The Trouble With Being Me

THE TROUBLE WITH BEING ME:
HIGHER EDUCATION

PROLOGUE

The trouble with being me is that I was too boring. Plain and simple, yep that was me. In my mind, I had no life outside that of my immediate home, school, or work place; and I had little desire to achieve a more lofty existence for myself. They say "Life is what happens while you're making other plans" but for me, it's more accurate to say "Life is what happens to other people while your at home, not making any plans." And who are these They who say that stuff anyway?? I have a few ideas on that issue, but that is best saved for another time. I was so disinterested in making a name for myself, so content with the names others would come up with for me, I was essentially a shadow of a man. Most times, I felt as though I was having an out-of- body experience while not actually leaving my body; as if I was merely an observer of the lives of everyone around me, never meant to become a viable member of the society I had been in contact with. Maybe not boring exactly, but not excited or inspired enough by my own life to want to take control and make something of myself, for myself, by myself.

Where did it all begin? And where will it all end? And, why does any of it matter to anyone but me? Those are difficult questions, with troubling answers, I’m afraid… And fear is an incredible motivational tool, I have learned. Fear of being alone, of being swallowed up in the malaise of nothingness that is all-too-readily available when one is first starting out in life. Fear of not fitting in, of never finding my place in life. Just as fearful of making my way in life, finding a place, and laying claim to a life, only to have it blow up in my face and spiral out of control, with nothing to do but crash and burn with it. Fear of failure, fear of success, fears of the costs of both. So much to fear… and so little time…

That’s where my life had been the past 19 years or so. I literally was going nowhere fast, in none too big a hurry to get there; casually coasting through the days, restlessly sleeping through the nights, and deathly afraid of whatever mysteries and hardships lay ahead. Then, somewhere along the desolate road that had been my pathetic existence, something changed. Subtle manipulations began to weave their way through the tapestry of my mediocrity, altering my perceptions, and catapulting my life in a new and not-entirely-welcomed direction. Almost overnight, I became swept up in an unimaginable chain of events, as my fears collided head-on with my desires for a more substantial life, and everything became twisted around on itself, while I remained hopelessly lost amidst the chaos. All of this, to simply arrive where I am to this very day… and, this is probably the most frightening place of all!

Where did it all begin? My story of woe and wonder begins where most great new lives begin; where children become adults, chores become responsibilities, and social gatherings become all-night reveries: College! Where young lives are made or broken over-night; from hard-driven studying by day, to hard-core partying all night; from hard-nosed, harsh-speaking instructors, to soft-spoken, soft-skinned, sweet-smelling sorority girls. A small Midwestern college campus is where all the fears of my life—and all the fears FOR my life—were first invoked from deep within my troubled soul; where I was forced to face those fears, to live or die by the control which such fear would have over me, or which I would wield over those fears….

And, where would it all end? Well, I’m sorry to say, fear of everything in Life can, will, and must only end in death…

ONE

Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?
Not Death, for who is He?

Who said that? Emily Dickinson, I think. What does it matter who said what and when any way? In a tense situation, when lives are hanging in the balance, there are certain things that should not be running through one’s head--- and Silly Quotes From English 1101 ranks right up near the top of that list! Besides, who’s not afraid of Death? Personally, I’m not too excited by it, that’s for sure! For me, life itself is quite depressing enough as it is without bringing something so morose as death into the picture! I guess that doesn’t make much sense, and maybe I’m rambling a bit, but I AM under quite a bit of stress at the moment, all things considered. What makes Emily Dickinson such and expert on Death any way? She was a poet, not a doctor, or a nurse, or a mortician, or a soldier in the National Guard… and she’s been dead since 1886!! Still, I guess what They say about all that useless information you gather throughout your life is true: you really don’t know when it will come back around inside your head and seem somehow relevant. Although, at this particular moment, I fail to find the relevance of any particular piece of poetry…

Poetry?! Phooey!! I seriously doubt any 19th century poet ever had to worry about anything like what I was presently faced with. I don’t know anyone in the 20th century who has faced anything like what I was dealing with! But, there I go, getting all off track, distracted in the moment by disconnected thoughts, and getting way ahead of myself again…

Whew! It’s hot in here… or maybe it’s cold. Why IS the sky blue any way?? Darn final English exams! Darn all finals, in fact! If it wasn’t for finals of one form or another, I might not be in this mess at all! Darn it all to heck! (Pardon my French!)

It’s funny how the human mind wanders when under pressure; and the pressure I was faced with at the moment was nothing compared to what I’d feel if I slipped up! In truth, 30 or 40 feet really isn’t too far to fall I suppose; and, it’s not really the fall that would bother me so much—it’s the sudden stop at the end! Mind you, I’m no stranger to pain and suffering. I have an older faster stronger brother, and he initiated me into the world of pain and pummeling at quite an early age. I have endured my share of brotherly love-taps over the years and have come out punching on the other side of puberty, so the small inconvenience of a 30-foot fall should be nothing to worry about. A few broken bones might come of it, perhaps some internal injuries, but not death? Of course, there were other issues to consider—A LOT of other issues, in fact! 30 or so, to be more precise. So many issues to deal with, and so little time…

I wonder how I’m going to get out of this one. I wonder if the Twins will make the World Series again in my life time. Frank Viola’s history this year for sure…maybe Kirby Puckett too—not to mention ME!! I wonder if I will live to see another baseball game, or slow-pitch softball game, or another pretty sorority girl from across the aisle in Computer Class…Why do I feel so lost and confused? Why am I so detached from the world around me, like no one would care whether I lived or died… and WHY NOW?! Talk about issues! And to top it all off, now I’m thinking in psycho-babble! Could it be? Was I becoming my older, faster, stronger, smarter brother?? Yikes! Maybe I should just give it all up, maybe I should just let it all go…

NO! I have to hang on! Have to get a grip, or rather, to keep my grip! I’ve just got to get some perspective, take a look around, and get my bearings. Maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem at first sight. Hmmm… one little, two little, three little Communist terrorists… four little, five little… six of the bastages, and all of those innocent people! I was right: things aren’t as bad as I thought at first sight… at second sight, things are much, much worse!! Oh boy, Slickster! You’re really in it deep this time!!

You know, sweaty fingertips make it really difficult to get a grip on anything, from a steel girder 30 feet above a dim and crowded gymnasium, to an aluminum baseball bat, 3 feet in front of a dim but cocky umpire, which was closer to where this sordid nightmare actually began…

It might not have been so bad if it wasn’t for the heat. I mean, sure, they had a great pitcher, but we had Malcolm. Of course, they were the members of the football team; ‘Call 911’ was their stupid team name, in reference to the team’s unerring ability to utterly decimate and destroy any supposed competition they might face. Then again, this was softball, not football; SOFTball, not hard-hitting, bone-crunching, growling, spitting, grunting, gridiron warfare. Just a friendly game of intramural softball. And who were we: ‘The Last of the Mohicans’ thanks to our chipper team captain, Teddy ‘Chief’ Henderson. It didn’t matter that Chief was a Chippewa Indian, not a Mohican. Theodore—Teddy—Henderson was a very big Chippewa Indian--- 6-foot, 2 inches, 285 pounds of ‘big-boned’ behemoth, wrapped around the heart of a teddy bear; that was Teddy Henderson--- so who’d argue with his choice of names? What’s in a name? A rose by any other name…

Ha! Everything was definitely not coming up roses!

The important thing was that we had gotten this far; we had made it to the Championship! The final game of the final round of the Mens’ Intramural Spring Softball League, at the University of Minnesota, Morris, and we were there!! For 8 weeks every Spring, from late March through mid-May, groups of amateurish college kids like us would team up for a relaxing season of intramural sportsmanship. Teams ranging from fraternity brothers, to off-season team-sports athletes looking to keep physically fit, to our particular brand of rag-tag party crews gathered for the camaraderie, the escape from everyday rigors of studies, or to hone their skills… and, of course, to get drunk in the post-game celebrations and pick up girls!!

We, The Last of the Mohicans had battled to the last, and stood at the threshold of Ultimate Victory. Sure, we were down by 2 runs in the bottom of the 9th inning, with 2 outs against us; but bases were loaded, and the winning run was at the plate. I was to be that run; I was to be the savior of our team’s honor and dignity. ME! Rick King, the poster child for pathetic losers! Forever renowned the world over—at least my small, insignificant world over—as The Younger Brother To Malcolm The Great… Rick, The Not So Great. I was the last hope for the Last Mohicans… Why me?

"Pinch hitter! Pinch hitter!" Matt Hess squawked from behind the steel cage 8 feet behind me as I stepped to Home Plate. Matt had always claimed to be Mega-Mound when it came to pitching, ‘the second coming of Christ’ he so often boasted. But, his true position soon came to be known as Left Out. Matt Hess was no softball player. Beady little blue rat-eyes squinted through wire-rimmed spectacles as the Demi-God of Dorks droned from behind the batting cage. Matt’s haystack hairstyle suited his hair-brained hysterics; rusty-brown spikes poked out beneath the brim of his half-cocked baseball cap. The bright red-and-orange embroidered lettering across the face of the black-nylon and plastic cap decried ‘Hey Gals…’ and was another of Matt’s ingenious attention-grabbers. In addition, the cap was always precariously propped atop Matt’s mussed mop ‘for dramatic effect’ he claimed, referring to the way his cap almost methodically flew off his head as he rounded the bases at a full sprint.

It didn’t matter to Matt that, to anyone with a firm grip on reality, it simply appeared as though Matt was holding up the game with his antics. After his every at-bat, the opposing team’s catcher would have to collect his misplaced head gear and usher it to him before the game could commence. In all his glory, Matt would fan his cap and smirk his trademark lop-sided grin and snort with a satisfied sashay toward the smattering of on-lookers who had nothing better to do with their afternoon, and had opted to watch their favorite jocks wreak a particular brand of havoc on opposing softball teams. These were Matt Hess’ ‘fans’ and it didn’t matter that this 20 year old man had the body of a 12 year old girl, and all the coordination and physicality of a 3-legged cat with a ball of string. In his own mind, and nowhere else, Matt Hess was a god!

"Goddammit, Chief!" Matt moaned, pushing his spectacles back into position from the tip of his snooty snout. "I should win this for us, not King!! God!" his holier-than-though huffs had little effect on the big Chief, and I smiled to myself, my confidence bolstered by Teddy’s faith in me.

It was a gutsy call permitting me to maintain my position in the batting roster after so many nearly-fatal errs over the course of the past 8 weeks. Maybe Teddy saw something of my bigger, faster, stronger brother in me; maybe I DID have some skills after all… or maybe Teddy just forgot to remove my name from the list…

"Come on, Slick!" Teddy roared, budging up the waistband of his sagging maroon-and-gold UMM-team colors sweatpants, attempting unsuccessfully to contain some slight portion of his girth. "Don’t f-ck this up for us!!" So much for Teddy’s faith in me… and so much for my own self-confidence!!

Where softball, as well as anything else of an athletic nature, is concerned, I was nothing to brag about: 5-foot, 8 inches, 130 pounds of completely un-athletic flesh and bone. Not too tall, gangly, and incredibly awkward as a sports ‘hero’--- I knew this was not my place.

This was the realm of the REAL sports-freak, like my brother and his cohorts, but not me! I was boring, bookish, a homebody, a nobody… In the annals of Sports Legend, I was destined to be the Also-Ran, a fortunate footnote to the legacy of my elder, faster, stronger brother. True, the sparkle in my big hazel eyes shone brighter than Matt’s beady baby-blues, but that’s just because I was content with my geekdom. The big difference between myself and Mister Mound was that I knew I was no good! I wasn’t too bad at the plate, managing to drive in a few RBIs and rounding the bases a couple times myself; but, I summed up my fielding abilities by volunteering to be catcher.

