As You Were Read online

  Your face burns and your body spins when the towel untangles. The water wrings out and drips down your back while your vision blurs the green siding of Grandma’s house into the canary yellow of the Millers’ and the institutional white of the duplex where you’re dangling—fast at first, then things slow. One silhouette morphs into the next. The different houses lose their individual shapes and become a kaleidoscope. Then the towel tears, and you plop down onto the ground. You land with a root right in between your shoulder blades. The air vacates your lungs, which inflate with pain and fear you’ve never known. All you can do is watch what’s left of the white dishtowel wave in the wind. Next to your hand lies the button that popped off the husky jeans Grandma bought for you the week before. You want to leave her home, but you’re too fat to do even that.

  BACK TO BASICS

  REMEMBER BOOT CAMP? YEAH, MAYBE you’ve worked to forget everything about the time you spent in uniform, but things just keep bubbling back up. Basic in Benning is one of those things.

  There was the matter of the nervous shits on the plane ride south. The first time you ever rode on one.

  Your first set of push-ups followed you asking one of the drill sergeants if you could switch to a bottom bunk because you sleep like a cement truck and were sure to fall sometime during the night.

  His response was, “Drop, push-ups, go.”

  He was a reception drill sergeant, so he didn’t get all fancy with his verbiage, meaning: he did not order you to assume the front-leaning rest position. But you still got his meaning. About an hour after the lights went out, he realized you weren’t exaggerating about the cement truck thing when he heard you slap against the concrete floor after a six-foot fall. “For fuck’s sake, son” was his response. “You hit the floor so hard it woke me up inside the office.” It woke you up, too, is what you tell him. That right there should have signaled your capacity for sarcasm in the face of pain, but they didn’t quite catch on. They will, eventually. But they’ll smoke you innumerable times beforehand.

  The first time they told you, “You’re about to get smoked, Private. Do you want to get smoked?” you said you were not sure, you didn’t know what it was. They informed you—all of you—that smoking is when they exercise you so intensely steam rises from your body. One particular private earned the nickname of Smokey. Not you. You get christened Frosty, like the snowman, because you never stop sweating once, like a snowman in the summertime. You shed twenty-seven pounds in fourteen weeks. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

  Smokey ended up going to a different company than you, so the last smoke session you saw starring him ended with a reception battalion drill sergeant asking him, “How do you like me now?” to which Smokey replied, “Drill Sergeant, who told you I liked you in the first place, Drill Sergeant?” Luckily for Smokey, two other drill sergeants pulled the first drill sergeant away. It probably wouldn’t have been so infuriating had several hundred privates who were supposed to be silently staring at the back of the head of the private in front of them not suddenly erupted in laughter.

  The real drill sergeants tore through records looking for gang members, juvie records, anyone with a history of violence—morality waivers, as the Army sometimes calls them—while the unsuspecting privates all sat on benches and ate bagged meals and begged to use the bathroom. Sorry. Latrine. Begged because the drill sergeants could finish up at any moment, signaling the official start of boot camp. They are looking for the crème de la crap, not the poster boys and boy scouts you see on the commercials.

  Those who make the cut are loaded onto literal livestock trailers and sent to a training battalion nicknamed the House of Pain. What follows the truck reaching its destination is known as the shark attack. In the movies, this is depicted with a bunch of privates pouring off a bus and lining up into a perfect formation, circled by screaming drill sergeants—a few tears stream down cheeks, etc.

  That’s not how they do it at the House of Pain.

  When the tractor-trailers pull up, those who can peer out the holes tell the rest of you how it’s just one guy waiting. A lot of pomp and circumstance. “Stressing us for no good reason,” someone says.

  This one guy is the single biggest man you’ve ever come across in real life. With a drill sergeant’s Smokey Bear hat perched atop his head, he is every bit of seven feet tall.

