Mad Dog

Now that I’ve been assigned to Det Cuba I have a new Chief and his blood-shot eyes and sloppy swagger make him look like a poorly kept dog that’s been through one too many fights. He’s mean and gets a thrill from humiliating troops with degrading punishments. So far I have managed to stay on his good side, if it can be called that, and to keep my head low, so I avoid the brunt of his rages and insults.

A month ago I earned a 96-hour liberty chit because of my high performance on our physical fitness test (it was my fastest run ever recorded at 11:34 and, even though it’s not that fast for a mile and a half, I was pretty pleased with myself). I’m taking the liberty this weekend from Friday through Monday to spend time with friends and what Chief tells me, at least once a day, is, “Make sure you remember that one hand washes the other. Do you know what I’m saying? One hand washes the other.” I think I do; I think he means that I am indebted to him for granting me a liberty that I earned for myself, through an incentive program implemented by the Skipper, one morning in my sweats and sneakers. So when the Chief pipes up, “Just remember, one hand washes the other. Do you understand me?” I look into his crazy eyes and tell him, “I do.” And then I softly smile and bow my head almost imperceptably, to make him feel good about himself, so that he doesn’t take the liberty away.

Eating Downers Like Candy

Whatever comes from my fingers is sure to be disjunct. I don’t know how to organize my news. I suppose a list always works well:

• My dad called me last night to let me know that the latest reports show four new tumors, that he’s been turned over to a doctor who specializes in cancer in its final stages, and that he’s going to call hospice today. He followed his declarations with a request for me to research alternative medicine options.

• I moved out of the house twelve years ago and to the best of my knowledge, before last night, my father has never called me. He’s never called for Christmas or my birthday; that I know for sure. And through the years when my mother called on the holidays he never took a turn on the phone to send me well wishes. I have never missed calling him on his birthday or Father’s Day.

• My brother’s testicular cancer has spread to his lymph nodes and he will start chemo next week.

• He has taken to punching holes in the wall of his new home, which, I’ll admit, is better than punching his new fiancé.

• His friends moved his bachelor party up to Saturday night because chemo gets in the way of drinking. I told him, under the circumstances, he’s sure to get double the strippers for his party and he laughed a real laugh from his guts. I hope I’m right.

• On the phone my dad mentioned that my mom has been eating downers like candy and sleeping her days away. Today my brother told me she’s on Zoloft. When she visited two or three months ago I was surprised that she uncharacteristically avoided alcohol and was uncomfortably silent. Now it makes sense: she’s on The Loft. I believe that drugs can help desperate situations. I also believe that Zoloft is highly addictive and that most doctors won’t shy away from over-prescribing pills to a woman who is facing the death of her husband and son at the same time.

• My new Chief for Det Cuba threatened yesterday to take away my approved leave, which is scheduled during an open leave period, because I return too close to our deployment date. I am prepared to request Captain’s Mast and plead my case to the skipper. Should that fail, I’m prepared to take leave anyway and suffer the consequences when I return. However, after explaining the situation to my chief, I have some faith that my leave request will be begrudgingly honored.

• Through it all my brother’s fiancé is most concerned with gifts: she asked my brother to lobby me for an extra shower. My family is dieing; she needs to get over the presents.

• I’m having yards of aqua polyester altered tomorrow because the bust is, of course, much too roomy.

I could really go for a husband right now.

I’m not one to preach or tell people how to live. At least I hope I’m not. But I would like to say, to anyone who happens to read this profusion of family trauma, that choosing to smoke is an offensively selfish decision. My father’s lung cancer is the leading cause of my mother’s destruction. I blame him. Tonight he’s eating organic beef and searching for alternative cures. He is willing to do anything for a chance at continuing his life because he’s caught in violent throws of desperation. But for the last 38 years he never bothered to quit smoking.

Good night and good luck.

Choose Your Own Adventure®

My duty section leader gave me the creeps for the longest time. As his assistant, he had me doing all of the work (this isn’t one of those I-do-everything-around-here deals, he told me to do all of the work and I did), and he had the uncomfortable habits of standing very close behind me and whispering in my ear, touching me on the arm with his fingers and wigging them around in a creepy sort of way, and walking by me and saying very loudly so that everyone could hear, “For the last time, I will not go out with you. I’m married.”

I tired of his laziness, unprofessional behavior, and complete disinterest in the welfare of his troops to the point that I was embarrassed to be a member of his team. So when the Senior Chief next door walked into the engineering shop, noticed me working on the duty watch bill, and asked about it, I complained my story. He countered by inflating his chest with enough breath to convince me that it was not in my best interest to be taking on the responsibilities of the duty section leader and that if I didn’t fix the situation he would.

I fixed it. And with the most amazing side-effect: the touching, the soft-talking, and the frustrating jokes stopped. It was wonderful.

Until this morning when out of nowhere came a long and lingering finger-wiggle-touch on the arm with a low and raspy, “Good morning, sunshine.”

I am not his sunshine. Nor do I ever want to be his sunshine. What I’d like to do is give him a boot where the sun doesn’t shine.

It’s like he’s living a Choose Your Own Adventure® book and he got to a part that wasn’t so cool so he flipped back a few pages to pick it up at the last interesting place with the hope that he could engineer a more satisfying outcome.

I’m not sure what is difficult about mimicking his behavior: walking by him while stating very loudly so that everyone can hear, “For the last time stop touching me you fucking perv.” But I don’t have it in me. I always convince myself that it's not really that big of a deal and I hold on to the hope that maybe that was the last time.