Being catcher on a softball team was a menial task at best. About one in 30 plays actually brings a run toward Home Plate. Of those few plays, 1 of 50 are actually even going to be played on, with less than 10% of those plays being decided by the athleticism of the players involved over the judgment of the catcher behind the plate. Add to that the fact that, on most every one of the plays at Home Plate, either the 3rd baseman, the 1st baseman, the pitcher, or sometimes ALL 3 players are on hand to cover any plays, and the odds become about one in a gozillion-and-one that I would ever be involved in a game-clinching play at the plate. Being the catcher on The Last of the Mohicans was little more than an excuse to fill the batting roster; and I was happy to be included in any way, as part of a team that was most likely destined for total obscurity.

For the most part, this softball thing was just a way to escape my regular, boring existence; with the unglamorous rigors of the position, with everyone else on hand to cover my mistakes and hold my position in the game-clinching plays, the boredom of being the catcher actually fit right into my already monotonous lifestyle. The fact that I was even on the team was somewhat of a miracle of Fate itself. Once again, I have my bigger, faster, stronger brother to thank for getting me inducted onto the Mohicans. One otherwise-typical afternoon, while waiting for Malcolm to give me a ride to the local Blockbuster to peruse the New Releases, it was mentioned that the group was putting together a softball team. Later that afternoon, as the team gathered for practice, they decided they needed a batter so they might practice their fielding prowess. I was the pinch-hitter--- as well as the tackling dummy, whenever I made the misguided effort to attempt a run toward first base!

After such a worthy trial by fire, I was half-jokingly invited to become a full-fledged member of the rag-tag troupe. Malcolm, Teddy and the others didn’t realize that I had absolutely no life of my own outside of the group, and would therefore be happy to be involved with any other outside activities which made up the typical ‘collegiate experience’. So, I accepted the offer, and the rest, as They say, is history…

Unfortunately, with my un-athletic background, perhaps the team would have played better with ‘Jesus’ Hess behind the plate, or without a catcher altogether. So far this season, I had struck out 7 times, popped out a few dozen, scored maybe 5 or 6 runs, and flubbed more than 3 of those 1-in-a-gozillion close calls at the plate. In fact, my most recent error had placed the Mohicans in the hot-box earlier in this game. We actually had the game all wrapped up in the 8th inning, following a brilliantly executed bunt by Malcolm, which allowed Matt to score. Malcolm gave it his best effort, sprinting at top speed toward first base, but he was thrown out, an all too common experience in slow-pitch soft ball. But his sacrifice had given us the lead, and was only the second out for the inning. I, of course, ended the inning, popping up the first pitch offered me, stranding 2 insurance runs who had been walked by the shaken pitcher following Malcolm’s sacrifice. Of course, no one mentioned Malcolm’s glorious sacrifice bunt, but I was verbally thrashed for ending our run at the bottom of the inning… as always, my bigger, faster, stronger brother was the stud, and I was the dud…

In the top of the 9th inning, our single-run lead was holding out behind the strong arm of Malcolm on the mound. After a weak start which allowed 2 men to walk, and a bobbled hot-box toss when the runner on 2nd attempted to steal 3rd, Malcolm got in the zone, and focused all his athletic prowess on the game. The King-to-King connection brought down one, then 2 consecutive batters as Malcolm managed to land perfectly placed lobs into my glove within the Strike Zone.

Then, Fate stepped in and threw us a curve; the 911 pitcher stepped up to the plate, spouting his usual eloquent poetry: "King, feel my sting!"

I assumed at the time that the burly beast’s comments were directed toward Malcolm on the mound, as the battered bear bore down on my beady-eyed brother, but I couldn’t be certain. I had had dealings with this creep myself, both on and off the softball field, and the bad blood between us was fresher, and stung more than the blood between brothers.

"Hey Jesse!" Malcolm smirked from the mound, "How’s your old lady?" His comment was immediately followed up with a quick-flick lob; and the batter, one Jesse Graham, fired the bat from his shoulder wildly.

"STEEEERIKE!!!" the umpire roared, as the brown and battered softball was collected in my war-torn mitt. And the Mohican’s cheered. One down, one to go…

"F-ck me!" the batter babbled mostly to himself, and I was happy he didn’t see my wicked smile as he focused on my cock-sure elder on the mound. Cautiously, Malcolm checked the 911 runner on 3rd base, almost daring him to try to make a break for Home. Runners on 1st and 3rd; this was no time to get careless and allow another stolen base, or a walk…

The next pitch came before Jesse was set, or so it seemed, and we all but had the game won, until…

-WHACK!- the bat met the ball, miraculously, and the mushy orb rocketed overhead, deep, deep, deep into the outfield.

"F-ck you too!" Jesse turned his gaze to me a moment before he charged toward first base. I was so busy screaming into the outfield for my teammates to collect the ball and throw it Home, I barely noticed 2 base-runners breeze past me at the plate. Something drew my mind and eyes back to my immediate proximity, then. Perhaps it was some secret internal instinct or alarm mechanism, or maybe just the way his gargantuan form seemed to block out the sun as he approached; but I was suddenly imminently aware that Jesse Graham was thundering Home, directly toward me!!

"You’re MINE!" the giant’s gaunt gaze seemed to say as he recklessly rounded third base and turned toward Home. From left field, Charley Andrews lofted the ball, but I didn’t see it coming. I was too distracted watching the freight train roaring toward me down the third base line. I was too caught up in the moment of indecision: which way do I jump to avoid the bone-crunching collision that would most surely leave me a mangled bloody puddle across Home Plate?

This was another of those fateful moments in life, pivotal instances that at the time don’t seem relevant; moments when that underlying subconscious desire for self-preservation kick in, shutting out all other ‘in the moment’ considerations, such as winning the Big Game, being the hero of the team, succumbing to the fame and fortune of being the true champion of the world… the tying run had scored before the ball had even landed in short-center field, the go-ahead run soon followed as the ball was recovered, and now Jesse Graham was bringing home what might have been the game-clinching run… and only I could stop him… oh, crap!

Even though blame couldn’t possibly be laid solely on my head if we lost this game after saving myself from Jesse the Juggernaut’s jaunt, I was sure my team mates would make all the extended days of my life Hell for my part in our loss. How I could be held accountable for the whole game at this particular point, with our Ups still to come to truly decide who would be champions? And, for that matter, it was just a softball game!! A GAME! Not life-and-death, nothing serious, just a game…

Could I help it that I valued my life and limbs more than some silly softball game? They had to give me some credit, my so called ‘friends,’ didn’t they? After all, I DID manage to somehow come to my senses soon enough to scoop up the half-rolling, half-bouncing ball, as it bobbled in from Left Field Even as I claimed the ball, my self-preservation skills helped me make an amazingly awful pirouette to hopefully side-step the rumbling, rhyming rhino as he dove into the dirt. I made what I would consider an admirable effort to tag the tumbling tower of terror as the dust razed and my eyes hazed over. Unfortunately, I was caught up in the gargantuan’s girth, and dragged down into the dust, slamming to the sideline, dropping the softball as my body reverberated and was rubbed raw.

"You’re outta there!" Jesse joked, dusting himself off, offering his hand to me as I sprawled in the dirt.

"It’s not over…" I hissed under my breath, shrugging off his helping hand with a shudder of familiarity, rising up weakly and stumbling back to my position behind the plate. ‘Not over by a long shot, Mister Graham…’ my mind continued to verbally thrash the garish goon, while my slightly chapped lips stayed closed as I glared at Jesse while he strutted to his team’s dug-out. The 911 benches roared with cheers, chants and chortles of laughter at my crushing downfall, and my confidence wavered as I took stock of my teammates’ postures. I let them down; I WAS out of there!

"Awwwww, Slick…" my ‘friends’ most likely seethed under their breath, "What a loser! He’s totally worthless!"

"He tried…" Malcolm might defend me, in a moment of weakness.

"But FAILED!" would come the reply, as the Monday-morning quarterback critiques continued long after the point was made, much longer than it was even relevant to argue.

"He should have stood in there, should have sacrificed himself, should have been the champion WE all would have been…"

"...or at least, I would have been!" Matt would most likely mention. " I knew I should have played catcher!!" I was most probably being chastised and chopped into bits by my team mates in the privacy of their own dark minds. I could see the disappointment, along with the hint of possible defeat in their postures all across the outfield as I recovered. I was certain no one would dare chastise Malcolm for his walking 2 base-runners; no one would bother to recollect the err between Matt on 3rd and Justin Carlson on 2nd which allowed the go-ahead run to reach 3rd. How could this be MY fault? How could we have known that Call 911 had a ringer named Jesse, who could channel the likes of Jesse Owens, into the body of Jesse Ventura; a sprinting superstar quarterback-pitcher with a penchant for verse and very large women? And where were all the boos against Charley and Justin, or Matt, Teddy and Malcolm, who were ALWAYS on hand to cover my bobbling buffoonery at the Plate? Always, except the one time I could have used the assistance? We had gone from a one-run lead to 2-runs down, all thanks to me and my distracted mind. With friends like this, who needs enemies?! And, why did I choose to even call these people my friends? I could not win!! In the Game of Life, I was the Strike-Out Champion!

In the game of softball, as much as in the Game of Life, the biggest heartaches to befall me personally came about from striking out. Beginning with my now-notorious decision to strike out on my own, if only to follow in my bigger, faster, stronger brother’s footsteps; going to His college, meeting and befriending His people, trying so hard to live His great, grand life, all leading up to this fateful day on the softball field… and the many strike-outs that would occur both on and off the field. As far as softball and striking out is concerned, it was more of a financial deficit than a personal spiritual sort of ruin that affected me most profoundly. In the pre-season, a rule had been established which made each strike-out worth a case of beer from the unfortunate batter. 7 strike-outs later left me owing 168 beers, divided between the 12-man team; that’s more than a case apiece for my ‘friends’… 14 beers each for the post-season reveries, that really takes a bite out of a National Guardsman’s wallet… and I don’t even drink the bitter, nasty beverage!!!

Still, I’d buy it for the guys. Anything I could do to help my friends forget their troubles would go a long way toward helping me forget my own problems, most of which revolved around the secondary form of Strike-Outs which had plagued me since cutting Mom’s apron strings and efforting to make a life for myself: Women! One of the Unwritten Rules of the Softball Code, according to the ‘experts’ in all things athletic-- Malcolm, Teddy, Matt, Charley, Justin, Jesse and the rest of the no-necks-- is Never Think About Women. This was one of the rules which Matt seemed to take great pleasure in ignoring, though he would take every opportunity to flaunt the rule to anyone he caught eying any of his female ‘fans’… Oh the hypocrisy of the sportsman mentality! But, I digress…

Now, not only did I have that earlier error involving Jesse Graham scoring the go-ahead run weighing as heavily on me as Jesse himself had weighed upon me, now I also found my thoughts veering toward Striking-Out. The Top 4 Thoughts-Never-Thought While In The Batter’s Box, as compiled by those previously named ‘experts’ in the field:

1) No poetry
2) No women
3) No weather
4) No matter how bleak things may look, no thoughts of past errors.

But, of course, what’s the first thing you think of when you’re told what not to think about at any given time? Those very things! So, with all of those pressures building up inside my gut, all those Unthinkable Thoughts invading my mind, I knew I’d panic when I got up to the plate during our final chance at redemption.

For a quick second, I even considered leaning in and taking a fast ball on the chin, ending it all, finally freeing myself from the torturous Hell which had become of my collegiate existence. Then, I remembered the first of 2 other bits of vital information that swung my swirling thoughts in a whole new direction. Firstly, this was Slow-Pitch Softball; the fastest under-handed, mush-ball toss from the most muscular off-season footballer couldn’t possibly injure, let alone kill, anyone--- unless of course, such a bullet was intentional on the part of the pitcher.
Still, I couldn’t see how the 911 pitcher could possibly be motivated to murder me at this particular point in the game; after all, his team was winning!! My own teammates were probably thinking more murderous thoughts at present than the opposition, led by Matt Hess in their derision, no doubt. Matt was just that kind of person, the guy you loved to hate; he had to know that himself, I was certain—it was so obvious! In his own defense, Matt would use every opportunity to lash out against anyone else, deriding them, insulting them, wearing them down, using their own insecurities against them, and pointing those faults out for all who would listen and join in the degradation. All to avoid dealing with his own lack of self-esteem and self-worth. And Matt had found good company with my bigger, faster stronger brother and the rest of Malcolm’s equally disturbed group of friends. None of this did much to improve my situation or station in life, but who was I to complain? I had found ‘friends’ on-campus, my home away from home; these people were all I had to get me through whatever miseries and mysteries Life would throw my way.

