Drill & Sanctimony

  * Additional $.50/minute to play Mega Man

  The barracks buzzed with excitement, but the happiest bunks were 74 and 75 where Major and I counted our money at the end of the night. Major tapped my shoulder and pointed at two guys who had put dry cigarette tobacco inside their mouths, thinking it would work like chewing tobacco.

  As we counted the money, Major sorted the bills so fast in the dark that I couldn't figure out what the amounts were.

  "Wait," I asked, "was that a ten or a twenty you put in my pile?"

  "What?" he said. "Ah, it was a twenty." He reached into the pile and showed me a twenty. I kept watching him and the piles appeared even, but in the morning, when the lights came on, I counted up a pile of mostly ones, a few fives, and a single twenty.

  "Dude," I said, eating breakfast with him, "you didn't split the money equally."

  "What?" he said. "What are you talking about? You accusin' me of stealing?"

  "No. But I'll punch you in the ass again unless you give me my half."

  He insisted that he wasn't stealing, but I said, "Tonight, I handle the cash."

  "That's cool," he said.

  Unfortunately, that night we had fewer transactions, all thanks to the tiny nuisance, Drill Sergeant Pint. He worked us over all day like slaves, marching us around, up and down hills, teaching us cadences, and worst of all, monitoring how much food we ate at meals. For at least an hour he talked about our mission, our goals, our reason for being in Fat Camp, motivating all of our customers.

  "I experienced Fat Camp myself," he said, trying to win us over with his life story. "I couldn't do the run fast enough at first, but I worked at it, worked very hard, and within two weeks, I was able to go to basic."

  Sitting on a square of concrete, we listened to Pint tell us tales of coming up short. A few times he had us laughing, but then he became serious again.

  "I'm telling you these things because I want you to succeed."

  Cue the piano music.

  "You will all get through basic, if you just keep trying. All it takes is some effort every day."

  While he motivated us, Private Major and I, sitting in the rear of the group, started getting chatty. Time was eating our profit margins. Major and I tried to figure out how to sell stuff to the barracks next door, to open up another market.

  "You two, in the back," Pint said. "Stop talking. This isn't your time, it's my time. Listen up. Don't mistake my kindness for weakness. This is for your benefit."

  Kindness? I yelled as loud as I could and I dragged the words out: "Yes, Drill Sergeant!" Everyone laughed. Except for Pint.

  I looked over and saw Private West, the female who I had dined with during that first breakfast. She rolled her eyes at me. When I turned back to the front, I saw Pint staring me down.

 

  That night we took in less money and Private Major blamed me for being too slow with the deals.

  "You act like you are working at Wal-Mart," he said. "If they make an offer that seems low, just say hell no. Don't even consider it. Send them away so they can tell their friends that the amount they offered isn't enough. They'll come back. They come back with a higher price in mind. Right now, these guys aren't our friends - they're customers."

  Since sales were slow, we closed shop early and sneaked into the stairwell, quiet as Bushido Blade ninjas, up to the top of the barracks and opened a window to get some air and enjoy our wares. Private Major stuck his head so far out the window, I thought he might fall out.

  Later that night we laughed ourselves to sleep over Cheetos and assorted snacks obtained in barter for services rendered. Fat Camp was cool.

  Just when things were good, the next morning one of our clients left a cigarette sitting in his open locker. The lone Marlboro rolled out of his locker, onto the floor, and settled near a Drill Sergeant's shining boot. The Drill Sergeant picked it up and sniffed it, tasting it with his nose. The fool was removed from the building for an epic session of Front-Back-Go. We observed from the windows, until Pint arrived, full of energy, and brought all of us outside to join the exercise. Pint, who looked like a cannonball with a head in his PT shorts and t-shirt, all muscle and no neck, stormed around on the blacktop. What amazed me most about his size was how many loud words fit inside him. A polyp on his forehead strained, nearly exploded, but held long enough for him to announce a shakedown. Out came the amnesty barrel again.

  "I'm taking this barrel to the entryway of your barracks. You will have five minutes to get rid of any personal items that do not belong in initial active duty training. After that, your lockers will be dumped and anything that we find will be punishable under the Uniform Code of Military Jusitce. If you are not in compliance, you will receive an Article 15."

  "Oh damn," Private Major said, "I can't get another Article 15."

  "You mean you already have one?"

  "More."

  "Two?"

  "I've been inprocessing for a month now," Private Major laughed. "The colonel, he calls me 'Article 30.'"

  "Why?"

  "Cause I have two Article 15's."

  "I don't get it."

  "Never mind, Sprungli."

  Upstairs we went, and Pint followed with his beloved barrel. All sixty Fat Campers piled into the barracks and scrambled to rid their lockers of illegal items.

  "Our stuff is in the ceiling," I said to Private Major. "We're safe."

