Ham On Rye

"Come on, cut the shit, Harry. This is a game for children. Don't bother me with your fetid melodrama."

The bushes cracked open again and there was Lt. Beechcroft. Missions and Beechcroft faced each other.

"I hereby take you prisoner!" screamed Beechcroft at Missions.

"I hereby take you prisoner!" screamed Missions at Beechcroft. They both were really nervous and angry, I could feel it. Beechcroft drew his sabre. "Surrender or I'll run you through!"

Missions grabbed his gun by the barrel. "Come over here and I'll knock your god-damned head off!"

Then the bushes cracked open everywhere. The screaming had attracted both the Blues and the Greens. I sat against the tree while they mixed it up. There was dust and scuffling and now and then the evil sound of rifle stock against skull. "Oh, Jesus! Oh, my God!" Some bodies were down. Rifles were lost. There were fist fights and headlocks. I saw two guys with Green arm bands locked in a death-grip. Then Col. Sussex appeared. He blew frantically on his whistle. Spit sprayed everywhere. Then he ran over with his swagger stick and began beating the troops with it. He was good. It cut like a whip and sliced like a razor.

"Oh shit! I QUIT!"

"No, stop! Jesus! Mercy!"

"Mother!"

The troops separated and stood looking at each other. Col. Sussex picked up his clipboard. His uniform was unwrinkled. His medals were still in place. His cap sat at the correct angle. He flipped his swagger stick, caught it, and walked off. We followed.

We climbed into the old army trucks with their ripped canvas sides and tops that had brought us. The engines started and we drove off. We faced each other on the long wooden benches. We had come out, all the Blues in one of the trucks, all the Greens in the other. Now we were mixed together, sitting there, most of us looking down at our scuffed and dusty shoes, being jiggled this way and that, to the left, to the right, up and down, as the truck tires hit the ruts in the old roads. We were tired and we were defeated and we were frustrated. The war was over.

41

R.O.T.C. kept me away from sports while the other guys practiced every day. They made the school teams, won their letters and got the girls. My days were spent mostly marching around in the sun. All you ever saw were the backs of some guy's ears and his buttocks. I quickly became disenchanted with military proceedings. The others shined their shoes brightly and seemed to go through maneuvers with relish. I couldn't see any sense in it. They were just getting shaped up in order to get their balls blown off later. On the other hand, I couldn't see myself crouched down in a football helmet, shoulder pads laced on, decked out in Blue and White, #69, trying to block some mean son-of-a-bitch from across town, trying to move out some brute with tacos on his breath so that the son of the district attorney could slant off left tackle for six yards. The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.

I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn't understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. Suicide? Jesus Christ, just more work. I felt like sleeping for five years but they wouldn't let me.

So there I was, at Chelsey High, still in the R.O.T.C., still with my boils. That always reminded me of how fucked up I was.

It was a grand day. One man from each squad who had won the Manual of Arms competition within his squad stepped into a long line where the final competition was to be held. Somehow I had won the competition in my squad. I had no idea how. I was no hot shot.

It was Saturday. Many mothers and fathers were in the stands. Somebody blew a bugle. A sword flashed. Commands rang out. Right shoulder arms! Left shoulder arms! Rifles hit shoulders, rifle butts hit the ground, rifle stocks slammed into shoulders again. Little girls sat in the stands in their blue and green and yellow and orange and pink and white dresses. It was hot, it was boring, it was insanity.

"Chinaski, you are competing for the honor of our squadron!"

"Yes, Corporal Monty."

All those little girls in the stands each waiting for her lover, for her wi

As each man made an error he dropped out of line. Soon there were six, then five, then three. I was still there. I had no desire to win. I knew that I wouldn't win. I'd soon be out of it. I wanted to be out of there. I was tired and bored. And covered with boils. I didn't give cream-shit for what they were chasing. But I couldn't make an obvious error. Corporal Monty would be hurt.

Then there were just two of us. Me and Andrew Post. Post was a darling. His father was a great criminal lawyer. He was in the stands with his wife, Andrew's mother. Post was sweating but determined. We both knew that he would win. I could feel the energy and all the energy was his.

It's all right, I thought, he needs it, they need it. It's the way it works. It's the way it's meant to work.

We went on and on, repeating various Manual of Arms maneuvers. From the corner of my eye I saw the goal posts on the field and I thought, maybe if I had tried harder I could have become a great football player.

"ORDER!" shouted the Commander and I ripped my bolt home. There had been only one click. There had been no click to my left. Andrew Post had frozen. A little moan rose from the grandstands.

"ARMS!" the Commander finished and I completed the maneuver. Post did too but his bolt was open…

The actual ceremony for the wi

Then he was standing right in front of me. I stood at attention but managed to sneak a peek at him. He had his saliva in good order. Maybe when he was pissed-off it dried up. In spite of the heat there was a good west wind blowing. Col. Sussex pi

"Congratulations," he said. Then he smiled at me. And moved on. Why the old fuck. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all…

Walking home I had the medal in my pocket. Who was Col. Sussex? Just some guy who had to shit like the rest of us. Everybody had to conform, find a mold to fit into. Doctor, lawyer, soldier - it didn't matter what it was. Once in the mold you had to push forward. Sussex was as helpless as the next man. Either you managed to do something or you starved in the streets.