables, but would just think it odd, and dismiss it. As he remembered to tap his microphone twice Rod kept counting, and dividing by six. Two divided by six is point three three three. The weight of the job was nothing to him, but the burden of time between this moment and when theyd be in Florida seemed unbearable. ... The Wildcard came last. An old friend of the Spotter, he carried his real ID, as he had no intention of showing it to anyone, and less of getting caught. He carried a drop phone paid for with cash, and wore an earbud radio. In his pocket he held a Mont Blanc pen, a pack of Dentyne Ice, a flashbang breeching charge and a wallet hed just acquired from a drunk when the queue got tight. Then pen weighed 8 ounces, the flashbang three times that, the wallet only 10 ounces. He could have carried a hundred times that easily because the Wildcard was in superb physical shape. He had to be; his job was solving problems, shooting trouble, and he needed to be able to react in an immediate, decisive way. He was a predator on the savanna. This job had been a series of milk runs for him, but lucrative ones. The Spotter had convinced him to take

the gig as a sort of semi-retirement, and so far itd paid off. In truth hed been worried about his friend. Not having many of them he was very loyal to the ones he did have, and for the last few years the Spotter had been getting worse and worse off. Before it seemed strange because with a wife as hot as Veronica, what could there be to complain about? But the Wildcard got more of a sense of what there was to complain about when he spotted the kid Counter get behind her in line, and then saw her start to rub up against his johnson. Just like that, in line, in front of Jesus Christ, casino surveillance, and the whole host of fucking Heaven. Hed been on the edge of calling the job off right then and there; he could do that, any of them could. But then hed have to explain why, and hed have to think about that. This job had taken a month and a fair chunk of change to set up, and this place was fat for the taking. Plus, he had to hand it to Veronica. She might be a whore, apparently, but she knew where the eyes were, and knew what she could get away with. He doubted any of the crowd had seen what shed done for three minutes. But the idea that casino surveillance might have watched, might be at this moment duping the whole thing onto a Best Of disc and then notice later on the two of them sitting at Blackjack 201 pretending very hard not to know one another, this weighed on the Wildcard a great deal. He had his own nervous habit, like Veronica and her caressing the naked ring finger. The Wildcard reached down absently to his belt buckle and ran a finger along the back edge. It was razor sharp, because it was not really a belt buckle but an arrowhead polycarbon knife concealed there and ready at an instant, like cobras fangs. The Wildcard drew his thumb lazily across the edge of the blade, not really feeling the sting but bringing the thumb up to his mouth and absently sucking the drop of blood that formed there. The blade weighed 4 ounces, and cleaned very easily. Well well well, Mr. Rod. What are we going to do with you? He thought this to himself as he made his way over to the high limit blackjack area. He stepped back politely and let an older couple enter first. That was part of his code, being polite. Parts of it borrowed from the Marine Corps Code of Ettiquette. Rule Number Five seemed to float to the top of his mind at that moment. Into the microphone in his own lapel he tapped twice and subvocalized the all-clear-ready signal. "Bonsoire, madamoiselle Gabriella."

Rule Number Five: Be polite, be courteous, and have a plan to kill everyone you meet. ...