So, there I was, stuck---between a jock and a head-case--- with nothing left to do but play it out. The first pitch came in almost as if in slow motion. I stared at the over-sized orb as it approached on a somewhat flat arc toward me.

"Just the kind of pitch Matt would swing at…" I thought, lowering my gaze as I lowered the bat, watching with hopeful anticipation as the ball floated past. Behind the plate, at least 6-inches beyond the florescent orange square of carpet sample which marked the Strike Zone, the ball met the catcher’s mitt. Whew! No Strike-Out… No Strike-Out…

That’s when the sweating began. For a Spring day in mid-May, the heat seemed intense. I’m not sure if it was from the pressure of the game, or from the incredible afternoon heat, but I found myself suddenly wringing with sweat. The rubber grip at the end of the bat was slickened by the moisture of my palms, and I clenched my fingers, taking a tighter grip on the aluminum club.

"Come on Big-Guy…" I silently urged the muscle-bound goon on the mound, "Send me a lofter." I secretly hoped the 911 pitcher would launch one of his famous limp-wristed lobs that would float smoothly over the strike zone, allowing me to launch the ball into the stratosphere.

That next pitch came quicker than the first, with just the right arc for my taste.

"’At’s outta here!" I boasted prematurely, mimicking my enigmatic enemy on the mound, Jesse Graham, as I bore down on the ball and rifled the bat from my shoulder.

With such a tight grip on the moist bat handle, I could never have foreseen the following flub. The bat sprang from my grasp unexpectedly, spiraling behind my back, spinning dangerously toward the unsuspecting Call 911 catcher and the game’s umpire, Summer Games Activities Director, Bill Webber.

Only a skillful-though-unchoreographed leap prevented serious bodily harm from befalling both men, as the bat clattered wildly past their prone positions. What prevented the same from befalling me, I can only imagine, but I was simply, though sternly, warned.

"Another move like that, King, and YOU’LL be outta here!! Comprende?!" Webber threatened in a huff as he righted himself and regained his composure behind the plate.

"Way to go, Loverboy!" the 911 pitcher howled from the mound, "Real slick, Slick…"

I hated those 2 cocky base-turners right then; Webber, with his wire-rimmed, mirror-tinted glasses, close-shaven, sun-bleached blond head and idiotic scowl, reminded me of a few of the hard-nose, hard-ass drill instructors I had encountered in my days of Basic Training at Fort Benning, Georgia. Worse yet, and more close to home, Webber’s nerdish and awkward appearance immediately brought someone else to mind: Matt Hess with a slightly stylish hair-cut!! And that pitcher, I knew him almost too well, the creep. Unfortunately, to recall the events surrounding my past encounters with the Call 911 pitcher would mean breaking 2 of the 4 Thoughts Never Thought rules of the game, and I really didn’t need any further distractions clouding my already frazzled brain-pan.

"I won’t miss next time…" I thought slyly, slinking from the batter’s box to reclaim the bat behind Bill Webber. Through hyena-like chortles of laughter on both team sidelines, I heard Charley Andrews, our left-fielder moaning.

"Jeeeeeeeeeesus K-Ryst!"

"Yes, my son?" Matt mugged, bowing in mock-respect before Charley, before angrily doffing his cap and slapping it across Charley’s shoulder, shouting, "I ****ing KNEW I should have batted before King, Teddy!!! I ****ing knew it!!"

From his coaching position behind first base, Team Captain, Teddy ‘Chief’ Henderson guffawed heartily, in his distinctive, deep drone. "HA HA! Call 911, you better call 911! HA HA HEE!"

Something about Teddy’s chuckling chunkiness reminded me of Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars, and I smiled at the coincidental comparison. For a quick second, I considered dropping back half-a-step in the batter’s box and letting the bat fly once more, letting the Force be with the business end of the club, most surely connecting with at least one of the unfriendly fiends behind me. Or, perhaps it would relieve some of the tension if I just whacked Matt Hess upside his block-head for the heck of it! Then, that second thought of inspiration struck me, as I remembered the team situation: We had to win! We COULD win this! I could win this for us! Heroic to the end--- though I most often came up the big loser--- I stepped forward in the box, taking my usual firm, slightly off-balance and awkward stance. Strike-Out Champ, HA! I’ll show you all…

"Come on Meat…" I echoed a line from Bull Durham, "Throw me that sorry-assed shit again!"

What really sucks about slow-pitch intramural softball is the One-One Rule. Every batter starts each Up with One Strike and One Ball against him, to speed the game along as well as to add to the pressure at the plate. Following the first bad pitch and the bad swing at the good pitch I now had 2 Strikes and 2 Balls against me. Another bad swing--- or no swing--- at a good pitch, and I was history, the game would end, and I would be the Complete Loser. With these thoughts piling up on all the others in my mind, the sweats began again.

"Always wait to swing until you have 2 Strikes against you…"
I could hear the instruction in my mind plainly enough NOW--- a little late! The reason for that little pearl of wisdom was simple: trying to pitch slow, lofting under-hand pitches wasn’t easy. Most times, the batter could almost count on being walked to First Base, unless the pitcher was a real ace. Even Malcolm’s ace arm couldn’t hold up through 8 or 9 agonizing innings, as was evident in his earlier miscues. So, I shouldn’t be hasty in the box; I should bide my time, watch the ball, wait for my pitch…

Unfortunately though, to me the rule sounded more like: ‘Always wait until things couldn’t possibly get any worse--- then they most likely WILL get worse!’ Why wait? This ball game was getting over! I would win this thing for us, even if it was the last thing I ever did! Bring it on…

Sternly, I hushed the voices in my head with a quick shake. The smooth-talking goon on the mound was so enthralled by my previous swing that his next pitch went wildly off course, and I watched anxiously as the frazzled catcher collected the ball, disappointed that our man on 3rd base couldn’t have sprinted Home as a result of the wild pitch. One run wouldn’t do it for us at this point any way, both the runner and I knew…

"Just bring me Home, bro…" the runner—my bigger, faster, stronger brother—demanded. "I’ll win this thing for us somehow!"
Malcolm was older than me by a year, which made him a ‘bigger’ person, wiser, smarter, more worldly, than me---at least in his own mind. Of course, he was bigger in some respects; the super-star macho athlete, a wrestler by trade, as cocky and self-confident as at least 3 mere mortal men. Still, other than the size of his biceps---and the size of his head when he went off spouting about his Greatness, Malcolm was nothing more than my older brother.

Malcolm wasn’t actually bigger than I, and he weighed probably 10 pounds less—to squeeze into the lower weight brackets on the wrestling squad—and was even a couple inches shorter than I. Sure, he worked out constantly, and as such, could boast more real muscle, whereas I could personally only claim to be body-fat free, with my 98-pound, nearly skeletal body mass. It’s not much of a distinction, unless you are conversing with the Psychology Master, Malcolm rather than less-boisterous Number 2 son, but it’s all I had to bargain with.

Malcolm’s complexion was often flushed, sometimes more like beet-red, from tanning so often, both under the natural sun and from the artificial lighting at the off-campus tanning booths around town. The ‘upkeep up his temple’ as he called his ritualistic trials of a hearty work-out, a vigorous swim, followed by a relaxing cool-down in the sauna or hot tub, and rounded off with a few hours tanning, really paid off on the wrestling mat as much as on the softball diamond. He was Joe Jock Athlete, a superstar in his own mind, and I was nothing compared to him… It wasn’t just his physical stature that towered over me and mine, but a certain subtle charm about him; something in his posture, his constant posing, half-cocked smirk, that devilish twinkle in his eye that hinted at some deep dark secret of grand wisdom that he held close to the vest. Something about the way he carried himself, more than the way he cared for himself, made him seem larger than life. He was a cock-sure, confident, arrogant, slick and shady stud, with an attitude that screamed that he was omnipresent, all-knowing, all-seeing, god-like…

Once upon a time, when he had first gone off to college, I had envisioned my bigger, stronger, faster brother becoming an excellent lawyer, as that was his initial goal. He put on such an air of intelligence and charisma and logic, it was sometimes scary to think of the trouble he could get into---and get out of--- with his particular talents. He began college focusing on Logic and Psychology, laying the foundations for a promising career in the field of Law.

Of course, by the time I had followed in Malcolm’s footsteps, enrolling in the same small college a year and 1 semester later, he had abandoned his lofty dreams of things lawyerly… Apparently, he learned a critical flaw in his plans for the future: Law School was no place to meet babes! Still, to his credit, Malcolm did glean substantial skills from his studies of Logic and Psychology, and used those skills and his particular charms to woo and wow the flocks of females around campus. Ahhhh, higher education!

From 3rd base, Malcolm begged, "Come on, Slick! I gotta wax the Z before I catch some Zzzzzzs!! Damn!!"

"Oh yeah…" I huffed, recalling Malcolm’s strict sleeping schedule: get to bed by 6pm, for a few hours of power napping after his afternoon physical fitness regimen, so he could be wide awake, bright eyed and bushy-whatever by the time the sun set and the real partying began. I also knew that it was only a few short weeks before the Morris National Guard Unit began its 2-week Annual Training period. Malcolm joined the unit when he started college 2 years ago; I joined him at the University of Minnesota, as well as in the National Guard, at the unit stationed in Morris, Minnesota, a year and a semester later. The Annual Training, or AT as it was called by the acronymically-inclined military geniuses, always began in the first few weeks of Summer, so soon after Spring college Finals ended that most Guardsmen, who were using the Army to pay for their schooling, would often start the AT period exhausted from the cram-sessions those precious days earlier…

Malcolm was no exception, and, with the added burden of his extensive and religious work-out regimen, his level of exhaustion was magnified exponentially— at least to hear it from Malcolm himself! He often times had to take ‘time off’ from his responsibilities to the National Guard, the company who paid for his past few years’ failures to establish a sound basis for building a Law practice; even the 2-day weekend drills each month were monotonous and boring rituals Malcolm would most often rather ignore or evade than attend. The Guard served its purposes when they ponied up the cash to front Malcolm’s educational endeavors; his continued connection and cooperation with that company was hardly necessary, by his warped sense of Logic.

This warped sense of logic and priorities was sent further askew by Malcolm’s bizarre spending habits. Three of my brother’s favorite and most-beloved things in this world were his body/his temple, his athletic and argumentative nature, and his automobile. He would spent 80% of his easily-earned National Guard tuition-reimbursement on supplementing or maintaining those three specific things. Since he was often dieting as part of some strange, strict fitness regimen, that left the bulk of his ‘extra’ funds to be put toward his car, a sweet 1985 cherry red Camaro Z-28; Malcolm spent more time and money on that car than he did on most anything else--- including his pursuit of a law degree and women, which I found truly unbelievable.

Almost ritualistically, following his trips to and from the gym and tanning salon, Malcolm could be found in the driveway out front of our humble house, preening over and polishing the hood and chrome to a pristine shine, or whiling away the hours before nap time tuning the engine or upgrading the sound system, because ‘a man’s body is his temple, and his car is his chariot’ he would say, in yet another twisted turn of phrase that left the mind to boggle… That was just Malcolm; that was the way he was, and probably always would be.

And, there he was, over on 3rd base, inspiring me to win this game and get him Home.

