And when you got your six pieces, you gotta get rid of them, because it's no good leaving it in the deep freeze for your mum to discover, now is it? Then I hear the best thing to do is feed them to pigs. You got to starve the pigs for a few days, then the sight of a chopped-up body will look like curry to a pisshead.
At this point, I'm gonna do my best to NOT include movie quotes tonight, because I seem to almost speak in them sometimes. For those who don't follow, it's a strange conversation.
As I enter into my last month before I turn 40, I'm doing what I said I never would -trip out on the fact I'll be 40. I've watched, and known of, plenty of friends and friends' fathers hit 40 and go into a temporary manic state, where bad decisions are made, Corvettes are purchased and driven around with chest hair. Not for me. I barely have chest hair anyway. The point is, as much as I don't feel different than I did when I was 25, 30, 35 ..... 40 is different, isn't it? It's double 20, half of 80, and and that spot where we feel pressure to have our lives set in a certain "place", whether it be career, kids, big house, savings/401k, and graying chest hair. I have two of those, so I feel pretty good about that I guess. Its taken me the past 20 years to even begin figuring things out, so I reckon 20 more and it'll start to make a picture. Never enough time though... and certain memories and experiences will never go away, never.
When I was in Army basic and AIT training, at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, from May -August 1988, there were a few "misfits" as they were called, in my platoon. Some were nuts, some were nearly retarded, some cracked under the pressure.. I guess it was the usual ratio for recruits. Who the fuck knows?
There was one guy, Pvt Robb, who was a sweet, harmless, overweight dude, who some sleazy recruiter suckered into signing up, and somehow passed physical and mental evaluation and was thrown into the stew with the rest of us. He was quiet, respectful, and caring, but had trouble doing even 10 pushups, running, anything. The drill sargeants gave this guy, who was an asshole to NOBODY, the hardest time at every turn, because he was overweight and gentle. They terrorized him at every chance, giving him extra duty, fireguard more than the rest of us got, and treating him worse than a prisoner at the most hideous jail. I remember most of us just figured that's how it goes, and didn't have much sympathy. We were all just trying not to get on anyone's shit list and keep a low profile. Thats how it went for the first few weeks. We kept going, and Pvt. Robb kept trying, never complaining, taking their shit and just moving on... and we were never sympathetic.
I can think back to when it started to become painful to watch this guy's plight, one night, after a long day in the 105 degree sun, I caught a glimpse of this guy's feet -they were swollen to the point where he could barely get them into his boots, they had, what I guessed to be what started out as blisters -a few weeks ago.. but now, they had patches of greyish green, and bright red/purple everywhere else, and he was clearly in excruciating pain, and I can't believe he was still walking. Again, Pvt. Robb never complaned.
This same night, our drill sargeant was walking by, noticed his feet, and the next thing we knew, Robb was taken away by ambulance. Business went on as usual.
A week or two later, he was back with our platoon, and was having the same difficulty keeping up, same issues with drill sargeants picking at him like pirahnas. One would have to be beyond moronic to see this was not working out, and that is was just cruel. The whole scenario came to a head at around 2am one morning, when two drill sargeants(neither of whom were our platoon drill sargeant) came into the barracks, got us all up and made us do pushups, run around.. not a special occasion, it was a usual event. After 30 or so minutes of this, they turned their attention to Robb (an unfortunately usual occasion), and proceeded to verbally abuse, and then ultimately physically abuse this kid. When he couldn't do any more pushups, they brought in a dummy 155mm howitzer round (which weights 98 pounds), and had him hold it cradled in his arms. This, of course, was a setup, because nobody can hold that fucking thing forever, and when he dropped it to the floor, the round rolled to (not dropped onto), and touched the front of DS Callahan's shiny jump boot. Callahan reared back, and with every ounce of strength in his 6'2", frame, punched Pvt Robb in the forehead, causing him to come off his feet on his way to being knocked out cold on the floor... and they weren't done.
33 of us saw this, and did nothing.
