Route Thirty-Two. There’s that silly looking US Oil logo. What a stroke of luck Toby’s uncle was the cop that pulled us over that night.
Hours later, Jack found himself sitting at a red light on Main Street; up ahead he saw the familiar Woolworths sign. After plugging the parking meter, he went into the store and sat on a stool at the luncheon counter. He watched the women as they searched through piles of clothing for the best bargains, and never glanced at the waitress who walked over and asked him, “May I help you?”
Staring absentmindedly at the pile of dungarees, he answered, “A vanilla cone, please.” His mind had drifted ten years into the past. He pictured his mother rummaging through those piles of reduced denims searching for his size, and an excited little boy clutching an Iron Man magazine running up to her.
“Would that be a large, or a small cone, Jack?” the waitress asked in a very friendly, recognizable voice, quickly bringing Jack back to his senses.
“Rebecca!” Jack’s face lit up. She was as pretty as ever and as cute as could be in her pink and white striped waitress uniform. She looked more mature. More desirable.
“Sorry about your Mom.” Her face showed actual concern.
“She’s probably better off, she was very sick, and in a lot of pain for quite a while.” To change the subject, he asked, “When did you start working here?”
“Just last week; I’ll work here till school starts in the fall. What size cone did you want?”
“Just a small. What are you taking up in school?” Jack was thinking of things to talk about. He wanted to sit on that stool and talk with her for the rest of his life.
Rebecca handed Jack his cone. “On the house,” she winked at him. “I’ll be taking up nursing; with some additional credits. I’m eventually going to pursue my doctorate degree.”
“That sounds great, Rebecca. As smart as you are, that’ll be a piece of cake. Now, if I went to school, I’d be an astronaut and take up time and space!” He chuckled and she joined in.
Then she asked, “Do you remember the time when that nasty twin was teasing me with that snake? And you rescued me?”
“Yeah…I’ll never forget that.” He licked his cone.
“And you punched one of them in the nose, and then told Mr. Madigan the twins ran into each other. I was so scared; but now when I think about that, it was hilarious. You were awfully brave,” Rebecca said, reminiscing.
“I saw a beautiful damsel in distress, so I came to slay the dragon!” Jack turned on the charm.
“You were always so dramatic.”
“No. I always had a crush on you,” Jack confessed.
“I always liked you, too; but my mother wouldn’t let me date. I wanted to go out with you, Jack, honest, I did. But, ‘school work comes first.’ I think I’m the only girl who sat home on prom night. Sometimes my mother just…infuriates me.”
“Just like my father is doing to me right now. He thinks I’m going to work on the farm. I told him otherwise,” Jack said, as he took another lick.
“I see my manager giving me the evil eye; I’d better look busy. Good luck in whatever you do. See ya!” Rebecca said, patting his hand.
“Thanks Rebecca. Thanks for the cone. I know you’ll do well in college. I’ll always have that crush on you!” Jack put his hand over his heart. Rebecca smiled, and shook her head as she went to wait on an elderly customer.
He felt so much better after seeing Rebecca. How could someone let another person run his or her life? He wondered while strolling through the store, until stopping behind a rack of plaid shirts; he watched Rebecca as she waited on customers. She glanced up and saw Jack; he waved at her. She smiled and shook her head again.
He eventually wandered out of Woolworths, and found himself sitting behind the wheel of his car. Again, so clueless about his future, his father, girls, his mother being gone, the grain yard, the farm, and life in general. Jack had so many questions that nobody short of God himself could answer for the boy.
He sat in his Merc and curiously watched the people going about their business. Some looked happy; others had sadness written all over their faces. A few carried a well to do demeanor, while others looked poor, distraught.
Then he spotted a tall, well-built, middle-aged man dressed in a sharp looking military uniform. The man held the door open at Woolworths for two young women. Apparently, they thanked him, so he tipped his hat to them, and then he continued to walk up the sidewalk. He stopped and unlocked a big glass door, then reached inside to bring out a cardboard cutout of Uncle Sam. Then Jack remembered who this man was—he was Sergeant Walko, a Marine recruiter who spoke to the senior class a month back about the “exciting and rewarding life in the Marines.” During his presentation, Jack paid only half attention; he had no plans on leaving Elderton, although the Sergeant certainly did paint a rosy picture of a great big world for new recruits to see. Furthermore, with pay at four times what the grain yard paid. He also elaborated on free meals, lodging, medical, thirty days vacation, and promotions.