  The first few privates ooze out the narrow doors with their duffle bags strapped to their backs, and he says nothing. He doesn’t even seem to blink. He could be a mannequin. Seconds ticked by as privates grunt and groan their way out of the cattle hauler and look to him for guidance, of which he offers none until he is surrounded with stupefied privates. That’s when he raises his monstrous hands into the sky and screams, “Move, you fucking retards!” and brings his hands back down and slaps the duffle bags strapped to their backs, pushing them forward.

  Again, he shouts, “Move!” and points to the far end of the building, where another drill sergeant waits, one so small you’re sure there’s a pygmy somewhere in his lineage. Somewhere recent. His father. Possibly his grandfather. He is the goal post, and you haul ass down to him. He says nothing, only points toward the company area. That’s where the sharks are circling. Seeing this, some privates freeze, trying to make out what all is being said by the dozen or so drill sergeants who are waiting on three platoons’ worth of privates and think it adds to the atmosphere if they all talk at the same time.

  The herd of privates forms a bottleneck of sorts, one that the big bastard takes full advantage of when he walks up behind them and begins shoving duffle bags. Some privates topple to the ground. Others smash into other privates who then domino other privates into the walls. The privates who fall are made to push Georgia while they are down there. The rest make a mad dash to the platoon areas. Any platoon areas. No one goes where they are supposed to. That isn’t how this works. There’s a lot of name-calling; last name, first name, you stand here—that kind of thing. Not schoolyard name-calling. That comes later. Once you are put in your proper place, you’re told to situate your duffle bag between your feet and take a seat and hold your ID card in one hand and your dog tags in the other, as high in the air as you can, and stare straight ahead while awaiting further instructions.

  All this goes on while the drill sergeants are doing everything they can to confuse you and talk over one another. No good can come of this. Luckily, you find your place in time to see some private scramble to the platoon area where he’s been summoned by his drill sergeant, only to be stopped midway and dropped for push-ups by a different drill sergeant.

  There is a prescribed way to do everything. Push-ups especially. Both hands meet the ground simultaneously, shoulder-width apart, fingers spread, thumbs pointed toward each other. Feet are kicked all the way back, and you are to make your entire body—head, spine, buttocks, legs—into a straight line. This is the framed front-leaning rest position.

  When that private kicks out his feet, he does so with such force and such terrible timing that he takes the company commander’s legs out from underneath him and sends him somersaulting.

  Someone hits the mute button.

  Not a sound is heard in the company area until the captain rises to his feet, brushes himself off, politely asks the private, “What is your name, young man,” and says something to the drill sergeant, who then informs the private who he’s just kicked—assaulted, technically—and that he’s already looking at an Article 15—disciplinary action.

  Upstairs, things don’t calm down any. The platoon files in, taking up positions beside beds that line the outside walls and wrap around the interior in alphabetical order. Each bed is numbered. Your number is zero-four-nine. Once the drill sergeants are certain no missteps were made with the alphabetization, they call the platoon forward to await further instructions, which requires the platoon to gather around the teeny-tiny drill sergeant outside the office door.

  Someone silently farts, an action this drill sergeant takes personally. He does
n’t drop the platoon as a group or attempt to suss out the offending individual or even ask for the culprit to reveal themselves. In fact, he only belts out, “Drink water,” in the singsong sort of way the Army teaches you, to which the privates holler back, in unison, “Beat the heat, Drill Sergeant, beat the heat.”

  “Both canteens, gentlemen,” he says. “This is Georgia. It is August. Stay hydrated. Drink water.” He sings those two simple words beautifully.

  To illustrate both canteens have been emptied into your gullet, they are held overhead with the caps unscrewed. When everyone finishes, he says, “Go fill them back up, gentlemen. Form back up right here on me,” and the platoon sprints into the latrine at the opposite end of the barracks and does as ordered as fast as possible.

  Once every canteen is full, and every private has formed back up, the drill sergeant belts out, “Drink water,” in his soulful Sunday choir best. And you all do as you’re told.

  Both canteens, again.

