As You Were Page 7

  Another drill sergeant chimes in, “Watch. You, you scrawny little shit, the one who looks like he’s wearing his daddy’s uniform, where are you from?”

  “Shenandoah, West Virginia, Drill Sergeant.”

  “Shedding Dog, West Virginia? I fucking knew it. A no-shit hillbilly.”

  “Shan-in-dough-ah, Drill Sergeant.”

  “Got a question, Private. You ever seen a black person before coming here?”

  “Nah, Drill Sergeant.”

  “Nah?”

  “No, Drill Sergeant. Sorry, Drill Sergeant.”

  “Now you think I’m a sorry drill sergeant. Is that right?”

  “Naw—ah—”

  “Stop stuttering, Private. Who’s your battle buddy?”

  “Roster number zero-two-four, Drill Sergeant.”

  “Not unless it’s that big Shaft-looking motherfucker in the back corner, it ain’t—Private, where are you from? Please say Chicago or Compton or some shit.”

  “Arkansas, Drill Sergeant.”

  “Shit, you’re a hillbilly too, ain’t ya, Private?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant,” he says. Both he and his new battle buddy hang their heads a little.

  That’s how it works. The platoon drill sergeant, like a warden and his guards, make life so miserable that you don’t have it in you anymore to worry about your differences. You’re bonded by the shittiness of it all.

  Still, sixty or so men trapped in one room, no matter how large, never proves large enough. The expression rats in a cage is a tried and true metaphor.

  When one private sucker punches another private, the three platoons sit and watch their first Article 15 proceedings. An Article 15 is a hearing for non-judicial punishment where an officer immediately above the offending individual or individuals is either awarded a punishment, such as extra duty, or it can be deemed that a Courts Martial hearing is more appropriate.

  When all is said and done, the two privates are given extra duties for the following month. Not a big deal. One was in trouble for throwing the punch, the other for instigating the assault.

  Now, as with most military goings-on, a debriefing followed. That’s where your supervisor breaks down the thing you just saw or did, so everyone understands what happened. The two privates involved in the Article 15 debacle weren’t from your platoon. They were from second. So your platoon sergeant gathered all of the third platoon outside his office and launched into a monologue you’ll never forget.

  “Men, are there any squabbles inside this platoon we need to squash? I have duty tonight, and I will check out the pugil gear, and we can do it right here. It’ll be done with. Speak up!—fine. I have been in a few fights during my time in the Army. I’ve served with more than a few dickheads who needed their attitude adjusted. And I was happy to oblige. Call it a calling.”

  “Hooah.”

  “Now, what I didn’t do was walk up to the guy in full goddamn uniform with my name sewn on my shirt and punch that motherfucker in the teeth. Gentlemen, the Army has issued you so many things. One is a ski mask. That’s what you wear. Just that. Only that. Boots, too. Sorry, I forgot boots. Now, you put on your ski mask and your boots, and you wait until you know that motherfucker will be in the latrine alone. Then you beat his ass. What, you think any self-respecting soldier is going to report an assault and say, Yes, sir, there I was on my way into the latrine after PT and this guy assaulted me. Well, what did he look like? He was naked, sir. Naked? You didn’t recognize his face? He had on a ski mask, sir. Any identifying marks? I didn’t look closely at him, but his dick did hang down to his knees, sir. No! They ain’t going to say shit. They’ll tell the doc they tripped or some shit, but no one will ever report being beaten up by a naked man. Though if you’re covered in tattoos like some of you dumbfucks, I can’t help you. Understand what I’m telling you, men?”

  “Hooah!”

  Turns out he wasn’t lying. About a week and a half later, someone from the first platoon decided they had a beef with someone from the third platoon, and they were going to risk some extra duty and jump him first chance they got. And word spread. And maybe the third platoon and first platoon wanted it to happen. But the first platoon didn’t know what third had in mind.

  One night, things came to a boiling point in the laundry room. The guy from third platoon retreated back to the barracks, and the guy from first platoon was held back by a few of his more level-headed battle buddies. But eventually, he crept his way into third platoon’s barracks and found his sworn enemy sitting on the floor quietly polishing a pair of boots. The lack of boots by the bunks gave him the extra push to bum-rush the guy. By his best guess, half of the platoon was downstairs washing clothes, others were out on the PT field, and the rest were nowhere close enough to worry him.