Now that Jack was done with school, and his mother gone, the thought of being alone on the farm with his old man did not look too promising. He decided to go in just to talk to the Marine recruiter. What could it hurt?
An hour later, Jack Trotter put his John Hancock on the dotted line—for a six-year hitch, as an MP.
Chapter Seven
“You got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em.
Know when to walk away, know when to run.”
Kenny Rogers
Private Jack Trotter breezed through Basic training at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in sunny San Diego, California. Being in excellent physical shape made it easy, unlike several of the other recruits, who had a miserable time. Then, of course, there were those few who never even finished basic for they could not conquer the physical demands, or overcome the mental challenge. Some new recruits cried themselves to sleep at night. One kid from Ohio realized he made a big mistake, so he claimed to be a homosexual; the Corps discharged the liar.
Occasionally, a drug user enlisted to dry out. During the second week, a recruit from Philly lay curled up in his bunk after lights out, his arms around his stomach, obviously in pain, moaning for several hours. Nobody in the barracks could get any sleep. Jack, concerned, reported this to his Drill Instructor, “Sergeant Luckett, Private Emerson is in an awful lot of pain. I think he needs to see a doctor.”
“Trotter, Emerson will be just fine, he doesn’t need a doctor. Get your ass back in your bunk,” Sergeant Luckett told Jack. His DI stood only five foot eight inches, but he resembled a pit bull. None of the recruits could keep up with him during exercises, not even Jack. That little man could go nonstop at pushups, sit-ups, and every other calisthenics he would endure on those “maggots,” one of his favorite terms of endearment for his new batch of sorry ass recruits.
The next morning at five sharp, Luckett snatched the lids from two metal garbage cans and continually slammed them together while shouting through the barracks, “Okay, maggots, time to get off your cocks and into your socks. Physical training will commence in exactly ten minutes. Move them sorry asses…Ladies!”
Private Emerson’s condition had not improved any from last night. Jack hurried to finish dressing and went to Luckett’s office. “Sergeant Luckett, Emerson is still pretty sick. I really do think he needs a doctor. Maybe his appendix ruptured.”
Luckett looked at Jack with his beady black eyes, and in a very stern tone, as addressing a child, said, “Private Trotter, a doctor is not going to help Emerson. Not unless he brings a hypodermic filled with heroin. Look at the tracks on his arms, Son, he’s a fucking junkie! He needs a fix to numb his withdrawals. One or two of his kind comes through here every nine weeks. If you’re so concerned about him, get his sorry ass dressed, and get him out onto the PT field. You have three minutes. You’re excused, Maggot!”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Jack stood at attention, realizing how foolish and naïve he must have
appeared to his Drill Instructor.
As he turned to leave, Luckett said with a wee bit of compassion, “Trotter. Welcome to the real world. You’re not on a farm in Iowa with Toto anymore.”
“I understand completely, Sergeant,” Jack said, saluted, and went to help Emerson. He dared not correct his DI that Toto lived in Kansas.
He explained Emerson’s situation to the other recruits. They dressed the junkie and then forced him through the morning’s exercises. Of course, Emerson fell behind in the two-mile run; he had to stop after a quarter mile to puke out his guts. Jack and a few others forced him to finish. Every time Emerson would stop and cry out, “I can’t go any further.” Somebody would either push him from behind, or grab an arm and pull.
Before the recruits realized it, their nine weeks was almost over, and they were now short timers, only three days until graduation. Drill Instructor Luckett whipped another bunch of sorry ass maggots into—Men. Marines! He even referred to them now as such, or Devil Dogs, or Leathernecks. The recruits, who hated their sergeant during the first weeks of basic training, now had a deep admiration and a ton of respect for the “Old Boy”.