Malcolm called me ‘Slick’ as did most of those people I would consider my ‘friends’, though my given name was Richard, Rick. Slick Rick King, the King with No Thing… I was content with that nickname, knowing full-well there were plenty of other less-flattering things I could have been called! Slick Rick, sounds kind of hip and cool, until you realize that I got the name by acting the fool, mimicking the Doctor of Style, Slickster, from Saturday morning WWF Wrestling! Add to that my unerring ability to let the bat fly from my grasp whenever the pressure at the plate built up, and Slick pretty much summed me up! Even though I was not so slick and cool and hip and happening in reality, settling instead for being boring and bookish, quiet and shy, and quite content with all that lot of nothing in life, I would let my nickname create for me a reputation for such coolness as my bigger, faster, stronger brother possessed. So far, that sort of thinking had gotten me exactly nothing. But, hopefully, things were about to change for the better. Hopefully, beginning with winning this game today…

Newly inspired and motivated toward victory, I stepped into the batter’s box, and once again bore down stone-faced at the pitcher, who glared back at me with frightening contempt. The pay-off pitch had almost no-arc at all, but I had to take it; better to hit a short pop-up to end the game, than to suffer the humiliation of yet another strike-out. With my eyes tightly shut, I laid into the approaching ball one last time. Curiously, I didn’t feel the bat connect with the ball at all. I sensed more than heard the eruption of cheers from the stands and dug-out behind the batting cage. Knowing that the Mohicans never drew too big a crowd to these games, I immediately concluded that I had flubbed another one.

"192 bottles of beer on the wall…" I began singing to myself, calculating in my mind if I had enough cash left from my latest Guard paycheck to cover another case of suds for the guys.

Disheartened, I opened my eyes, fully prepared to face the irritated glares from those fine folks who would soon be getting quite buzzed from my failure at the plate. They were all right in their silent insults and accusations; I had no business being a part of their fun, I was too boring, too clumsy, too athletically challenged to compete. The only thing left for me to do was to…

"RUN FOOL!!" Malcolm roared, practically plowing me down in his charge from 3rd. In a state of utter confusion, I complied, hoping I was running in the right direction. The instant I saw burly Teddy Henderson’s 285-pound mass leaping and jumping maniacally behind the none-too-distant base, I knew I was headed toward first base. Obviously, I wasn’t moving fast enough for ‘Jesus Christ’ Hess, and I heard about it from the sidelines, in his typical fashion. "Move your ass, King! Move it or lose it!!"

I was moving it, and I wasn’t about to lose it! From first, Chief sent me on excitedly, patting my back in adulation with one hand, holding up his sagging sweatpants with the other, while he leaped and jumped and cheered me on. Enroute to 2nd I saw the burly 911 center-fielder bobble the beautifully placed ball, as our second runner crossed the plate, tying the score, in the bottom of the 9th inning…

I hit 3rd, and though warned by the entire team--- BOTH teams in fact, and the whole crowd of 10 or 12 bored spectators in the stands, as well as the flock of geese flying overhead and the traffic flowing sporadically down the near-by stretch of blacktop--- to ‘HOLD UP!’ I was in the Zone, and I was zooming…

"No way they’ll get me!" I cheered myself on, charging headlong from 3rd, never looking back. With every ounce of intestinal fortitude within me, I latched on to this new non-boring, exciting superstar who was bursting to escape from within me. I sensed as much as saw the incoming toss from the outfield, and was awed by the speed at which the ball seemed to be moving, almost faster than I was running!

Undaunted, I drove toward the Plate, determined that this would be my defining moment, that from this time forth, I would be a God, hero to all men, desired by all women, freed from the bondage of my past boring and insignificant existence. Sure, I could have held up, allowing Jesus Jr. Hess the opportunity to ‘drive me Home, easily’ as he’d undoubtedly put it. I would still score that winning run, to be mobbed by the 10 or 12 adoring fans who had nothing better to do than watch their favorite footballers crush the competition. Still, Matt would get the glory for driving in that winning run.

No way! I wouldn’t allow anyone, especially Matt Hess, to steal my thunder this time! I was too close! I was too fast! I was too… too clumsy!

I can’t begin to explain how close the call must have been. The forth-coming ‘slide’ came about more from a trip than a plan on my part, but at that moment, I couldn’t have cared much less. As my vision clouded in the dust from my slip-trip-flop across Home Plate--- the concussion of which left me an unfeeling blob--- I felt only the rubber plate skitter roughly beneath my face while the over-sized leather catcher’s glove crashed into the back of my skull. It never occurred to me that Bill Webber’s call would ultimately decide the final fate of the Last of The Mohicans…

In the commotion which followed, I was just glad that nobody stepped on my immobile form as that decision was made and the last call came. There I lay, sprawled across Home Plate, the Call 911 catcher’s glove planted permanently against my skull, grinding my face further into the dirty rubber square, just to illustrate the point that he had made the tag, while my team mates waited and hoped and argued and seethed in the afternoon heat and haze.

I’ve never been involved in a bench-clearing game-ending brawl, and I wouldn’t have made it to this one either, had it come to that. But it didn’t. There was barely any argument at all in the dusty heat on that softball diamond that mid-May afternoon, as the final call in the final game of the championship was made…

"How do I get myself into these situations?" I asked myself, once again attempting to focus upon the present situation, the terrorists and the hostages. Perhaps a better question at the moment might have been "How do I get OUT?"

Getting Out in the softball game was simple, requiring no effort at all on my part. I’m just glad I was only semi-conscious for the bulk of the time the Mohicans were cooling down while waiting for the ambulance to come for me that afternoon.

"What a waste of life your brother is!" my ‘friends’ were no doubt telling Malcolm as they waited for the paramedics to arrive. "He’ll never amount to anything! He’s so basically inept, so totally clueless about what matters in life!" And they would be right, for the most part. It was hardly all my fault though. Maybe I should never have signed on to be a member of the Mohicans. Maybe I should have been content with my Nothing-existence, relegated to my position as an observer of the fascinating lives of the wonderful people around me. Maybe I SHOULD have held up at 3rd base, allowing Lord Hess to bat. Then, Matt would have struck out or popped-out and I would have been stranded, and we all could continue hating Matt as a group, rather than everyone turning on me!

‘Oh well…’ I sighed to myself, with resignation. ‘They’ll get over it…’ And most of them did get over it relatively quickly. Everyone knew that the UMM Assistant Athletic Director, Bill Webber, was put into position as the Summer Activities Coordinator. And that, in his position as Assistant Athletic Director Webber was required to be actively involved with the football team; therefore, he had acquired a soft-spot for the musclehead, no-neck jock-straps. So, Webber wouldn’t let ‘his team’ down once they had gotten into the championship. Everyone should have understood that, and most of the Mohicans did. Not to mention the fact that all of my so-called friends knew ME personally, and knew I was in no way, shape or form anywhere near the superstar athlete-hero! They KNEW I would fail, just as much as I knew it; so how could they possibly hold anything against me?!

"It’s OK, Slick…" Chief consoled, from the comfort of my air-conditioned hospital room where I eased out of my concussion for a night. "After all, I’m a footballer myself! And I think it was a helluvan effort you put out out there… you got some hustle…" I was sure he was practicing that ancient Chippewa tradition of blowing smoke up my ass, but I let him try any way. From what I pieced together from the various accounts of those precious moments at the close of the game, Teddy actually had leaped to my defense as I lay in a pool of my own blood, sweat, and tears across Home Plate. He tried to reason with Bill ‘The Geek’ Webber, arguing on my behalf, trying to get his team the victory. Trying, to no avail…

Chief was the center on the football team, and as such should have held some weight in any argument with the Assistant Athletic Director; 285 pounds worth of weight, to be precise! Unfortunately, being the center on a no-name, unranked college football team brought as much prestige and clout, and meant as much in the real world, as being the catcher on a softball team--- unless, of course, you are the quarterback who stands defended behind such a burly behemoth! That would be one safe QB!!

"Jesse’s an @$$hole anyway…" Teddy agreed with my unstated opinion of sentiment toward the 911 pitcher, Jesse Graham, who also happened to be that well-protected quarterback!!

It was somehow touching and ironic that Jesse’s by-and-large greatest defender on the football field would go against him, arguing in my favor on the softball diamond, and I was honored in a way to have such consideration. That was just Teddy’s way, and probably always would be; he was a nice guy, like me, and could see the big picture.
"We’ll get ‘em next year for sure!" Teddy laughed later in the hospital room while I recovered from my horrendous injuries. "And, here’s a little token to inspire you for next season…" He shuffled awkwardly as he dug into the pocket of his baggy jeans, fishing for his gift to me; a key-chain, a silver tin baseball bat, ball and glove soldered together and attached to a small chain and ring… a great gift, if only I had a substantial set of keys, like for a car, to collect on said key-chain. Still, I was content with Teddy’s simple gift, and few kinds few words of encouragement, happy that he was still talking to me at all after the game. And most everyone else had the same opinion in general about the game, and about Webber’s not-so-secret ties to the footballers of Call 911. Everyone except Matt Hess… Matt would have ‘nailed me home easy…’ if I would have just continued being my same old boring, athletically-challenged, unmotivated self, and held up at 3rd. But I didn’t, so he couldn’t, and the game was over…

TWO

Matt was no longer the problem, I decided, feeling the sweaty fingers of my weaker left arm slip from the girder which spanned the length of the gymnasium.

"Damnable bitches!" I cursed under my breath, my mind reeling to the source of all Mankind’s problems: Women. So close to inevitable death, one might think I’d have more pressing thoughts and concerns on my mind, but not me! Ever since Man gave up that rib in the Garden of Eden, we’ve gotten nothing but heartache, heartbreak and despair to coincide with that ache of loss in our sides. All that from those creatures who owe us their very existence! Women!!

As my gaze drifted down, across the jumbled masses inside the darkened gymnasium, so too my thoughts drifted, down memory lane, to the first woman I ever coerced into accepting my offer of a date. Her name was Katy… Katy Maclintock, and she was a babe. Just-over-the-shoulder waves of luscious chestnut hair caressed her sweet cheeks, complimented by flirtatious creamy-chocolate-brown eyes, and her perky, deep-dimpled smile. Katy’s somewhat harsh siren of a voice could be tolerated, I decided--- if the mood was exactly right, there would be little need for spoken words any way! From the first moment I saw her, I was positive: Katy Maclintock was the woman for me!
Of course, I was desperate, and often felt the same about any new babe who happened to cross my path at any given time. Teddy Henderson was the same way with women; unable to find his perfect match, but so certain she was out there just beyond his reach, always searching, ever-vigilant, and most often left cruelly and viciously hurt and wounded to the core by the less-than-worthy masses. In fact, after suffering through multiple disappointments over our few semesters scouring the campus, Teddy and I formed and founded the UMM Chapter of the He-Man Woman Haters Club, complete with identification cards and our very own, very tried and true club motto.

"We hate women, but we’d love a L’il Debbie!" Teddy would often roar whenever the mood-- or the desire for one of the sweet and tasty Swiss Cake Rolls-- struck him. Amazingly, we were even able to double the club’s membership overnight when 2 members of our softball team suffered similar fates at the hands of the ladies.

After meeting Katy though, I was set to relinquish my position as Vice President of our exclusive club.

"I’m Katy, from Indy…" she chirped cheerfully, casually, in her unique melodious tone. So high-pitched and nasal, so completely distressing in its inflection and acoustic resonance, so… so very beautiful! Like an angel, she spoke to me, and my heart beat in Morse Code that I loved her like no other. Ahhh, Katy! Besides her voice, there was only one other thing I’d have to adjust to before starting something meaningful and long lasting with Katy. She called Independence Hall her place of residence, at least for the remainder of this year, and that would pose a bit of an ethical dilemma in my naïve and simple mind.

‘Indy Hall’ as it was called by most everyone who knew the campus lingo, was home to the most fabulous babes on campus, the upper crust, the cream of the crop. One such cherub had already totally jerked me through the wringer of heartbreak and despair, and I had barely recovered by that fateful night when I met Katy. Angela Williams, the demon lady from Indy Hall, had become the leader of an ever-increasing populace of females who were the arch-enemies of the Woman Haters--- The Fat, Hairy Bitches! From Day One of my collegiate career, even before the official inception of the Woman Haters, Angela’s presence in my life wore on me, grating on my soul, bending my mind toward thoughts of lustful longing… warping and twisting my psyche to the breaking point! Each day, following our Computers 1101 course, I stalked—uh, walked—Angela across campus, wooing her with my subtle ways. And each time, I was not so subtly rejected, repeatedly, endlessly, religiously…

Still, I persisted, sending flowers and poetry to her upper ‘penthouse’ dormitory floor, hoping to entice her with gentle persuasion. A carpet of shredded poetry and a mouthful of carnation petals was all I would receive in response, however indirectly, from Angela. The response was delivered by 4 football-playing, muscle-heads from her dorm, one of whom bravely and fiercely claimed to be her main monkey man; Jesse Graham, football quarterback, team captain, First Platoon squad god, was also Angela’s lucky love-interest.