Before Robb even opened his eyes, both drill sargeants grabbed him by his feet and dragged him through the barracks, toward the front door. We were told to stay put, and we did. Although we couldn't see anything, we could tell he was dragged over the breezeway of our third floor barracks, and dangled by his feet over the concrete 30 feet below. I heard the drill sargeants taunting him, yelling at him, and I could hear Robb screaming, crying, choking, and otherwise hysterical, making noises only that someone who was staring death in the eyes would make. It was fucking terrible. A minute later he was dragged back in, and we were told "carry on" and the drill sargeants disappeared into the night, and we went back to bed.
The next day, and for awhile afterward, we would talk to each other about that night, all the while looking at Robb, who was obviously struggling to hold on. Within a week, word had gotten around that Pvt. Robb was going to be processed out, that he "couldn't adapt" to military life. I remember watching, from the same breezeway balcony he had been dangled over, as "no longer Pvt" Robb walked, in civilian clothes down the walkway towards a taxi. I never saw or heard from him again. I graduated in late August, along with the othr 32 of us of cycle 31-88 from the US Army Field Artillery Training Center, with 4 less people than we began with. That was a "typical" loss ratio. Whatever.
20+ years later, that's still my biggest memory of my time in the Army. I watched Full Metal Jacket a few months before I went in, and I'd say everyone who's gone through that training has a Pvt Pyle -or a Pvt. Robb, that one dude who stands out because it ate him up. It was cruel, didn't care and wasn't supposed to. Only as we get older do we develop sympathy and compassion, that transcends pack mentality and conformity, without fear of the oppressors. It's too bad when we let something bad happen to someone who doesn't deserve it, and too bad it didn't happen in front of us when we were 40, not 19. "This will not stand, ya know, this aggression will not stand, man." (OK, I lied about movie quoting).
I hope I learn something big in these next 20 years, but not at someone's expense. I know I'll see my share of death, tragedy, good times and bad, I can only hope the ones I love are still here for number 60. Sorry for the long entry, for anyone who's still reading.
At this point, I'm gonna do my best to NOT include movie quotes tonight, because I seem to almost speak in them sometimes. For those who don't follow, it's a strange conversation.
As I enter into my last month before I turn 40, I'm doing what I said I never would -trip out on the fact I'll be 40. I've watched, and known of, plenty of friends and friends' fathers hit 40 and go into a temporary manic state, where bad decisions are made, Corvettes are purchased and driven around with chest hair. Not for me. I barely have chest hair anyway. The point is, as much as I don't feel different than I did when I was 25, 30, 35 ..... 40 is different, isn't it? It's double 20, half of 80, and and that spot where we feel pressure to have our lives set in a certain "place", whether it be career, kids, big house, savings/401k, and graying chest hair. I have two of those, so I feel pretty good about that I guess. Its taken me the past 20 years to even begin figuring things out, so I reckon 20 more and it'll start to make a picture. Never enough time though... and certain memories and experiences will never go away, never.
When I was in Army basic and AIT training, at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, from May -August 1988, there were a few "misfits" as they were called, in my platoon. Some were nuts, some were nearly retarded, some cracked under the pressure.. I guess it was the usual ratio for recruits. Who the fuck knows?
There was one guy, Pvt Robb, who was a sweet, harmless, overweight dude, who some sleazy recruiter suckered into signing up, and somehow passed physical and mental evaluation and was thrown into the stew with the rest of us. He was quiet, respectful, and caring, but had trouble doing even 10 pushups, running, anything. The drill sargeants gave this guy, who was an asshole to NOBODY, the hardest time at every turn, because he was overweight and gentle. They terrorized him at every chance, giving him extra duty, fireguard more than the rest of us got, and treating him worse than a prisoner at the most hideous jail. I remember most of us just figured that's how it goes, and didn't have much sympathy. We were all just trying not to get on anyone's shit list and keep a low profile. Thats how it went for the first few weeks. We kept going, and Pvt. Robb kept trying, never complaining, taking their shit and just moving on... and we were never sympathetic.