  When the pair of latrine doors swung open and out poured a platoon of men wearing nothing more than boots and ski masks, who cut off his escape route and bum-rushed him as well, he forgot all that ever angered him. The third platoon never even spoke a word. The soft clomp of the hundred-plus rubber soles making their way toward him was enough to make him cower. The sight of sixty or so swinging dicks was enough to get him begging to leave. And that may be why first and second platoon stopped using third platoon’s moniker and motto: Mountaineers, climb to glory! and instead started saying Mountainqueers, climb your buddy! while getting away from us as fast as possible.

  The House of Pain had a storied past—rumors of investigations, acts which led to a handful of drill sergeants losing their hats. A cycle before you showed up, a private completed a run and began to complain that his chest hurt. The drill sergeant ordered him to stand at attention when addressing him, so the private did as told. He stood erect, heels together, feet at a forty-five-degree angle, slight bend at the knee, arms at his side, hands along the seam of his shorts, head and eyes looking straight forward.

  Once he’d assumed the proper position, the drill sergeant asked him what his problem was. Again, he told the drill sergeant his chest was hurting. In response, the drill sergeant planted his foot in the private’s sternum and asked, “How about now?” laughing while the private bounced off the wall behind him and collapsed. By best guess, he was dead before he hit the ground. That’s why they aren’t filming for the boot camp video all the other battalions get.

  But the drill sergeants don’t scare you. There are rules of what they can and cannot do. If they break those rules, they’ll lose their hat and maybe even their careers. You know you’re safe with them.

  The monster of a drill sergeant, the one-man welcoming committee, catches on after a while, whispers to you once while you’re cleaning your weapon: “I know you come from a real fucked-up home. You’re not afraid of us. We don’t want you to be afraid of us. We want to teach you all we can, so you can live as long as you can out on the battlefield. You got it? How about you calm down some and let us do our job? You’re not at home anymore. You got out. You survived all that shit.”

  You stay quiet, don’t even look up at him. You don’t want him to see your eyes well.

  Four years later, you find yourself in North Chicago in the pipeline to become a Sailor, which you do with ease.

  TRICK OR TREAT

  “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT NOISE?”

  “Falling

  Down

  The stairs,

  What’s

  It

  Sound

  Like?”

  It’s a miracle you don’t break a rib, or Grandma doesn’t bust a yardstick across your butt for making a smart-aleck comment while tumbling down the stairs. No one bothers to get out of their seat or come see what’s going on, but Grandpa Bub does lean forward to peer into the darkness of the front hallway in time to watch you finish falling down the last few stairs. The Yoda costume, which isn’t really much more than a thick trash bag with his brown robe printed on it, works a whole lot like a Slip ‘N Slide when the slack gets caught underfoot.

  You don’t crush the plastic mask. Thank
fully, it’s waiting on the kitchen table along with a pillowcase.

  Grandpa Bub nods to Grandma Audrey, affirming you are indeed falling down the stairs, and you are, in fact, narrating what is happening while it is happening. You don’t dare ignore her. You know enough to answer her when she asks a question.

  Her face is one of bewilderment. Not that you paid any attention, but it’s always the main plot point whenever the story is rehashed by Debbie. It’s perplexing how she isn’t chasing you around the house for saying what you said, and you don’t want to push your luck, so you grab the mask and pillowcase and head out the door with your big cousin, Glen, who already has a hold of the doorknob.

  The two of you fill your pillowcases three times total, and Dad steals everything made of solid chocolate, claiming it’s for warmth when he’s out in the deer stand.

  You cover every street in the surrounding square mile. It’s simple: you two go to the houses with their front porch lights turned on and ignore the darkened ones.

  When the two of you take note of a house that is decorated as can be but not lit by a single bulb, you get curious. The door is propped open, and there are fake cobwebs everywhere, with giant plastic spiders dangling down from the ceiling of the front porch. Ominous laughter loops from a little speaker mounted next to some pumpkins that have burned out.

