He nodded. “Light trim, long sides, duck’s ass, hands off the wave. Coming up.”
I settled in for my free customized haircut while Smiley-Face retrieved an electric shaver from the counter behind him. The fact that he ignored the scissors and clippers next to it should have sounded an alarm, but sadly it did not. The nonstop buzzing that followed aroused my suspicions, but I told myself the guy was merely disregarding my instructions, which wouldn’t be the first time that happened to me in a barbershop. Reality began to set in when the buzzing stopped and I looked at the sheet, now blanketed with far more hair than could possibly remain on my head. If I had any doubts about what just happened, they disappeared when Smiley-Face spun me around to face the mirror. My first impulse was to restore the locks to my nearly bald pate. My second was to kill the asshole who’d removed them. I succumbed to neither urge because the first was impossible and the second could get me killed, probably at the hands of a firing squad.
On the return trip to the barracks some of us brooded over having been scalped, while others swore vengeance against their attackers. By the time we disembarked, though, most of us had settled down, perhaps taking solace in the knowledge that our hair would grow back.
Once we piled out of the bus, Potbelly instructed us to form two straight lines again and then turned us over to a guy as short as me, maybe even shorter. A gnome in officer’s clothing. He planted himself in front of us, hands on hips, legs apart, eyes staring us down.
“All right, listen up,” he instructed us. “I’m Warrant Officer Raymond Shipley, your company commander for the next nine weeks, which means I gotta turn you pussies into men in that short amount of time. I doubt I’ll be able to do it, because I can already tell you’re hopeless. But I’ll try, I’ll by-God fucking try, that I can promise you.” He paused, then read our minds. “Now I know what you’re thinking: why even try if we’re hopeless? Well, I’ll tell you why. I’ll try because in this here Navy we follow orders, and mine are to whip your sorry asses into shape … to make men of you. But you wouldn’t know nothing about that, about following orders and doing what you’re supposed to do. Because where you come from, when someone … say your fucking teacher … tells you to do something, you go crying home to mommy.” To emphasize his point, he tried imitating a wailing baby, but failed miserably because he was by-God no Dewey Clifford. “Well, let me tell you something,” Napoleon continued, “in this man’s Navy there ain’t no fucking mommies. Here you follow orders or else … get my drift?” Judging by the silence, we’d either gotten his drift or feared admitting we hadn’t. Bonaparte seemed to assume the former. “Okay then, here’s something else you need to know. I said my name is Shipley, but what I didn’t say is that to you assholes I’m ‘Sir.’ As in, ‘Sir, please wake me up at dawn every day. Sir, please march me all over hell every day. Sir, please kick my ass till it bleeds every day.” Brief pause. “Do you fucking understand me?” Silence. “Do you fucking under-stand me?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Okay then, maybe we’ll get along after all. Though I fucking doubt it.”
#
Actually, the little prick woke us up before dawn, at 0500—5 a.m. to you civilians—and he did it in the most obnoxious way possible, by using the barracks’ trash can as a percussion instrument. Every day except weekends he sounded reveille by banging the lid against the can, hard enough to awaken Rip Van Fucking Winkle. Once out of our bunks and on our feet, we followed a regular routine: shit-shower-and-shave, march around the base, eat breakfast, practice tying knots, attend a lecture, eat lunch, swab the decks, clean the heads, pick up butts, eat dinner, wash clothes and then sleep like, well, Rip Van Fucking Winkle.
Throughout the day Shipley appraised our strength, stamina, intelligence and ancestry, all of which he found wanting. From time to time he selected someone for special attention, and about midway through training that someone was me. The occasion was rehearsal for our second locker inspection, which Shipley insisted we had to pass “or else,” seeing as we’d nearly failed the first one during our second week in paradise.
Unlike personnel inspection, conducted at a specific time on a specific day—0900 Fridays—locker scrutiny occurred without warning. And also unlike personnel inspection, which you could pass by spit-shining your shoes, laundering your uniform and squaring your white hat, a locker exam called for anal attention to detail. You had to fold each item of clothing correctly, put it on its designated shelf and arrange it in a prescribed manner. Storing items on their assigned shelves was easy enough, but folding and placing them properly could be tricky.