  "Hell no we ain't," he argued. "Right after they dump the lockers, they'll look in the ceiling. It's time to cut-and-run. Get rid of it, man."

  "All of it?"

  "Well, not all of it, but most of it. Keep the electronics. I'll find a place to hide them."

  With sadness we dumped the bulk of our remaining wares into the amnesty barrel. The other Privates marveled at how much we filled the barrel. I had some difficulty moving away from the barrel.

  Private Major said, "You gotta let it go, man."

  "But the magazine..."

  "Look away. Don't make it harder than it already is."

  The shakedown went exactly as predicted by Private Major. After the Sergeants emptied every locker and flipped every bunk, into the ceiling they climbed, like miners, flashlights in hand, scouring the tiles for contraband. They discovered stuff that no one even knew about, including us. Some of the magazines had dates from the 1990's, and featured the likes of Jenny McCarthy, the women of World Wrestling Federation, and the entire cast of BayWatch.

  By the time Pint and his cadre finished spelunking and plundering the ceiling, the barrel was overflowing with loot. Not only magazines came out of the ceiling, but so did empty bottles of malt liquor, vodka, and ketchup. Other items included a knife, melon rinds, petrified black licorice, soda bottles, movies, a hot plate, and even a small microwave, all artifacts from the ghosts of Fat Camp-past. The licorice, though graying, still looked edible.

  Happiness left the barracks with the barrel. Private Major and I felt the loss most of all, because our product had gone to waste. We felt for our customers, too. The pleasures we had sold were ripped from so many joyful hands.

  To forget the day's events, that night Private Major and I joined some other guys who were practicing their freestyle rap. When I told them that I did some rapping myself, they didn't believe me.

  "Wonder Bread," Major said, "get outta here."

  "I got skills."

  "Fine," Major said, laughing. "Let's hear it, Sprungli."

  "Oh," I said, "I don't know, man." I felt just like Eminem in the movie 8-Mile, against all odds.

  "Here...we'll even get a beat going," Major said. "Here you go, Sprungli."

  One guy started a bass beat using the flat of his hand against the wood of the bunk. Major said, "And you just start, Sprungli, when you're ready."

  Two other guys paddled the metal on the bunk to add some flavor to the beat. In my room at home, where I was feeling my flow I could r
eally rap. But I could work with this. Some of the other Privates around us yelled, told us to quiet down. They were the ones that got up on time and had no appreciation for music.

  At 22:00 hours Drill Sergeant Pint killed the fun. He walked around, dropped a few people, and then made an exit speech.

  "This barracks already smells better from getting rid of all the filth that you had in here. Get some sleep for tomorrow. You should have fewer distractions tonight."

  As soon as he left, we imitated him and then started freestyling again, but this time using Pint as our muse. Mid-lyric, Private Major became inspired with an idea.

  "Hold it," he said. "I just thought of something."

  On the edge of the bed, Private Major pulled us into a huddle. "Where do you think they took all that contraband?"

  "I don't know," I said.

  "I bet they just tossed it in the dumpster."

  Private Major and I started to sneak down the staircase toward the sergeant in charge of quarters. One of the other rappers crept down the rear staircase to set off the silent alarm by pushing the handle of the emergency exit. Private Major waited until we saw the Sergeant on duty get up from his desk and run down the hallway, through the first-floor of the barracks to the rear exit. With him out of the way, Private Major and I ran down the stairs, out the front door, toward the dumpsters, where we opened the lids and looked for the contents of the amnesty barrel.

  In a few minutes, we raised a signal to one of our boys in the window, and he signaled another guy, who descended the stairs and touched the emergency handle once again. The Sergeant ran down the hall a second time, in the same direction. And Private Major and I lugged two enormous bags of vice up the stairs, back into the barracks.

  The extravaganza that followed would have made any used-car salesman envious. The pouty faces of those Goody Privates lined up in front of us, clutching in their sweaty hands their final dollar bills. We ransomed their tobacco and smut, exchanging their cash for happiness. Some of the product we were selling for the second or third time.

  The cell phone buzzed all night, costing some guys quite a bit of money in the end. One Private ordered a pizza, but the Domino's delivery driver was intercepted. Debt collections became difficult when Privates lacked the money to pay. We held their field jackets as collateral. The ancient Playboy magazines sold well, but the microwave and hot-plate did not, so we placed the unsold artifacts back into the ceiling, where they belonged - in the ceiling museum of Fat Camp history.

  Private Major insisted on being the clerk that night. No matter how I tried to keep tabs on the money, I could not follow every bill that passed through his fingers.

  I tried to sleep. I laid my head on my bed, but my head was too light to settle down. My boys couldn't sleep either. The beat-box started again and we rapped, and we rapped.

  I could have rapped all night.

  Chapter 5. Bunk