  You knock.

  Nothing.

  You ring the doorbell.

  Nothing.

  Glen says, “David,” nudging your elbow, “scarecrow.”

  At the opposite end of the porch is a scarecrow slumped on a bench. Between its feet is a Tupperware bowl full of candy. The good stuff. Pinned to its chest is a sign reading: take one.

  There’s two of you, so you take two and put one in Glen’s pillowcase. When you turn to leave, Glen shakes his head and says, “Uh-uh, don’t be a pussy,” quiet enough so whoever is inside the house won’t hear him. That’s followed by “Grab a handful,” which you do. Then you hear Glen say, “Oh shit!” loud enough for everyone to hear.

  That’s when someone takes hold of your wrist and growls, “I said one!”

  The scarecrow stands over you, laughing, clenching the wrist attached to the greedy hand that plunged into the candy bowl one time too many. Your “Lemme go” is more of a sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper.

  The scarecrow growls, “Can’t you read?” and the arm continues to tug and yank away from him like a headless flopping fish. But he’s got to be six foot tall and two hundred pounds with no way out of his grip.

  Still, Yoda does all he can to turn and run.

  There’s nervous sweat pouring beneath that costume. That wrist slips from the scarecrow’s grip, and Yoda makes it out the front porch door. Though, there’s the matter of a few stairs which have somehow slipped the mind. Yoda slams down to the ground, the costume splits up the side, and you spill out.

  Glen is gone.

  The only sign of him is the fading frantic sound of his footfalls traveling farther away. The scarecrow stands atop the front porch stairs, flings the pillowcase, and says, “Don’t forget your candy,” laughing himself into a stupor.

  Over on the next block, you find Glen standing beneath a streetlight laughing, saying, “Holy shit,” over and over again. “Grandma’s going to kill you,” lifting a torn flap of vinyl costume that was once Master Yoda’s robe.

  CLEANING OUT THE CLOSET

  WHILE CLEANING UP THE FRONT hallway after the holidays, Grandma gives you a handful of coat hangers and tells you to put them away. They’re the old wire kind, the ones she gets from the dry cleaners. You don’t want her to tell you again, but she’s standing right in front of the closet door, taking drags off her cigarette, contemplating what chore she’ll have you tackle next. You know if you say “Excuse me,” she’ll say “I’ll move when I’m goddamn good and ready,” so you do that clumsy dance of left then right then left again while she shakes her head ever so slightly, causing you to suspect she might have early-stage Parkinson’s, until she lifts her eyebrows from back behind her bifocals, signaling her patience has run out. This is the look that accompanies her saying, “Hurry the hell up.” But there’s no telling whether she said it this time or if she even needs to say it anymore. It’s Pavlovian at this point.

  She blows a billow of smoke and looks down at you with a bored glare. Through the smoke, you mumble, “You’re closer,” and almost hand the hangers to her before it dawns on you what you’ve said aloud.

  She snatches the coat hangers away from you and coils her hand up over her head, wafting away the halo of smoke clinging to her curlers. You fall to the floor—the way the fainting goats do when you bum rush them at the petting zoo—covering yourself the best you can, pinning your chin to your chest, cupping your hands over your ears, making yourself the smallest possible target. It’s the same as what the sergeants teach you during boot camp in preparation for a nuclear attack, but by the time they get a hold of you, it’s instinct for you to curl up in a ball and kiss your ass goodbye.

  The sting of a wire coat hanger is nothing new. But sting is just a word—a placeholder, really—for the sensation that follows the lashes. There isn’t a word for the feeling that comes over you while it is happening. It’s confusing. It is something you feel only when it comes as a surprise, when you can’t tell if it’s a searing burn or a cold so deep it’ll blacken flesh.

  Regardless of how long it went on, it went on long enough for welts to rise on both sides of the neck, long enough for her scolding to become a scream and an incomprehensible slurry of vowels and consonants, long enough for you to no longer recognize the individual lashes—only a constant ache, akin to the time she says not to touch the toaster and when you ask her, “Why?” she plops your forearm across the top of it and presses down until you can’t breathe enough to cry and then your shoes slide out from underneath you when the puddle of piss around your feet makes the linoleum too slippery to stand. You’ll wear long-sleeved shirts and bandages for the next two weeks.