Take the cause of my undoing, a pair of dress socks. To prepare them for placement you laid two socks lengthwise, one atop the other, rolled them up and pulled the top one over both to form a tight little ball with a slit up the side. This narrow opening, which resembled a vagina if you had Shipley’s imagination, always faced starboard. Always.
During rehearsal for our second inspection, Shipley filled in for base commander Benjamin J. Knowles, examining each locker while we stood at parade rest in front of our bunks. Upon arriving at mine he checked the shelves from top to bottom and, as was his custom, mm-hmmed twice after each. But when he reached the bottom shelf, instead of mm-hmming even once he removed a pair of Navy-blue dress socks and held them up for all to see, a sure sign of trouble ahead.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked of no one in particular.
When no one answered he repeated the question, only louder and with a slightly different emphasis. “What the fuck is this?”
Still no one replied so he supplied the answer himself. “It’s a pair of Navy dress socks, you dumbfucks.”
He poked at the slit with a forefinger. “Now, what the fuck is this?”
“It’s a pussy, sir.”
This came from Miguel Alvarez, who’d been dinged on our previous inspection for placing his dungarees wrong-side-up, and now appeared eager to score points.
“Correct. And which way is it facing?”
“Port, sir.”
“Correct again. And which way should it be facing?”
“Starboard, sir.”
Shipley trained his eyes on me. “You hear that, Rubin?” He pointed to his right. “That’s starboard.” He pointed to his left. “That’s fucking port.” He scanned the row of recruits while still addressing me. “Rubin, you’re a menace to this man’s Navy, you know that? People are gonna fucking die because of you. And you know why they’re gonna fucking die? Because you looked left instead of right, or turned left instead of right, or thought left instead of right, or fucked up in some other fucking way because you don’t know your fucking left hand from your right.”
I pictured dead men lying all around me and felt awful about it, especially since I was the cause of their deaths. But in case I didn’t feel badly enough, Shipley added, “Let’s face it, Rubin, you’re a fucking fuck-up.”
He moved on to the remaining lockers, torpedoing four more before finishing with one final comment for all of us. “You assholes are all fucking hopeless.”
But not so hopeless we couldn’t pass the actual inspection two weeks later. After complimenting us on a job well done, Captain Knowles departed and Shipley offered his own assessment.
“You still ain’t worth shit, so don’t get fucking cocky.”
#
Speaking of fucking, we were treated to a film about its risks—that is, about screwing without using a condom—the day before our first and only liberty, which was the day before our last day of training. The narrator warned us that if we didn’t use protection we’d suffer the consequences, including a ball-breaking, cock-rotting, brain-decaying venereal disease. This warning brought to mind that time with Lola May, but since my urination was pain-free and my epidermis chancre-free I figured I was safe.
Shipley added his own cautionary note to the celluloid warning before we boarded the bus into town the next evening. “Tonight’s your night to have fun, assholes, but re
member this: if you fuck up in any way, in any fucking way whatsoever, you’ll do the nine fucking weeks all over again. I can fucking promise you that.”
This promise plus the film’s dire warnings stuck with us until we hit town, at which point they began to fade. After visiting a few bars we could barely recall the caveats, and by evening’s end we’d forgotten them altogether.
#
On the bus trip back to our home-away-from-home some recruits described their escapades, others flaunted their tattoos and still others dozed in their vomit-stained uniforms. One sailor, namely me, sported an eye-catching shiner.
I knew intruding in a bar fight could be risky. Reliable sources, namely people who’d intruded in a bar fight, had strongly advised against it. Only one thing prevented me from heeding their counsel: I was too drunk to recall it.
Sitting in Sammy’s Saloon on San Diego’s outskirts, I was listing to port and listening to Patsy Cline when I became aware that Alex Sanborn, my drinking buddy for the evening, was quarreling with his next-door neighbor.