Emerson, looking healthy and fit now, came up to Jack and put his hand forward. “I just want to thank you for helping me make it. I never would’ve finished basic without your help, Trotter.”
Jack shook hands. “Don’t mention it…Marine.”
Upon graduating, Private First Class Trotter went on to Military Police school at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. For a farm boy who was never out of Polk County, Iowa, in his entire life, he was amazed at what all he saw, what all he did, and the diverse variety of people he met in the past three months. From junkies to intellects, hippies to hillbillies, and all kinds in between. He threw hand grenades, dug a foxhole, shot an M 60 machine gun, wore camouflage and ate his share of nutritious, but disgusting tasting C rations. Above all else, he felt like a man.
In the eleven-week course at Leonard Wood, Trotter had extensive hand-to-hand training on how to subdue an attacker. “Take him down and restrain him,” his martial arts instructor, Sergeant Fraser, told his class on their first day of training. He was six foot two inches tall, fairly muscular, and lean.
“I need a volunteer,” Fraser told his students. Nobody stepped up to the challenge. Trotter had a gut wrenching feeling that Fraser would pick him.
Fraser scanned the bleachers. “You,” he said, pointing to Trotter. Fraser always picked the biggest, meanest looking man in his class to drive home his point, “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”
Jack walked out on to the mat, and stood beside his instructor. He had two inches on him in height, about sixty pounds in weight, and a whole shit load more muscle. Fraser actually looked like a puny wimp standing beside Trotter.
“I want you to take me down, Trotter,” the sergeant ordered, motioning with his hands. Trotter rushed him. Fraser turned, letting Jack get onto the instructor’s back, and then quickly, Fraser grabbed one of Trotter’s arms, and used his own legs to heave the bigger man off his back and onto the mat. Trotter was the victim of Basic Judo. Fraser never let go of Trotter’s arm, and twisted it, forcing Trotter to roll onto his stomach. He now had Trotter’s arm bent behind his back, and with his other arm, Fraser put a chokehold on Trotter. The attacker was immobilized. Trotter was not expecting that. The instructor let go and stood up.
“Get up, Trotter, maybe you weren’t ready; or were you afraid of hurting me? Which do you think it was, Private?”
“Probably a little of both,” Trotter replied, causing the class to laugh.
“Don’t be afraid of hurting me. Are you ready to try again?” Trotter shook his head yes.
“Good. Now I want you to subdue me. That’s an order, Private. If you disobey me, you’ll have KP the rest of the time you’re at Leonard Wood. Take me down. I am a terrorist sent here to assassinate your president. Your country’s future is in your hands, Marine!”
Trotter did not rush in this time. Instead, he crouched over a bit, and slowly walked toward Fraser, who seriously mocked Trotter’s stance and walk, making the class laugh again. What he was really trying to do was piss Trotter off, and make him more determined to win.
They came head to head, grabbing at each other’s arms and hands. Then they locked up, like two wrestlers trying to trip one another. In one quick motion, Fraser pulled one hand free, bent over, shot his hand between Trotter’s legs up to the bend in his arm, picked his large opponent up, and slammed his back to the mat. Fraser then quickly sat straddled on Trotter’s chest, his right hand made into a pointed knuckle fist, poised to deliver a blow, one foot away from Trotter’s throat. Trotter froze; he knew he was beat again. Little fucker!
Fraser stayed in that position and announced to his students, “Class, observe the shape of my fist. Notice how I use the knuckles of my fingers to make this fist; if I were to strike this man in his throat with this lethal weapon, the force would crush his windpipe, and he would be dead in three minutes. It does not matter that he’s almost twice my size. A three-year old girl could kill this man with a blow to his vulnerable windpipe.”
Fraser stood. “Trotter, on your feet. Your Commander in Chief is dead, and you have KP for eleven weeks.” The class got a little chuckle out of his remark. Sergeant Fraser had a sense of humor; but he also took his job as serious as a heart attack.