  Someone pukes. Judging by the unbroken cadence of his monologue, the drill sergeant does not acknowledge the sound of the retching nor the splashing water spilling down onto his freshly waxed floor. More privates puke. He does not mention it or voice his concern. Instead, he patiently waits while emptied canteens are displayed overhead, two by two. After which, he orders them filled up again. And drunk, again.

  This goes on for five trips to the latrine. It goes on until every private sips their water and immediately pukes that same water down onto their boots.

  Most double-time to the latrine to vomit, at first, too proud to puke on the floor, or afraid of the unknown punishment for doing so. You’ve never known love until you’ve shared a toilet bowl with another person and effectively held onto one another to stop from faceplanting into the water while violently retching.

  This is how you make the acquaintance of one Cesar Barraza. You will always roll your tongue when you say his name. That’s not to say you always see eye to eye with him.

  One morning he walks up to the sink where you’re shaving and begins to brush his teeth. You blink a handful of times after catching sight of his eyebrow in the mirror, blackened and swollen and stitched shut. Naturally, you ask, “What happened?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Frosty,” he growls back through a mouthful of frothing toothpaste.

  While tightening up your bunk, you ask the guy who sleeps across from you if he knows what happened to Barraza. He laughs, asks you how your hand feels.

  “Last night,” he says, “when he went to wake you for fire watch, you stood up, still asleep. Sleepwalking, right? And you hauled off and cold-cocked him upside the head and laid him right out on the floor. Then you lay back down like it was part of a dream.”

  “What?”

  “Ask Trimble if you don’t believe me. Drill sergeant came through and took him to the ER. Watch rotation was all fucked up.”

  “Fuck!”

  “Fuck is right. Trimble took your watch.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Hey, Trimble,” he says, “why didn’t you wake Tromblay up for watch?”

  “’Cause fuck getting knocked out is why.”

  That’s not the only problem you had sleeping while at the Infantry Training Battalion. Problem is kind of an odd term to use here, really. You’d wake whenever a mouse let a fart go and fall back to sleep just as quick.

  Once you heard one of the fire watches announce to the other private the presence of a drill sergeant in the barracks by hissing, “Stand by.” It seems you heard those two whispered words over all the snoring and farting and tossing and turning and whatever was going on inside your very own dream and hopped out of bed and stood at the end of your bunk—and fell right back asleep where you stood.

  “Private,” the drill sergeant said in your ear, waking you.

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant?” you said.

  “Carry on.”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant,” you said, looking around and realizing he wanted you to crawl back into your bunk.

  The next morning, while everyone was preparing for the day, you heard him say to himself and whoever might be listening, “Some privates sleepwalk, but this motherfucker does drill and ceremony in his sleep. Hell, he might even be the Manchurian Candidate.”

  Privates learned to sleep anywhere. In line waiting on a truck was the best sleep you could get. An entire platoon would stand shoulder to shoulder, lined up by squad. Unless you were in the front row, all you had to do was rest your chin on top of the bedroll atop the next private’s rucksack and close your eyes. The one time you found yourself up front, you got creative. You fixed the bayonet onto your M16 and placed its buttstock on the ground. Next, all you had to do was spin the bayonet’s sheath upside down on your utility belt, slide it back in, and, bingo, you’d made yourself into a tripod. Lights out.

  Out on the soft sawdust of the PT field, you are taught proper stretching and exercise techniques, and how much water you need to take in while sweating under the Georgia summer sun. The lot of you are some fifty feet from the field latrine, which is basically a concrete cube with a trough along one wall and a half a dozen toilets lining the other, sans privacy stalls.

  But there’s no need to worry about using either at this point.

  Every single private who asks the drill sergeant leading the demonstration whether they can utilize the latrine is denied. Every time someone does ask, he tells them to drink more water, putting more pressure on their bladders. By the third time he tells the platoon to drink water, he hears an unmistakable sound and loses all semblance of professionalism. He zigzags through the formation, demanding to know who’s pouring their water out onto the field. “Speak up now,” he says. He’ll smoke the shit out of the platoon, he threatens—until he comes upon Alphabet pissing himself.