“Take that back,” shouted the normally soft-spoken Alex.
“Fuck you, four-eyes” was the response he got.
“Take that back, you … you …”
“Hell I will. In fact, I’ll repeat it case someone didn’ hear me the first time. Yo’ mama does it with niggers.”
I turned to starboard. The clash was classic: frail bookworm versus knuckle-dragging gorilla. The only thing they had in common was their Navy uniforms. After exchanging still more heated words the two got up and squared off, each assuming his version of a prizefighting stance. Alex threw the first punch, which despite his fierce concentration missed its mark by a mile. King Kong took the next swing, grazing his opponent’s over-exposed jaw. Perhaps fearing a more successful follow-up, Alex drew his arm back and tossed a potential haymaker that regrettably struck air. This apparently inspired Kong, who uncorked a right that sent Alex’s glasses flying and blood spurting from his nose. The gorilla cocked his fist again, intending, if I read him correctly, to send Alex back home to Stockton. Yes, I should have minded my own business but I was also pissed at Kong, for using that word and for bloodying the schnoz of someone I liked. Plus I was drunk.
So I pushed Alex aside, faced the furry biped and raised my fists.
#
When I came to, Alex, his nose still bloody, was hovering above me. “Gosh, for a second there I thought you were dead,” he said. “You shouldna done that, Nate, ’cause he coulda killed you and it wasn’t even your old lady he disrespected. Plus now you’ve got this hideous black eye.”
I eventually got up and wobbled to the head, where I took a wobbly leak and then stared in the mirror. The eye was black and blue and another color or two, plus puffy.
A testament, of sorts, to my stupidity.
#
The eye grew even more unsightly overnight, reminding me of my foolishness should I, for some reason, forget it. And yet that’s the only consequence I suffered from my barroom brawl. Seems like fucking up in any way, in any fucking way whatsoever, didn’t include getting plastered and sustaining a shiner, so Shipley neither held me back nor threw me in the brig. What he did as we filed out of the barracks for the very last time was wink at me. I’m not kidding. He winked at me.
The runt even looked pleased with the company as a whole as it lined up in its usual two rows. But then how could he not be? Despite last night’s hell-raising, we were a far cry from the scraggly bunch who’d arrived for training nine weeks earlier. Our lines were straight, our shoes shined and our uniforms spotless. Plus our eyes sparkled. Well, maybe not that.
Unsurprisingly, Shipley offered a few parting words. “All right now, listen up. I know it’s been a rough nine weeks but all of you done good, which fucking surprised me because, as I might have mentioned when you first got here, I didn’t think you’d make it. And that’s ’cause I thought you’d pussy out on me. But you assholes hung in there and proved me wrong, and when I’m wrong I fucking admit it, which I’m doing now.” Shipley paused, as if giving us time to relish this admission. “Okay now, let me give you some advice. Don’t get fucking arrogant, because this is just the start of your hitch in the service. You think I’m a hard-ass? Well, some a them officers out there, they been in the Navy even longer’n me and they eat fucking nails for breakfast, if you know what I mean.” I thought I did but wasn’t certain, just as I was unsure about a lot of things Shipley said. “And let me tell you something else,” he went on. “We’re tough on you for a reason, which is this: we’re trying to save your sorry asses. It may be peacetime now, but a fucking war’ll come along soon enough, because one always does. And if the next shoot-out happens while you’re still in this here Navy, we don’t want some gook or commie blowing your fucking head off, or worse, your fucking dick. You gotta stay strong to survive. You gotta have discipline. And most of all, like I said when you first come here, you gotta follow fucking orders. That’s because in time of war, you assholes can’t be asking, ‘Why we gotta do this?’ and ‘Why we gotta do that?’ What you gotta do is learn to trust the guys in charge. Otherwise the whole thing falls apart. You see what I mean?”
I did. But this time I couldn’t buy it. Obey orders with no questions asked? What if someone ordered you to eat shit or drink piss or screw a cow? I reserved the right to ask questions, including hard ones, even in the military.