Jesse and his fellow footballers were always on the look-out for a good pre-season or post-season work-out, to keep in prime condition for the gridiron greatness. Unfortunately, the intramural softball season came near the end of the year, and this trouble with some geek pestering his girl came to Jesse’s attention early in the year. So, it was decided that even poor pitiful me would fill the need as a cardio-and-bicept workout, until something bigger, badder and meatier came along.

Months before that fateful day when I faced Jesse’s fast ball on the field of play, I stomached his balled-fist in my field of No Play, my dorm room, which would not see any ‘action’ in all my time as a resident. After bruising a total of 8 knuckles—none of which were my own—and flossing out the remnants of carnation scum from between my broken teeth, I came to the enlightened conclusion that perhaps Angela Williams and I were not quite compatible.

Enter Katy Maclintock. One Friday night, after drowning my sorrows in a generous mixture of Mello-Yello and vodka--- a mix which I had christened the Mello-Fello--- I cruised to the local off-campus hot-spot, fully prepared to dance the night away. I was equally prepared to once again be walked all over by the chosen wench of the week, a chosen one who was picked by the age-old ritual Eenie-meenie-mieny-mo, ever vigilant in my new role as Woman Hater VP, searching for other lost souls to take under the protective wing of the club, men banding together against a common enemy.

The babes came and went, mostly passing me by for the usual gaggle of muscle-bound goons, and at night’s end, as the music died, so too did my hopes of being stomped on by the lonely hearted fat chick who was left behind. Disheartened, I left, alone, crushed by my lack of female companionship as much as by the loss of my ride when Malcolm and his gal-pal decided to depart the festivities early. As I sulked somberly into the night, I was suddenly surprised to be summoned from behind.

"No luck tonight, ‘ey Slickster?" Charley Andrews hooted, stumbling from the exit in all his overweight eagerness, with a not-completely-unattractive female at his side. Charley had become the 3rd member of our exclusive branch of the Woman Haters a scant weekend earlier, after hearing my tales of woe and Teddy’s, and chiming in with his own heartbreaking horror story. He had been Malcolm’s first friend on-campus; they even joined the National Guard together to help defray the costs of the all-night parties and such, attended Basic Training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri together, and were room mates for their first year at UMM.

Charley was the typical college student/National Guardsman; nothing special, slightly overweight, heavy drinking hard-charging, foolish-fun-having slightly-less-than-average Joe. Not smart enough for Air Force, not tough enough for Marines, and not quite in touch with enough of his feminine side for Navy, a perfect recruit for the Army National Guard; an under-achiever who could be molded to perform endless hours of menial labor and heavy lifting in the name of ‘national defense’. Party animals, each of us, in our own right, with the attitude that if it aint broke, don’t fix it; and if it is broke, don’t worry about that either---just PARTY! That was Charley Andrews.

Approaching casually, Charley pulled me aside, slipping a small square of paper into my palm with a sly smile. "I won’t be needing your services any more VP!" he gushed drunkenly, as I pondered the palmed paper, perplexed; it was his customized He-Man Woman Haters Identification Card, complete with Li’l Debbie Snack Cake chocolate smudge finger-print and official stamp of authenticity!! I was speechless!

"Need a lift?" Charley continued, ignoring my awestruck stammer as he slid back to his cute companion. Normally, seeing Charley or anyone with a date implied they were a couple, and three’s a crowd; especially if this was to be his first foray away from the Woman Haters, he wouldn’t need the Vice President in charge of Insults and Sarcastic Remarks invading his space, would he? Of course, this being his first foray away from the group in all of 7 long days, Charley might be reaching out, asking for a helping hand from the Comfort Zone that we Women Haters had created for ourselves. Or, maybe in his stupor, he had spoken without thinking, as his expression immediately explained. Even as he flinched and cringed and subtly shook off his invitation, I smiled, beamed in fact, and insinuated myself between him and his chosen charmer.

"Drive on, Alfonse…" I laughed, wrapping an arm around

Charley’s ‘date’ and walking away from him, leaving him gawking as I had gawked at his approach, in a classic twist of irony. I gruff, but loving whack upside the back of my head sent me reeling away from his girl, and Charley once again regained his composure, and his place at her side, while we laughed it off and wandered the parking lot in search of his ride.

Upon reaching Charley’s vehicle, a vintage classic, two-tone, 1976 Oldsmobile station wagon, we were greeted by the 4th and final member of the Woman Haters, next to whom stood another glowing specimen of womanhood! Unbelievable!

"Hey Jas!" Charley greeted. "What’s up?!"

"Yo Carlson!" I interjected stepping from Charley and his decent-looking date to the vision at Justin’s side. "And, who might this angel be?" I inquired coolly.

Justin and Charley could have been brothers, or at least close cousins, by the looks of them. Similar build, both slightly paunchy, beer-bellies protruding over their belts, red cheeks aglow from endless weekends of heavily-imbibing in an number of alcohol-induced antics, each of Norse decent, dirty-blond to reddish-brown hair and beefy, chunky body-type to match their burly, boisterous demeanor; and both of them were imbued with a sadistic and sarcastic penchant toward mischief.

Normally, the women who would fall for Justin or Charley’s charms weren’t so special at all. But, this night everything seemed to be going their way… especially for Justin!

"I’m Katy, from Indy…" she smiled at my heavenly accurate description of her beauty, while I hid my disdain for her place of residence.

"My name is King… Rick King…" I bowed slightly, my eyebrows fluttering, "My friends call me ‘Slick’ but you can call me Anytime…" Katy giggled, exposing the cutest set of deep-dimpled cheeks I had ever seen, at least in the last few hours; it was then I knew, I had to have this woman, had to feel the pain and ache as she dug her stiletto-heeled hooves into my spine, pushing and stomping until she shattered my spine and pierced my heart, destroying me for yet another weekend of wasted wanton wanting…

Unfortunately, with Justin next to her on one side for the 10 minute trip back to campus, and me on the other with my hard-luck history, everything working against me, hampering my every move, I knew my chances were slim to none. I did manage to mention my prior experiences with the debutantes of Indy Hall, as well as my steadily growing hatred for the queens and jocks who resided within those hallowed halls.

"Well, I’m sorry you feel that way…" Katy began to shoot me down, as most every other woman had. "But, I live on the first floor…the debs don’t come down from their penthouses to see us dungeon-dwellers, except on their way out the door… so, you’re OK with me…" OK…Better than OK, if you ask me, my dear. And, she WAS asking me!

"You’re not so bad yourself…" I admitted as we pulled into the parking lot at Independence Hall. Again, Katy smiled and blushed at my remark, but the ride had come to an end, and she left. With little more than a ‘Goodnight Guys…’ the Girl of My Dreams was gone. Oh well, now that I know where she lives, I’d have to give her a call sometime. It wasn’t until we had returned to our own off-campus house that I realized: I didn’t know Katy’s last name, or anything about her, for that matter! Anxiously, I questioned Carlson.

"Well…" Justin began with an airy inflection in his tone . "She’s a Virgo, but not for long… She like water-polo, wet T-shirt contests, and moonlit barefoot walks on the beach… in the future, she hopes to save the world from injustice and corruption… How the Hell should I know anything about her?!" he finally confessed. "Did you see the size of those hooters?!"

"What about her last name?" I continued impatiently.

"Her LAST name?! What was her first name?! Who cares!"

"You mean, you don’t even know her?" I was stunned.

"Know her?" Carlson cackled, "Who wants to know her?! I just want to f—"

"FINE!" I understood completely. Maybe Katy could be mine.

"What about Whale O’Williams??" Justin laughed heartily. Justin, along with everyone else at the Morris National Guard armory, had heard all the sordid details of my encounters with the Fat, Hairy Bitches and their evil queen, from all the angles, and through legends spawned by the stories of all sides. There were about 4 sides to this triangle, and that added up to nothing but chaos; my side, the lonely loser; Angela’s side, the vexing vixen; Jesse Graham’s side, the jealous juggernaut; and the truth, some twisted amalgamation of each angle; and the legend which had over-shadowed any of the ‘true’ tales, becoming something incredibly convincing in itself.

"Forget about Sergeant Graham!" Charley chimed in. "We know Jesse real well, we’ll take care of him! Angela is alllll yours, Slick! Ha! Ha!"

"No thanks…" I laughed slightly, declining their assistance, setting my sights on the future.

Though I had little doubt that the combine efforts of Malcolm, Justin, and Charley could easily match, if not completely decimate Jesse’s strengths and smarts, rendering his relationship with Angela an utter waste, I had moved on from my past failures. I was gearing up for an all-new failure of epic proportions; Katy be thy name! But what was her LAST name? And how could I stalk her successfully without letting her know that I WAS in fact, stalking her? I couldn’t just wander the halls of Indy aimlessly, for fear of another hurtful, hateful encounter with any of the enemy football freaks. There had to be a safer, less painful way of finding this girl!

Days past, and I used all my resources to track down the vision I had met in Katy. Most productive was the UMM Student Directory, which listed every registered student by name and address; in all, I uncovered a total of 9 girls in Independence Hall with some variation of the name Katy…Kay, Katherine… 9 girls; 9 times the nervous anxiety, 9 times the fear of rejection. Getting crushed by the girl of my dreams would be rough enough, but to offer myself up to that sort of heartbreak from complete strangers seemed sadistic, even for me. I should just forget about Katy, forget about my future, and just maintain my regular, boring lifestyle. Excitement and love is so over-rated in real-life…

Still, there was something missing in my life, and I HAD to take a chance, even if it killed me. So, finally, I found some ounce of courage and picked up the phone. After only 3 awkward and embarrassing failures, I was shocked and surprised to once again be voice-to-voice with Katy… Katy Maclintock… Katy from Indy, the Katy of my dreams! More amazing still, was that I actually managed to ask her out! Her response was something along the lines of: I’m sorry, but I’m busy that night and I plan on being busy for the rest of my life, you miserable excuse for a human being. So leave me alone and never talk to me again!

OK, so maybe that wasn’t word-for-word…

"Maybe some other time…" she offered. Maybe? How cruel, to toy with me, to throw me a bone and hope that would be enough to satisfy my carnal needs, as if I had nothing better to do than wait idly for that mysterious ‘other time.’ Maybe?? Yeah, right. Maybe I’LL call you again, if you’re lucky, Katy from Indy, Queen of the Fat Hairy Bitches… Needless to say, I was perturbed, but more than a bit relieved; at least I was now free to continue my quest for the elusive Girl of My Dreams.

But, something in Katy’s sweet siren sounded sincere, and left me thinking that maybe she really was interested in me. Maybe she really was busy that night, or had a headache, or something simple like that. She DID say 'maybe…’ Maybe… I decided then and there to give Ms. Maclintock the benefit of my doubts, and maybe call her again later. In a week or 3, maybe her schedule would have cleared up a bit… her, or perhaps one of the other 8 Katys in the Student Directory. HMMMMMM…

Spring quarter passed quickly, and the softball season ended, as did my quest for the dream date. With Summer fast-approaching and the year of schooling winding down, most of the students--- Katy Maclintock included--- would be heading home for some fun in the sun. Because of this, and because I knew that my chances with Katy or any other girl were fading fast, I was depressed. Maybe that’s why I flubbed the winning run that day on the softball field. Depression can really wear a person down like that, so that must be it… at least that will be the excuse I use!

After being released from the hospital, my horrendous softball injuries bandaged and behind me, all thoughts of softball and Spring-time, of loves, lusts, and lost championships, faded like the setting sun. The glorious images of Spring, of freshness and rebirth, were replaced by the hellacious nightmare known as Finals Week. At least, for most college students, all thoughts turned to Finals, and cramming for those last few days of torture before being released back into the world for a scant 12-week respite. For me though, it was just another long week of essential nothingness, broken up by the occasional stream of witty banter or outlandish, awesomely odd behavior from my friends and room mates…

"Awesome!!" I muttered to myself as I collected the daily junk mail from the box outside our home, noting a particularly intriguing scrap of paper. It was a lavender-hued flyer from the local movie theater in down-town Morris, detailing the showing of 2 movies that had been in wide-release long enough to filter down to the small-town theaters.