I can think back to when it started to become painful to watch this guy's plight, one night, after a long day in the 105 degree sun, I caught a glimpse of this guy's feet -they were swollen to the point where he could barely get them into his boots, they had, what I guessed to be what started out as blisters -a few weeks ago.. but now, they had patches of greyish green, and bright red/purple everywhere else, and he was clearly in excruciating pain, and I can't believe he was still walking. Again, Pvt. Robb never complaned.
This same night, our drill sargeant was walking by, noticed his feet, and the next thing we knew, Robb was taken away by ambulance. Business went on as usual.
A week or two later, he was back with our platoon, and was having the same difficulty keeping up, same issues with drill sargeants picking at him like pirahnas. One would have to be beyond moronic to see this was not working out, and that is was just cruel. The whole scenario came to a head at around 2am one morning, when two drill sargeants(neither of whom were our platoon drill sargeant) came into the barracks, got us all up and made us do pushups, run around.. not a special occasion, it was a usual event. After 30 or so minutes of this, they turned their attention to Robb (an unfortunately usual occasion), and proceeded to verbally abuse, and then ultimately physically abuse this kid. When he couldn't do any more pushups, they brought in a dummy 155mm howitzer round (which weights 98 pounds), and had him hold it cradled in his arms. This, of course, was a setup, because nobody can hold that fucking thing forever, and when he dropped it to the floor, the round rolled to (not dropped onto), and touched the front of DS Callahan's shiny jump boot. Callahan reared back, and with every ounce of strength in his 6'2", frame, punched Pvt Robb in the forehead, causing him to come off his feet on his way to being knocked out cold on the floor... and they weren't done.
33 of us saw this, and did nothing.
Before Robb even opened his eyes, both drill sargeants grabbed him by his feet and dragged him through the barracks, toward the front door. We were told to stay put, and we did. Although we couldn't see anything, we could tell he was dragged over the breezeway of our third floor barracks, and dangled by his feet over the concrete 30 feet below. I heard the drill sargeants taunting him, yelling at him, and I could hear Robb screaming, crying, choking, and otherwise hysterical, making noises only that someone who was staring death in the eyes would make. It was fucking terrible. A minute later he was dragged back in, and we were told "carry on" and the drill sargeants disappeared into the night, and we went back to bed.
The next day, and for awhile afterward, we would talk to each other about that night, all the while looking at Robb, who was obviously struggling to hold on. Within a week, word had gotten around that Pvt. Robb was going to be processed out, that he "couldn't adapt" to military life. I remember watching, from the same breezeway balcony he had been dangled over, as "no longer Pvt" Robb walked, in civilian clothes down the walkway towards a taxi. I never saw or heard from him again. I graduated in late August, along with the othr 32 of us of cycle 31-88 from the US Army Field Artillery Training Center, with 4 less people than we began with. That was a "typical" loss ratio. Whatever.
20+ years later, that's still my biggest memory of my time in the Army. I watched Full Metal Jacket a few months before I went in, and I'd say everyone who's gone through that training has a Pvt Pyle -or a Pvt. Robb, that one dude who stands out because it ate him up. It was cruel, didn't care and wasn't supposed to. Only as we get older do we develop sympathy and compassion, that transcends pack mentality and conformity, without fear of the oppressors. It's too bad when we let something bad happen to someone who doesn't deserve it, and too bad it didn't happen in front of us when we were 40, not 19. "This will not stand, ya know, this aggression will not stand, man." (OK, I lied about movie quoting).
I hope I learn something big in these next 20 years, but not at someone's expense. I know I'll see my share of death, tragedy, good times and bad, I can only hope the ones I love are still here for number 60. Sorry for the long entry, for anyone who's still reading.
lil_tuffy:
A number is just a number, man. Let the good times roll. Bad shit happens just as much as good.
annika:
You know, this reminds me a lot of the zen story our teacher told us after our five-minute quiet time yesterday.