Since everyone seemed to know what Shipley meant he ended on a sentimental note. “Okay, you sorry-ass sons of bitches, get the fuck outta here.”
That order I could follow, no questions asked.
Chapter 39
I struggled up the gangplank of my first naval assignment, the aircraft carrier USS Coral Breeze, docked at the Alameda Naval Air Station near San Francisco. The climb called to mind the stairs at the Daily Post. The plank may not have been as steep, but shlepping a cumbersome duffel bag up an incline made the trek nearly as arduous. I plopped the bag down, saluted the officer on duty and requested permission to come aboard. He granted it while returning my salute, then directed me to the enlisted men’s quarters.
Stepping onto the ship’s main deck, I promptly forgot his directions. The problem, aside from my inferior memory, was the size of my new home-away-from-home. From the dock, the vessel loomed large. Inside, it seemed gargantuan, stretching forever in all directions. I tried navigating the ship’s labyrinthine passageways, wandering up one, down another and up still another, before concluding I would not serendipitously bump into the barracks. So I asked a crew member about to scurry past me for help and in return received a peeved expression and another set of directions.
This time I made only two wrong turns before arriving at the enlisted men’s quarters, a series of spacious rooms with multiple rows of two-tiered bunks. After an exhaustive search of one of the rooms I found an empty locker and filled it with my belongings. Naturally I took care to fold and arrange the clothes properly and face them in the right direction. Finished, I glanced at the open locker next to mine, turned away and pivoted back.
What the fuck?
The clothes were jammed in, not only unfolded and out of order but facing nowhere in particular. Just as scandalous, a half-naked pinup decorated the inside of the door.
Apparently on a break, a short, husky fireplug rummaged through the rubble and after exploring each shelf found what he was looking for: a Playboy magazine, presumably the latest issue. He grinned at his recovered treasure.
Not to spoil the mood, I asked, “Is that permitted?” I pointed at the chaos. “I’m new aboard ship and—”
“Is what permitted?”
“That, your locker.”
“What about it?”
“Well, the way you’ve, uh, arranged things. Back in boot camp—”
“Forget that shithole. It’s got nothing to do with the Navy, not the real one anyway.”
While recovering from this kidney blow I noticed further proof of my shipmate’s claim: his white hat sat
at a jaunty angle instead of squarely atop his head, an infraction for which Shipley would have had him flogged.
“Really” was all I could say.
“Really,” he echoed.
After excusing himself he returned to his magazine, tilting it so he could view its most popular feature.
Feeling livid and liberated at the same time, I rearranged my dress socks so their pussies pointed up, down and sideways. Screw Shipley and the ship he sailed in on.
I slept fitfully that night, as was my custom in a new environment, but I caught up the next day during a lengthy orientation in the mess hall.
Happily, on my second night aboard ship I slept the sleep of the dead.
#
After my morning ablutions and breakfast I asked for directions again, this time to the Public Information Office, my first naval billet. Thankfully I did not get lost en route and in fact arrived exactly on time, at 0900.
The first sight to greet me was my new supervisor, Ensign William N. Cutter, sitting at his desk opposite the entrance and shuffling papers. Lips pursed, brow furrowed, he looked so intense I approached him almost on tiptoe. I stood in front of his desk for a moment and when this failed to gain his attention I cleared my throat. His head remained bowed so as a last resort I spoke. “Seaman Rubin reporting for duty, sir.”
Cutter continued shuffling, maybe to show me who was boss, but eventually he looked up, unfolded his lanky frame and stood, maybe to prove who was taller.
He welcomed me with “You’re late.”
I checked my watch. “I’ve got 0901. It was 0900 when I arrived.”
Cutter removed a timepiece from his trousers pocket and tapped it with a forefinger. “I’ve got 0907.”
I glanced at the clock on the bulkhead, which read 0901, but let the defense rest.
The prosecution, however, persisted. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
I gazed at the clock again, letting my eyes linger this time.
Cutter spun around, glanced at it and rotated back. “That’s inaccurate. I’ll have to correct it.”
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 19