"Die Hard’s playing this weekend!!" Oddly, though there were 2 movies promoted on the flyer, only Die Hard captured my attention; perhaps because it was an excellent movie which I had seen twice already, or maybe because I realized it would be a great movie to take a certain special someone to some evening. Or, just maybe it was the bright pink highlighter ink that surrounded the Die Hard ad that set it all apart. Awesomely odd antics indeed…

"Big deal…" my not-so-enthused brother sassed from behind a thick book of Logic

"Maybe Katy will go with me!" I cheerfully explained to deaf ears. My mind wandered to the conversation I’d had with Katy following our all-too-brief night on the town. A small portion of our conversation enlightened me; after, we made our initial introductions, and just before Justin Carlson stole the show, I managed to mention my experiences with Angela Williams.

"She said she wasn’t ready for anything romantical at this point in her life…" I whined somberly, as Katy at least pretended to pay attention.
"So, I told her that we didn’t have to become anything like Moonlighting or anything, although her Cybill Shepherd would have been so perfect against my Bruce Willis…"

"I LOVE Bruce Willis!!" Katy cheered excitedly at the mention of his name. I agreed with her, much to her surprise. "Really? You really watch Moonlighting?"

"Does the honey bee? Does the butter fly?" I mocked Bruce Willis’ David Addison as best I could, which wasn’t great at all. " That’s the best show on terra-firma, and the firma the terra, the bettah! Heh!"

Katy’s laughter almost had me convinced that she was hooked. So, I went in for the kill, reeling her in with all the style and grace of Babe Winkelman. "So, what’s a babe like you doing with a couple bums like these two?"

Katy giggled again, squirming slightly away from Justin Carlson’s groping paw, and rubbing against me subtly. "I’m not WITH anyone! I’m my own woman!" she smirked strongly… and so cutely! "I’m just enjoying life, until I find my place in it… make sense?" Oh, did it ever!

"Who you callin’ a bum, f-ck-nuts!" Justin Carlson slobbered, taking over the brunt of the conversation, in a stuttering, muttering nonsensical rant. Oh please, Justin, just---

"Give it up!" Malcolm’s supportive bark brought me back to harsh reality. I was staring dreamily at the telephone on the wall, torn between settling this thing with Katy once and for all, or living with the fantasies I would conjure if I never made the call. ‘Goodnight guys…’ and ‘Maybe some other time…’ burned in my mind like a nightmare, though I knew those words were for real. Still, Bruce Willis starred in Die Hard, and Katy loved Bruce Willis, and she did say ‘Maybe’

Maybe she would agree to go see the movie with me, just for her love of Bruce Willis, of course. It wouldn’t even have to be labeled a ‘date’--- just 2 people who happened to meet up at the same dark theater, sit in the same row next to each other, to watch the same movie and eat some popcorn from the same container, make out and share a little heavy petting, leave the theater together, park somewhere together, and have mad, passionate, meaningless sex for 3 or 4 days or until they got arrested or something. Nothing serious…

"Get serious!!" Malcolm snapped, slamming closed the book on Logic, as I had done in my mind when I launched my little fantasy. "You met this chick at a bar?"

"Dance club…" I corrected.

"And, she was slumming it with Carlson?" Couldn’t argue there. "And, she didn’t put out?" Again, he had her pegged. "Oh, Slick! Don’t be so naïve!! She’s hardly interested, or interesting, for that matter!"

Then, Malcolm made another attempt at reaching a point.

"What about Finals?!"

"No problem…" I shrugged nonchalantly, inspired by my fantasy. "It says here that the movie starts this WEEKEND! Who studies on Saturday?!"

"Give me that!" Malcolm raved, snatching the flyer from my fingers. I gave up the poster, stepping toward the phone, once again eying the device, lost in my thoughts. Strangely, though the room was quite cool, I found my brow suddenly speckled with sweat.

"Come on, Slick…" I told myself. "This is a piece of cake. Just take a deep breath, and—"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"---lift your hand back up to the beam!" Almost unconsciously, my body responded to my mind’s request, as my arm rose back to the cold steel girder. In the dark gym below, I searched for Katy, my reason for being in that predicament in the first place, perhaps my reason for being at all… but I did not find her in the crowd. The darkness made it tough to see anything, from the love of my life to the terrorists themselves. I thought I’d isolated a few of them, from their postures and actions apart from the crowd, but there may have been more around the room, or across campus that I had not yet seen. The advantage to the darkness was I was as obscured from the terrorists’ positions as they were to me. As long as the gym remained dark, I was safe.

Unfortunately, then, someone down there had a bright idea…

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took a few seconds for me to psyche up for the call, but finally, I took hold of the receiver and began dialing the number I had only recently memorized.

"Please say Yes, Katy…" I wished out loud, "Please say Yes…"

"What?!" Malcolm’s question came at me in stereo, echoing in my open ear as well as through the ear against the telephone ear piece. The voice on the phone was somehow familiar as my brother’s, only slightly higher pitched, nasally, though sweeter and warmer.

"Uhh, Katy? Is that you?"

"Rick?" the girl replied with a giggle of confirmation. It was her--- Katy Maclintock, Katy from Indy, calling me at the same time I was calling her! Awesomely odd!!

"Great minds think alike, I guess." I babbled, still confused as to how and why Katy would be calling me just then.

"Did you get my note?" Katy’s voice rose in pitch even more as she spoke in curious concern. "I sent it to you yesterday… in highlighter…"

"Hot pink…" I gasped, the light bulb in my brain flashing to life briefly. Of course!! She was asking me out! Whoa! Was she expecting me to simply accept her offer just like that? After all of the troubles I’d had with women rejecting me in the past? She probably wanted me to pitch her my best lines, stun her with some witty banter, then finally break down and ask her out, just so she could shoot me down. Oh no… I would not make it that easy for her, this time around…

"Uhhh, nope." I lied with a sly smile. "No note in hot pink on a lavender movie flyer in my mail this morning. Sorry. You probably sent it to some other stallion by mistake." I had held my ground in our battle of wills for about 2 seconds, before the witty banter began. I couldn’t just NOT go through with the whole rejection set-up; I was such a sucker for the romantic garbage, and it was the most excitement I’d had since the softball season.

"Quit horsing around…" Katy caught on quickly, continuing calmly, " You’re the only stud I know!" She stopped abruptly then, apparently realizing how over-zealous her compliments had become in this, the initial conversation of our hopefully long-and-glorious dating relationship. I was blushing myself, and could almost feel Katy’s embarrassment, the warmth of her flushed cheeks radiating across the telephone lines and touching my cheek, melting my heart. Could this all be for real? Or was this yet another fantasy created by my bored and weary mind? The note, the phone call at the same time I was calling her, the chit-chat… it was all too good to be true… but it WAS true!

"So…" I continued quietly, defusing the situation as I calmed myself over Katy’s exuberant response. "I read somewhere that there’s a pretty good movie at the theater in town this week---"

"I’d love to go with you!" Katy cut me off in an anxious attempt to have the last word. In shock, I nearly dropped the phone and began dancing Balki Bartakamous’s Myposian Dance of Joy then and there, but I didn’t. Instead, I felt compelled to overwhelm Katy with a touch of my spectacular vernacular, my adept mastery of the English language.

"Neato!" I blurted dumbly, "That’d be swell!" 'Neato' and 'swell' in the same sentence? Some mastery of the language! Don’t you just hate it when your mouth speaks before your brain can think of just the right thing to say? Over the phone to a girl is one thing; over an open air-duct leading into a gymnasium full of terrorists and hostages, one should probably refrain from such monumental slips as:

"I think I should go first… I’m heavier than you…" Not a wise move on my part. At least my haste over the phone had somewhat more promising results.

"Uhh, fine." Katy stammered, seemingly choosing her words carefully. She could have been so flustered over her own remarks, or at least over the fact that I had overlooked her excited babble that she had missed my foolish follow-up. She probably didn’t even hear me babble ‘Neato’ or ‘swell’ I bet…

Of course, 60 feet above a slowly brightening, crowded gymnasium complete with a dirty half-dozen or more terrorists toting automatic rifles, all bets are off! From my slowly-enlightening position, the babbling and miscues of a 2-minute telephone conversation didn’t seem nearly as relevant as they had that day last week…

"So, when are you going to pick me up?" I recalled Katy’s closing question.

"Pick YOU up?" my mind raced. "Who’ll pick ME up?!" As I dangled with 70-some feet between myself and a dead-stop against the basketball court, my mind again drifted, from Katy to another awesomely odd connection to this whole nightmare, as another name came into my thoughts: Malcolm!

Malcolm was my bigger, faster, stronger, faster-talking but not always smarter brother. Being the eldest of 6 sons, Malcolm took it upon himself to guide the younger siblings through the trials of every-day life. In short, this meant blaming everything he did wrong on one of his younger brothers, just so he could watch us squirm our way out of the mess. Being second-born and a quick learner, I would pass the buck down the line, until blame was lain upon our youngest brother; the baby of the family never got into any real trouble, which meant that none of us would. The trappings of our misspent youth were flawlessly executed time and time again, and each of us gleaned a different sort of respect and perspective of our eldest brother, Malcolm. It was his honor to revel in such glowing admiration, the slick and silly con artist that he was…

In more ways than one, it was Malcolm’s fault I was in such a precarious situation, hanging helplessly from a steel girder over a crowded gymnasium. Unfortunately, none of our younger siblings were on hand to take the fall this time… only me. So, it would seem that my death, following a head-long plummet 85- feet to the gym floor would be caused, however indirectly, by my loving big brother. I truly do hate that bastage, now more than ever!

My position in the gym was just one of many conflicts which I was forced to face as a result of any interaction with Malcolm. I was usually more than happy to be relegated to the shadows, to be drown out by the cheering masses as Malcolm accepted the accolades of his numerous admirers. Somehow though, this year, things were changing, and I was in a rush to just keep ahead of the game, or, to at least latch on to some of the back-wash of Malcolm’s ‘fame’. I was really tired of being second-best, but had lived as such for so many years, I had no idea how to find my own way, to be my own person, to attain any higher station in life other than that of Malcolm’s Little Brother. And so, I continued in the shadow of Malcolm’s greatness, into my formative college years, learning from him, and living vicariously though his exploits.

Malcolm was always on-hand to offer his particular insights into my quest for the Girl of My Dreams. As I scouted the potential mates from the grainy, black-and-white senior-high school pictures from the Freshman Directory, Malcolm would give his thumbs-up/ thumbs-down critique, followed by a usually witty and slanted degradation of the target in question. Being a year older, Malcolm would then proceed to offer me access to the cream of the crop, the upper class women, lending me a look at the sweethearts found in HIS Freshman Directory--- ahhh, upper class, older women… sophomore chicks! Sweet!! Of course, I say ‘lending’ in the most literal sense of the word; Malcolm charged me 25-cents for each look at the pages of his upper-class collection of photographs. A quarter wasn’t that huge an investment when the future Mrs. Girl of My Dreams was the goal… Still, picking out a lone babe from a line-up of fuzzy faded pictures was easy, compared to picking the same girl out of a crowd 2 years later across a crowded campus.

There again, my brother’s highly-trained eye and sharply honed skills came into play, and led to much distress on my part. Malcolm was a self-proclaimed, and quite reliable, babe-spotter, with an almost-mystical ability to judge the features of a young Miss at a hundred paces, in a crowd, in a fog, at night or during an eclipse, with one eye closed. At a glance, Malcolm could tell which cherry-flavored sweethearts were ripe fort he plucking and which were rotten, moldy skanks who should not be taken internally. For the most part, Malcolm’s predictions were right on the money; and, again, I used the term literally, as Malcolm charged me a quarter for each ‘consultation’…

Then, there was the Case of The Slippery Skank, Angela Williams. Where Angela was concerned, Malcolm’s bio-sextronic scanners must have short-circuited or something; maybe the ultimate evil of the beast Angela was so powerful as to disrupt any other mystical energy directed upon her form. In any case, Malcolm was led astray by the babe; for, though she was pleasant to look at, if somewhat pleasingly plump, there was a certain fact about Ms. Williams which Malcolm either failed to notice or just forgot to mention, to once again watch his younger brother worm and wriggle his way from another grossly embarrassing situation. Beneath her always evenly-tanned skin, beyond the bouncy bush of tightly-curled, heavily-hair-sprayed sandy-brown bouffant, behind her silver-specked baby-brown eyes, Angela Williams had a secret which Malcolm had overlooked.