He motioned for Trotter to take his seat, and then he addressed the class, “Men, in the following weeks, you will be taught forty-seven different ways to kill a man with your bare hands. Even a big gorilla like Trotter has weak points. Do not let size intimidate you. You will learn pressure points and vulnerable vital organs. I will teach you how to use your opponent’s own weight against him. You will become a master of the Marine’s style of martial arts. Now pair up with somebody your own size, we’ll start with the basic judo throws; just like the two our kind volunteer, Trotter, has already demonstrated.”
* * * *
Trotter was the proverbial lean, mean, killing machine when he graduated from MP school, shipping out to his permanent duty station at Camp Pendleton, thirty-eight miles north of San Diego. He loved everything about it. The California weather was as beautiful as the women were, and the gym was brand new, full of the latest exercise equipment.
Being an MP on a large base was similar to having a full time job, except for having to qualify periodically both with a weapon, and physical training tests. Only on rare occasion did he have KP or latrine duty. Just as his recruiter promised, Trotter was promoted to Lance Corporal in three years. Seventeen more years and Trotter could retire with a pension at an early age. He already had his mind set on doing just that. In addition, being an MP was appealing for Trotter. He had never forgotten how Toby’s uncle treated them on that night he pulled them over. So he tried to be fair and understanding when he had to use his authority during situations. Usually, his sheer size alone convinced most any perpetrator to co-operate and be a law-abiding citizen. Only twice in the course of four years did he resort to force and handcuffs to make an arrest. Both times, alcohol was involved. It seems reasoning does not work on a drunk as well as a judo hold does.
Working out at the gym was one of his favorite things to do when he was off duty. One payday, after a workout, Trotter showered, then went to the base activities center. Here, an enlisted man could shoot pool, play arcade games, watch television, socialize, or get a quick bite to eat. He grabbed a cheeseburger and a diet soda. On his way to a table, he passed by three marines playing cards. PFC Scarpelli was dealing poker; he stopped Trotter and asked, “Hey Corporal, care to sit in?”
Trotter hadn’t touched any cards since he played gin rummy with his mother. He said “No,” but he sat down to watch. Poker was new to him, but the game seemed simple enough. After watching a few rounds and the winning hand of two pair collected the kitty, which was around one hundred and fifty dollars, Trotter was itching to play.
&nbs
p; One player, after losing another hand, said, “You guys are too good for me, I’m done.” He got up, and went to shoot pool.
Trotter asked, “Can I take his place?” The other two agreed, and Trotter was in the game. Scarpelli dealt as if he was a dealer in a casino; fast, precise.
“Deuces wild,” Scarpelli announced and dealt five cards to each player. Trotter had a pair of queens; they bet, he kept the pair of lovely ladies and drew three cards. A deuce! A nine and a king. They bet again and Trotter won the hand with the three ladies. Smiling, he collected the one hundred and fifty dollar kitty.
“Same game,” the PFC said, and dealt. Scarpelli won that hand with a straight; Trotter had three tens. PFC Barton had a pair of sevens; he then also dropped out and went to shoot pool.
“How about you, Big Guy, in or out?”
“In,” Trotter replied. The two played, got on a first name basis, and conversed. They talked mainly about home, or the Corps. Scarpelli was from the Bronx. It was either the military or jail for the medium built kid. Somebody ratted him out on an arson job that he pulled for his uncle so he could fraudulently collect an insurance check on an old warehouse.
Speaking in a heavy New York Italian accent, “The old shithouse was far enough away from other buildings, and it was vacant; nobody or nothing else got hurt. I probably did the city a favor in torching that roach motel.” Scarpelli explained, half bragging. “My ex found out I was the firebug, and the bitch squealed on me. The judge gave me a decision. Prison, or the military and that’s how I got here.”
Trotter was winning two hands to Scarpelli’s three. Slowly but surely, his pile dwindled, while Scarpelli’s pile grew.
“I watched my father work sixteen hour days on a farm, and we always seemed to just get by. He and I weren’t that close, and when my mother died, well, one day I said, ‘To Hell with this town, and joined the Marines.’” Trotter added to the conversation.
Born of Greed Page 9