  Alphabet is so named because the combination of his first, last, and middle names lacks only two letters from the alphabet. That, and not a single one of the drill sergeants can pronounce it. You’re able to pronounce it. He’s in the same part of the alphabet as you, so he sleeps one bed away. Like you, he’s spent most of his life since puberty studying the martial arts. When the drill sergeants get wind of this, they put the two of you against one another during hand-to-hand combat training one day. It hardly seems worth mentioning, other than the fact that they also place money on the two of you.

  The second week is the week you learn basic first aid. The day of the practicals is an all-day affair. Once you pass one of the stations, you go back to sit with your platoon, where you will stay until you all pass and you are all ordered on to the next station, unless you have to use the latrine. If you have to shit, you use the latrine. If you have to piss, you use the woodline, meaning: you run off somewhere inside the trees and piss. Which you do. By this point, it’s already been instilled in you to wait until the last minute to go, so it is a long piss, but not so long that you notice how you’re standing next to a trail that leads to another first aid training station.

  Mid-piss, you see the company commander coming your way. At first, you look away, pretend you don’t see him, hope you can finish up and take off before he gets so close you have to render a salute. But you’re taking a piss, so, are you supposed to salute? What did they teach you? Literally drill into you? When in doubt, salute.

  So you do.

  You put your heels together, let go of your dick with your right hand, and offer the captain a crisp salute and say, “Good afternoon, sir.” It’s a salute he does not return. Instead, he tells you, “Two hands, Private, two hands,” and walks right by you. The rest of the day, the drill sergeants just laugh when they see you.

  The next time you have a one-on-one with the company commander follows a weekend bivouac. It’s lunchtime back at battalion headquarters. A weekend-long bivouac means it’s been three days since you’ve eaten actual food. And it’s been three days since you shit, too. MRE, for you, means Meal Refuses to Exit.

  But midway through your lunch, you realize those nine or
ten MREs have all changed their mind and are ready to exit. That means you have to devour what’s left on your tray, drink your remaining water, put the tray and your glasses on the conveyor belt so they can go back into the kitchen, leave the chow hall, hop up on the pull-up bars, knock out ten pull-ups, then double-time it back to the company area, then scale three flights of stairs, then find an open stall in your platoon’s latrine.

  As you’re trotting with ass cheeks clenched, the company commander comes around the corner. Seeing this, you let go of an audible “Fuck,” because you know you have to slow to a walk and render the captain a salute and wait for him to return your salute before you can continue on your way. But there is no way, not today. Instead, you pretend you didn’t see him. You kick up the pace to a full sprint.

  “Private!” he says. “Where are you going?”

  You look back to see it’s you he’s addressing, being it’s only the two of you in the breezeway. He’s at a standstill, still looking in the direction he was walking when you ran by him. You have to go back.

  You face him and salute him and say, “Good afternoon, sir,” while your butthole begins to quiver.

  “Where are you headed, Private?”

  “To the latrine, sir.”

  “And you couldn’t take the time to render a proper salute?”

  “I need the latrine, sir.”

  “How many seconds does it take to salu—”

  He can’t finish his sentence because you can’t hold your shit any longer. He goes completely silent. It’s just him and you standing there with a weekend’s worth of digested MREs exploded inside your uniform trousers.

  His expression tells you to carry on; he doesn’t have to say it. He’s already walking away. But you still render a parting salute and offer him a “Mountaineers, sir.”

  You come to realize boot camp is more like a slice of America’s prison population. The drill sergeants point out, “In times of financial downfall, more white guys are coming through these barracks. We have a few more than usual right now, which says it would be a bad time to leave the Army because the job market sucks. The exception is the white trash. We see a lot of those. And even with your shaved head and uniform, we can still pick you out of a crowd.”