That minuscule detail was the hulking form of a 185-pound baby oak with arms named Jesse. Jesse P. Graham; his middle name escapes me, as does much of my short-term memory following the pounding I had received at the hands---and fists--- of Jesse and his cocky cronies. It was probably Peter or Paul, or Prick or Punk, but I will always only think of Pain and Pummeling whenever I think of Jesse Graham! Jesse had the mind, body, and vocabulary of a WWF wrestler, someone who could easily be managed and controlled by the Doctor of Style Slickster, although in the real world in which I lived, Jesse pulled all the strings. He rarely spoke more than 3 words at a time, or 3 syllables, and when he did speak the decibel level was always nearly enough to peel paint from the walls.

Jesse was a bruiser, a loser, and most likely, a performance-enhancing drug-abuser, although you’d never hear me say such things aloud. And, he was Angela Williams’s main squeeze--- and I can say from experience, he squeezes HARD! Remember the mouthful of carnation scum and carpet of shredded poetry which had been returned to me first-class? That scene was a personal message to me, from Jesse and his monkeys to stay away from Angela, or else.

"Or else what?" I thought about spouting. Fortunately, common sense and a mouthful of flower petals stopped me. My body had caused the unnecessary bruising of so many fists, there was no further need to add injury to injury, from my point of view. Besides, it was painfully obvious that Jesse’s ‘or else’ simply meant: ‘or else we’ll come back for more when our knuckles have healed, and we’ll keep coming back until you DON’T COME BACK!!"

"Do we have a deal there, lover-boy?" the mighty oak barked, extending his hand in a gracious gesture of assistance, to help me from the floor where I lay wheezing. Something about Jesse’s act didn’t seem right down deep in what was left of my gut. Wasn’t this the guy who had just spent 15 long seconds pounding me repeatedly, and laughing at my pain? Shouldn’t I despise this heartless, cruel, vicious pig and his apish fiends? Looking back on the event, the answer should have been a resounding ‘YES!’ But, should’ve could’ve and would’ve cannot be held in account for what will’ve and did’ve happen to me next…

Maybe it was Jesse’s almost-forgiving pose that got to me. His half-cocked grin as he extended an unclenched paw toward me seemed less cocky than concerned; the glare of anger in his blue-gray eyes contorted into a look of sympathy, of pity, I guess.. his expression seemed to say, ‘I have had enough…’
And, I had for sure had enough!!

Dizzily, I reached out to accept his gracious offer of assistance. Bad move--- the first of many bad moves which would come to plague my body, mind, heart and soul throughout my first year at college. With incredible force, I was vaulted from my position on the floor, my hand buried in the stump at the end of Jesse’s arm. The crushing pain only lasted for an instant before my already-battered body met squarely with the mirror against the wall, just above the 4-drawer bureau full of my wardrobe. I realized later that the dresser stood at least 3-feet high--- that was some leap!! How Jesse had managed to hoist my limp body the 4 or more feet required to slam me into the mirror in a single heave-ho was a mystery of physics I did not wish to have documented for further study! Oof!

"Nice talking with you, Lover-boy!!" the burly behemoth bellowed, cracking every knuckle in his hand musically as I again collapsed to the floor against the bureau, wheezing and gagging uncontrollably. As if on cue, the couple of monkeys Jesse had brought along--- for protection, no doubt ‘in case that King boy gets out of hand’--- each in turn, cracked their knuckles and filed past my crumpled form. For a moment, a veritable testosterone concerto in B-minor crackled before my throbbing, quickly closing eyes. Then, like all true masters of their particular art, each of the players strutted confidently into the hallway and out of my life. Their leader, the Great and Powerful Jesse Graham, brought up the rear. Always the tough guy to the very end, Jesse felt compelled to leave me with the last word, in the form of a small, witty piece of personalized poetry. After a moment of silent thought and composition, he let loose with what was his idea of intelligent conversation.

"Later, Alligator…" Being a bit of a tough-guy-in-my-big-brother’s-shadow myself, I thought about leaping up and dancing in the face of the madman, chanting the typical ‘This aint over! This aint over by a long shot’ routine. Fortunately, my body had other ideas at that instant, including a total and complete shut-down of almost every motor-control muscle within me. In short, I was little more than a helpless blob for the next 11 hours or so. I didn’t care at all that I had just slept through my first class the following morning; it didn’t dawn on me until late in the day, when I met with my instructor, that I had also missed the mid-term exam for that class. All thanks, to Jesse and the monkeys… and Malcolm.

"Thanks, Bro…" I sighed upon recalling Malcolm’s initial comment, which had drawn my attention to Angela Williams: ‘Look at the teets on that b-tch!!" From my precarious position in the gym, I scanned the masses below, imagining I could single Angela out with my sex-ray vision with as much precision as my bigger, faster, stronger brother. Malcolm was right on both counts, this one time; Angela did have an incredible set of hooters, and she was indeed a b-tch!!

Still, even from 90 feet overhead, I could make out all of her shapely curves, at least in my mind, though not even she, in all her bovinian beauty, could be picked out of the shadowy crowd as she was mauled, mashed and otherwise man-handled by the terrorist thugs. Scenes like that, imagining Angela battered around at the hands of a group of muscle-bound meat-heads, much as I had been molested by her own monkey-man, almost made that earlier encounter with Jesse and his goons bearable… almost.

"Damn it!" I seethed quietly as another of the 30 or so florescent bulbs flickered with life. Well, at least I’d have a good excuse for missing my finals! Unlike mid-terms, when minor cuts, scrapes, contusions and abrasions could pass as viable excuses to miss out and retake the tests, missing out on a final exam would require something epic. An earthquake, maybe; a nuclear strike in the area, possibly; or a terrorist siege on the campus! Hmmmm… I wonder where DEATH ranks on the list of viable excuses? A death in the family seems urgent enough--- especially if the deceased is the student and prospective test-taker himself!!

Still, I could almost hear my History professor grunt, in his coarse, gruff gravely-voice:

"That is unacceptable, Mr. King! How far did you fall exactly? 150 feet? Pshaw! Why, in my day, we were expected to be prepared for such vaults, in the event of a Nazi insurrection! We would practice leaping for TWICE that height, and we would laugh after landing with only 2 broken legs and shattered hips!! We’d go back the very next day and do it all again, in the name of patriotism!

"And, what about those so-called Communist insurgents? Only 6 of them?! With 20-round clips of 5.56 ammunition? Why, you should have been there back in ’43 when the Big One was just getting good! The days when 120 bullets flew through this body were considered slow days, indeed… HOLIDAYS, in fact! I remember one time---" Yeah, sure, Doc! Hey Professor Grump, why are you talking to that poor King boy’s tombstone?! You are as crazy as he was, you old fart!

Dang it! Just one more day… one more day of finals, one test, in fact, and I would have become an upper-classman! If I could have somehow known my final mortal moments would be spent dangling 200 feet over a crowded gymnasium filled with petrified hostages and a handful of communist terrorist creeps, dreaming of Angela Williams and assorted other nightmares as my life slowly fell apart around me, I would have said, "To Hell with Finals! I’m staying at Camp Ripley!!"

THREE

Camp Ripley, where all weekend-warriors from the Minnesota National Guard and Reserve units go to train-up on how to become killing machines. 4 or 5 times each year, the Morris, Minnesota unit--- Alpha Company, 1st of the 136th Infantry Division--- the Alpha Bearcats, made the 90-mile road trip to Camp Ripley. Usually, our stay at the ‘luxurious’ 10-foot x 20-foot, corrugated-aluminum huts which made up the so-called ‘civilized’ sector of the camp lasted all of 3 days. On a few special occasions, such as the Annual Training period in the Summer, the troops were given a special treat. We still spent 2 or 3 days in the cramped confines of the 6- to 8-men huts--- which were typically ‘modified’ to hold up to 15 troops simply by cramming in any number of extra bunk racks and mattress pads! In addition, during AT, we were given the bonus of 11 to 14 days or more in the glorious expanse of the vast Minnesota wilderness! Oh, joy! 95 degree days, 40-degree nights, cold, second-rate rations, very little sleep, not to mention the wildlife… All for what?

"Join the National Guard or Army Reserves now and earn up to $18,000 for college…" the recruiting ad offered. "And…" the ad continued, "Enlist now and you’ll receive this official USAR or USNG olive-drab, camouflaged baseball cap. Join the Army…Be all that you can be…"

I really wasn’t all that enthused by the idea at first; the college benefits were great, and the cap was totally cool, but I really wasn’t interested in learning 1,001 ways to kill a man like I’d seen in so many movies. Once again, I’ve got my bigger, faster, stronger brother to thank for setting me straight on the whole matter.

"Don’t be silly, Slick!!" he’d say. "Every good soldier knows there are only 997 ways to kill a man!!"

"Well, in that case, sign me up!!" I laughed. Next thing I knew, I was meeting with the recruiter. From all outward appearances, I suppose the recruiter was led to believe that it was his superior sales pitch that sealed the deal. In reality, it was much, much simpler than that. After carefully weighing my options, examining everything the Army had to offer from bonuses, promotions, and benefits, to the training and travel, and the overall environment geared toward establishing and building character in even the most melancholy and lifeless soul, I came to my decision:

" I really want one of those caps!!" And, with that, I was in…

"Signed your life away, bro?!" Malcolm teased after the recruiter had gone.

"Maybe so," I agreed with a smile, "but check out this CAP!" I flipped up the wide bill and cocked the cap to one side of my head, gawking goofily from beneath it and chanting. "Be alllll that you can be, in the A-a-a—aaarmy!"

I couldn’t have known that, about 3 years after that fateful day, Fate would again come around to collect on that debt! How could I have known that, following 2 summers of Basic Training and Advanced Individualized Training in which I specialized in Infantry, I would be attending my first Annual Training period with my National Guard unit?
Who could have guessed that I would have been granted a 4-day leave from AT in order to return to the U of M to complete final exams? And, what was I supposed to do, when, upon my return to the campus, I was thrust into the middle of some whacked-out terrorist incursion?! Fate really sucks, all things considered.

If I just hadn’t signed those papers 3 years ago, none of this would be happening… I would most likely still be leading my same boring life, with no friends, no girls, no skills, and no hope. I wouldn’t be dangling at the edge of a steel girder, 250 feet above a crowded gymnasium while 6 or more Communist terrorists waited below to blow my brains out! If I hadn’t once again been persuaded by the twisted machinations of my bigger, faster, stronger brother, my whole life would still have a simpler, safer, quieter tone… This whole nightmare can all be blamed on Malcolm! Malcolm… and girls…. And the National Guard. Great! Just f-cking great!!

That’s what I should have said. "F-cking great!!" or something like that. Not ‘Neato!" or ‘Swell!" Something with a little sass to it. "F-cking great!" That was something Malcolm might have said, and he has had many an adventure with the opposite sex. I hardly ever curse, and I never score points with the babes… coincidence? I think not. Well, Katy was still on the line, and she sounded almost interested, if as nervous as I was. Maybe I could start talking dirty to her now, and REALLY win her over. Yeah, or scare her off, thinking I’m a freak stalker or something. I couldn’t let the conversation lag though; what to do? Luckily, or not, I had an expert on hand to guide me through the rigors of the romantic conversation.

"Malcolm!" I whispered harshly, cupping my hand over the mouthpiece so Katy couldn’t hear Malcolm’s prompts. Lazily, Malcolm looked up from the colorful theater ad, and I pondered aloud. "What do you think: Early or Late Show this weekend?!" Almost immediately, I picked up on Malcolm’s typical what’s-in-it-for-me expression, as he sassed.