  She tosses the hangers to the floor and snatches a handful of hair with her talons, and you exclaim a redundant reminder of what she is doing, hoping it will somehow make her stop, or, by some miracle cause someone to come to the rescue just this once.

  You wait for her to say it: “I’m not pulling your hair, I’m only holding your hair. You’re the one hopping around like a damn fool.”

  It’s as adult as the back and forth between Debbie and you:

  “Stop touching me.”

  “I’m not touching you.”

  Today she mutters through clenched teeth while pinching her cigarette between her lips, but those words escape you. All you can only hear is the blood rushing in your ears.

  She tries the doorknob with her other hand, but the spring in the latch is as old as anything in the house, so it takes two or three times to get it all to catch just right, and you make it all that much worse by slumping back down to the floor while gravity, not Grandma, pulls strands of hair free from your scalp.

  On the fourth or fifth try, the closet door does swing open, and she shoves you inside, where you are to stay until the next morning, you got it?

  The bile-green shag carpet covering the floor of the front hallway shuts out the light cast by the brass chandelier. The closet becomes something of a cave filled with the musk of everyone’s raincoats and winter parkas and your snowmobile suit, which is still damp from last night’s trek to the hill behind the hair salon where Grandma goes on the mornings when Grandpa’s pension check comes to the mailbox. The house falls silent, save the jingling of the coat hangers each time you shift from your left side to the right, along with the sound of Scrappy’s sniffing, his checking to see if everything is all right. But he only sniffs. He doesn’t paw at the door or claw at the carpet. He too is afraid to help. He too is a bystander in all this.

  Not even sleep comes to the rescue that night. Not because you cower in fear, waiting for the closet door to fly open and the beating to recom
mence. That never crosses your mind. Getting locked away in the closet for the night is old hat. No, you don’t sleep simply because you’re wise enough to savor the solitude.

  Somehow you never become claustrophobic. It should have made you afraid of dark, closed spaces, elevators, windowless rooms, even the turtleneck you’d have to wear to school the next day. But it doesn’t. Being locked in the closet means not having to duck each time she raises a hand. It means not having to dodge a cigarette lighter each time you dare walk in front of the television set, yet you can’t walk through the kitchen because she’ll curse you out, thinking you’re going for a glass of water when she just did the damn dishes. It means not being threatened with an obscenely early bedtime if ever you speak a word—even if it is during a commercial break. It means not having to clip her toenails or scrape out the yellow, crusty stuff collected underneath them. It means not having to drag a pumice stone across her hooves and then get kicked when you knock the dead skin off your pajama pants and onto the floor she just vacuumed. It means not having to carve her calluses off with a paring knife or moisturize her corns or rub her arches with your hands, which are never strong enough to please her and bring her the ease she needs following her long day at the job you never see her leave for—all this for the crime of being seen and heard.

  The blackness and the quiet of the closet do not serve as a conduit for the earlier events of that afternoon to creep back into the forefront of your mind. You don’t sit wondering what you should have said or done differently. Instead, that night, a scene from the cabin calls to mind.

  The hum of a needle gliding across the grooves of a vinyl LP ushers in a symphony of strings, accompanied by some soft, muffled horns, the strike of a hi-hat—punctuated by the clink that comes from Grandma’s glass when she swishes her brandy and 7Up while singing along with Doris Day between taking a drag off of her Raleigh Lights. All this echoes in your ears while you sit cross-legged on the closet floor, but it’s so sonorous you may as well be back on the cabin’s kitchen floor peering over the arm of the rocking chair, taking in the wonder of this woman at peace. Grandma’s voice is velvet. It gets lost in the lyrics of “Sentimental Journey.” A story of a woman who wishes to take a train and roam back home. But the mushroom cloud of cigarette smoke collecting over the coffee table does little to conceal how the man in black can make her voice quake by simply telling her a story about a Pima Indian with whom she shares a last name.