FORT WINFIELD SCOTT, SAN FRANCISCO – 1960
“Jenkins!”
“Yes, General?”
“Have the homosexuals entered city politics yet?”
“Not for another 20 years, sir.”
“Good, good. I have a second item.”
“I shiver in anticipation, sir.”
“What the hell is that thing?”
“That soldier there?”
“The lumpy one with the giant beard.”
“Ah, yes. Sir, that is Private Garcia.”
“He looks like something an ugly cat coughed up.”
“He is not fulfilling the uniform standard, sir.”
“He’s not fulfilling any standard! I think he’s wearing tennis shoes.”
“That does appear to be the case.”
“Did we run out of boots, Jenkins?”
“No, sir. We’re the Army. We have boots.”
“So he was issued the proper footwear?”
“He was, sir, yes.”
“And?”
“Lost the first pair. Used Wite-Out to draw the Dead Kennedys logo all over the second pair.”
“It is a bitching logo, Jenkins.”
“Credit where credit is due, sir.
“Third pair?”
“Traded for beans.”
“Magic beans?”
“Just beans.”
“Ah.”
“I gave him the fourth pair personally. I set them on the table, and he said ‘That’s great, man,’ and wandered out of the room. And now we’ve caught up to the present.”
“Jenkins?”
“Sir?”
“Is he smoking?”
“It appears so, sir.”
“WHILE HE’S ON GUARD DUTY?”
“It is an almost impressive act of insubordination, sir.”
“How can you smoke while you’re on guard duty? No soldier in the history of soldiering has been allowed to smoke while he guarded. That’s not even a rule; it’s just assumed. My God, is he leaning against a wall!? He may as well be reading the racing form.”
“I don’t think he’s a gambler, sir.”
“He’s a turd in the dryer, that’s what he is. You know what a turd in the dryer does, Jenkins?”
“No, sir.”
“The shit gets everywhere. That private is not Army material. I don’t even think he’s Air Force material, and they have Casual Fridays over there. Something must be done. What about 60 lashes to the mast?”
“We’re the Army, sir. We don’t have anything with a mast on it.”
“Then we’ll tie him to a jeep and beat him. I don’t care about the specifics, Jenkins.”
“Corporal punishment has been forbidden by regulation for a hundred years, sir.”
“What about Corporal Punishment?”
“He transferred to Fort Dix.”
“Good fit. Dix will love Corporal Punishment. Oh, for God’s sake, he just laid down. Bring me a pistol.”
“No, sir.”
“Fine, a rifle.”
“We can’t shoot Private Garcia, sir.”
“Why is he even here?”
“He stole a car and the judge gave him the option of joining up.”
“Goddammit, the past is stupid.”
“Should not be available to jurists as a sentence, no. Completely amateur-hour.”
“Have we made any progress on recreating the Super-Soldier formula?”
“We have, sir, but it just amplifies the subject’s natural tendencies.”
“His beard would be enormous.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fire cleanses all.”
“Or, sir, we could just discharge him.”
“Oh, fine. But before he goes, make him shave. Just to annoy him.”
“Private Garcia shaves every morning, sir. Full beard by lunch.”
“Get rid of the mutant, Jenkins.”
“Yes, sir.”
Recent Comments