That night, while I was packing up my stuff to move to the Fat Camp barracks, a wiry little black kid started poking fun at me about my weight. He kept referring to me as Cookie Monster. Earlier that day, we had received our vaccines, like ten of them. I felt like a pin-cushion. My rear ached from one of the shots, so I assumed his hurt, too. So when he turned around in his locker, I punched him in the sore spot.
"Ow!" he whelped.
"Oh, sorry," I said. "Thought I saw a spider on you."
"Don't worry, I'll get you back," he said, holding his pants.
"What? What for? I did you a favor."
The little flea dived across the bunk and tried to punch my rear, but I stiff-armed him. A bunch of people gathered around to see me dominate this worm. With a lucky move, he managed to turn me around and connected with my upper left cheek, right where the vaccine needle had landed.
"Ow! Knock it off," I said. He got lucky three times.
He said, "Have fun at Fat Camp!"
"What are you talking about, Major?" somebody said to him. "You're going to Fat Camp, too."
He backed away from me. The name on his uniform said "Major."
"But," he said, "I ain't going to Fat Camp because I'm fat."
"Then why are you going?"
"Because I have a business to run. I got wares to sell, man."
"Business?"
The others laughed and dispersed. When Private Major turned around, I gave him another shot to the butt, and then he kicked me twice, but eventually settled down, accepting his defeat.
Together, Private Major and I walked to our new barracks, along with a bunch of other people. Half the barracks was moving to Fat Camp. Among this hoard, I wondered if anyone had passed the diagnostic Physical Training test. Obviously, the height restrictions were too stringent. Surely not so many of us could be too short to fit our weight.
The very first night in the new barracks, Private Major set up shop on his bunk. I knew right then that Fat Camp was the place for me.
Private Major said, "I get top bunk."
"Fine," I said, but regretted saying it as soon as I saw Major push open a ceiling tile. He shoved the tile over and asked me, "Sprungli, are you cool or not?"
"I'm a playa, dawg."
"Yeah, you a playa," he scoffed. "Ok, dawg." Then he started pulling things out of his bag and planting them in the ceiling with great care. His locker was a mess, but his warehouse in the ceiling was faced like a pharmacy.
Like me, Private Major had abstained from the amnesty barrel, keeping contraband for better purposes. That night, he started a racket that I had to respect. By midnight, we were the best friends ever, making money hand over fist, selling everything we could, providing a service to desperate Privates.
The Fat Camp effect really made people sad. These Privates still had the money that mommy and daddy had given them for their big trip to basic training. And spending that money made them feel better.
Word spread quickly about the bazaar taking place on bunk seventy-four. Privates began to walk by, peeking in like boys outside a lingerie store. After a furtive glance at Major and myself, they circled the area and returned a few minutes later.
Private Major shuffled one dollar bills like a pit-boss and upsold every customer that stopped to talk. Together we sold three-quarters of our inventory. We had people coming back for a second and a third visit. My cell phone turned out to be the most popular item, because all of these pudding-lovers wanted to call home. Five minutes of phone time cost them three dollars. They lined up to use the phone. Prices started to rise.
"Don't run them off," Major said, "I want to sell everything tonight if I can."
By ten o'clock, our products and services had leveled off to market prices:
Individual cigarette: $3.00
Cell phone usage: $1.50/minute
Chewing tobacco, small dip: $3.00
Chewing tobacco, large dip: $6.00
GameBoy single game usage: $.25/minute*
iPod usage: $.25/minute
Double A Battery: $10.00
Swig of Bourbon: $5.00
Private viewing of Hustler Mag: $2.00
Drill & Sanctimony Page 4