"Well, I’m available any day, any time, Slickster…" he chuckled, "Just let me check with Beth… and, hook me up with the popcorn and shit, since I’m lacking in funds and---" Deftly, I picked up and flung a quarter at Malcolm, one of the few I had left lying around, for ‘utility expenses’ such as using my greedy brother’s phone, for personal business. Just as skillfully, Malcolm plucked the coin from the air, and flipped it between his fingers, suddenly whirring to life like a freshly-fed jukebox.

"Ohhhhhh, you must mean with your GIRLFRIEND!!" he roared with laughter, so loudly I’m sure Katy overheard, even as I shushed him angrily. "This weekend?! You’ve got a DATE for THIS weekend?!" he continued, as loud as ever. "And, with a GIRL, no less?!" I was certain I heard a giggle or two on the other end of the line, from Katy, who was obviously enjoying the radio-show she was presented with.

"For, you, I’d have to say, this weekend-date thing would definitely have to be a no-show, bro… ya know?" As Malcolm laughed at his pitiful play on words, the giggles from the other end of the line ceased abruptly, and I swallowed hard with a sudden, sickening realization.

There was obviously more than one thing that made me literally hate my big brother with a passion. Besides being a cocky, unfeeling, heartless bastard with little or no feelings for those lesser life-forms that made up the rest of the human race; besides the fact that he was Mister Olympic star-athlete and I was Mister Water-Boy; besides the way he greedily charged me at least 25-cents for even the most mundane assistance he would offer me throughout every day life, from driving me around campus to using the phone or the toilet in ‘his’ house; besides the annoying way he had defenses ready and arguments prepared for any discussion, and how his ideas were always right and everyone else was always wrong, no matter which side of the argument he took up, and even if he changed sides in mid-argument… Putting all of those quirks aside, the one thing that REALLY bothered me about Malcolm was that he usually WAS right about most things!!

"Dammit!" I cussed, realizing that this time was once again, no exception. So much had happened in the past few weeks that I had forgotten about the National Guard. The Annual Training period for the year was set to begin this weekend, and I couldn’t miss out on the opening days. Still, how could I go about not asking Katy out after all the trouble I didn’t have to go through to get a hold of her; I mean, I almost had to dial the phone number this time! Suddenly disheartened, I explained the troubling turn of events to Katy’s sympathetic ear, bracing for the inevitable let-down as she removed herself from the misery of my existence.

"What about Finals next week?" Katy chirped, unfazed by the broadcast of bad news. "They’ve gotta let you out for Finals, don’t they? I mean, they are supporting and supplementing your education, after all…" I never thought I’d see the day when the mention of Final Exams would fill me with such bliss. It must be love!! No other female would have considered giving a night of cramming during Finals Week to be seen in public with the likes of me! Yet, there she was, Katy Maclintock, and she was dying to make arrangements to go out with me!

"Unbelievable." I gasped, awestruck by the simple solution, before rebounding brilliantly. "I mean, of course! Of course I’ll be coming back for finals… that’s what I was about to say, I can’t go this weekend, but I will have some time after finals next week, if you really want to go with me… my stupid brother was just being his stupid self. He’s just jealous of me, it’s always been like this…"

I flashed my best Malcolm-grin, and flicked my brother the bird, though he had failed to notice. As Malcolm once again turned his attention to the study of Logic, my attention turned to my schedule.

"My last final is on Tuesday, so how’s Tuesday night for you?" I offered.

"Perfect!" Katy giggled. And, it was set.

"One question…" I added gracefully. "Why is the sky blue?"

"Why?" Katy wondered with that familiar giggle.

"Tell you Tuesday…" and I hung up the phone, hoping to have piqued the princess’ curiosity. Now, I just had to come up with a punch-line by Tuesday! Tuesday, May 30th…

"It was a day that will live in infamy…"

In this case, the quote seemed to fit the situation quite appropriately; I don’t think anyone would easily forget the events of the frightfully long period of time of that evening in late-Spring. I’ll do my best to not allow anyone to forget for quite awhile, especially the guys at my National Guard unit! This little terrorist incursion must have attracted some attention by now. For one thing, there’s a radio station right on-campus! Someone must have gotten word out to the authorities!

Maybe this thing happened so fast that the whole campus was caught completely off-guard and unaware. Maybe these terrorists were part of a highly-trained, Communist intelligence squad, sent to the United States with one goal: To shut down the democratic government and pave the way for the total and complete Communization of the world! Of course!! It made perfect sense to me now, almost… By invading every college campus in the country systematically, the Commie pigs could destroy the economies of many major cities throughout the country. Who buys more fast-food, gas, clothing, alcohol, VCRs, videos, and video games than the average college student? In other words, who contributes more substantially, to a college town’s economic development than college students? Nobody! So, if you wipe out the colleges through direct and organized subversive strikes, you destroy the economy of the surrounding cities. Executed on a nation-wide scale, such terrorism would crush the economy of the entire nation! Mass hysteria would ensue, stocks would crash, madness, chaos and mayhem would reign! Perfect conditions for a Communist take-over!! Of Course! That had to be the reason for all of this!

There was, of course, a minor flaw in my theory about the terrorism: Though I am quite certain that, somewhere in Russia, men are trained for such high-level tasks as infiltration and espionage, something didn’t fit quite right. ‘Communist intelligence’? Sounds like a contradiction in terms to me, as it would to any red-blooded American, I’m sure! An oxymoron, and I wasn’t thinking of Matt Hess, or eve of my brother this time, either! No, there’s no way these creeps are Russkies; or, if they are Russians, they are a couple of very lucky Russians! Luck, I find, makes up for skill and intelligence in almost every case, on occasion. For example, it didn’t take any skill, and even less thoughtful consideration, on my part, to get into my current life-threatening situation. But, in order to survive this nightmare, I was going to have to rely on a exorbitant amount of luck, that’s for damn certain! Pardon my cursing; stress brings out the lecherous side of any man.

OK. I estimate I have one final chance to explore all my options before the all the lights are on and bright, and I am exposed for all the gymnasium to see, and I’m either pumped full of lead or squashed following a 400-foot header to the faux-parquet-tiled flooring of the basketball court below… or BOTH! Oh, Katy, if I cry out as I fall, would you at least attempt to catch me? Or, perhaps I could guide myself to land on top of Angela; that fat, hairy b-tch could soften the blow of at least 2 or 3 fallen forms! Of course, I would most likely be swallowed up and lost inside her throbbing, creamy crevasse , but…. EEEEwww!

No Way! I wouldn’t give Angela the satisfaction of engulfing this body between her ample thighs! Fat b-tch! I’d rather fall 1,000 feet, into a river of molten lava, than to ask Angela Williams or any of her monkey-loving debutante dolls for assistance of any kind! Death is one thing, but owing my life to the Fat Hairy Bitches or any of their apish goon boy-toys is completely out of the question!! Never, no way, no how, no chance! Any way, since this may indeed be my last chance to reflect upon just how pitiful and pathetic my life had become, I should at least have the courtesy to wrap-up the flashback that led up to this final harrowing night, and my inevitable demise…

Softball season had ended, and the school year was soon to follow; Finals Week was about to begin, as was the Morris National Guard’s Annual Training period. Not to mention, the unforeseen unprovoked infiltration of the college campus by a group of Communist terrorist insurgents! And, unfortunately, an unknown college freshman and PFC in the National Guard--- yours truly!--- was stuck in the middle of it all! Looking back at the excitement which enveloped me, I was left to wonder: What did I do to deserve this? Did I ask for things to get exciting? Was I so completely out of ideas as to how to maintain the status-quo of my melancholy and hum-drum existence that something so completely extreme as the painful conclusion to the championship softball game, followed so closely by a terrorist siege had to happen?? Stupid Fate… There I was, not only plagued by the normal stress and anxiety of Finals Week, compounded by my softball injuries. In addition, there were the 6 Communist terrorists holding an entire gymnasium of frightened students hostage, while I dangled helplessly overhead. Over heads… over Hess…

Where was Matt any way? I could just make out faces and figures in the crowd now, as the majority of lights grew ever-brighter. I couldn’t be sure, but there were a few goofy-looking goons languishing below, and I could imagine one was Matt Hess, in all his ignorant-idiot glory. Hey Matt! I’d wave and say ‘Hello!’ but my hands are kinda full. Oh crap! No! Don’t look up here!! Don’t point, you stupid mother---

Fine!! At least my life had stopped being boring!!

Boredom sets in quickly in the National Guard. Beginning with the trip to Camp Ripley from the armory, the level of boredom increases exponentially as each day passes. I was one of the lucky ones; Malcolm and I would only be spending the first 2 days at the camp before returning to Morris for finals. Usually, that first weekend of AT is pretty slacked, with most of the time spent unloading gear and supplies, and setting up the sleeping quarters, arranging and rearranging bunks in the corrugated steel huts, to cram the most troops in the least amount of space possible.

The contonement area—a military term that meant ‘the place where young Guard troops will be allowed to have the most fun i.e. the place those troops will send the absolute least amount of time’— was the central gathering point for corralling the troops and the beginning and end of the Annual Training cycle. One weekend, usually the opening weekend, the entire Company would have a cook-out, barbecue-banquet-bash, complete with burgers, bratwurst sausage, buns and beer—plenty of beer.

Malcolm and I decided to stick around for the opening-weekend festivities. It wasn’t exactly our choice, to be honest. First Platoon Leader, Cadet James Sorenson, insisted that everyone show up for opening weekend inspection, simply for the sake of numbers. In the National Guard, much as in the real world, everything comes down to timing and scheduling, being in the right place at the right time to acquire the spoils of war. The training supplies for the entire AT period were divided and disseminated according to role-call accountability rosters; the more troops present and accounted for by the platoon leaders, the larger the allotment of supplies, including ammunition and ordinance, blanks, live rounds, grenades, radios, night-vision equipment, rations and medical and other incidentals.

Then, if any troops had to abandon training for any reason, that left more toys and food and supplies for the good Cadet to enjoy all for himself. So, Cadet Sorenson’s overall level of excitement and enjoyment over the course of the whole 2 week AT experience was directly dependent on the number of troops present at the opening inspection and disbursal of ordnance. The happy Cadet would beam brightly and cheer as the counts were made, and his stock of loot increased. He would hoot and holler and chant ‘Hoooo-yah!’ as the numbers increased into the double-digits, and neared 100… He was so cool and comical at the same time, I often had to laugh at his confident, cocky antics. So much like someone else I knew, but just different enough…

I liked Cadet Sorenson, he was a good kind of cocky, as opposed to Malcolm’s domineering, vicious attitude, so I was more than happy to do my part to keep his spirits up. If it led to him being easier on my fellow platoon-mates in my absence, all the better. Never know when it might come back around; when Cadet Sorenson might need a favor, or if I ever needed a favor myself, like some way out of serious hard-core military training… as in the case of this opening weekend…

The way it looked, I would avoid doing too much serious training anyway, considering my injuries. My left arm, which I had landed on and slid over when crossing between Home Plate and the catcher’s mitt, was severely scraped and bruised, with a slight fracture of the ulna. From the elbow to my fingertips, a thin plaster stabilizer cast encased my forearm. Above the cast, from elbow to shoulder, a thick wrap of gauze protected my bruised and slightly-dislocated appendage. The cloth bandage continued around my chest and back, wrapped tightly enough to restrict movement, and only just loose enough to permit slightly-labored breathing, to protect the few bruised and battered ribs I had also incurred. So much injury on such a sissy-girl body, who would have guessed such damage could occur during a game that was supposed to be just so much fun?!

The softball season was 2-weeks over, and the doctors had instructed that I not exert myself for at least 3 to 4 weeks, to allow my fracture time to reseal itself, and the bruising to fade. I didn’t see any reason to argue with the medical professionals, so I relaxed. Once I had made the date with Katy, and the excitement and adrenaline level rose within me, the trip to Camp Ripley became all the more bearable. 2 hours or more of sheer bliss easily made up for 2 days of utter boredom, especially considering how Katy and I would have all of Finals Weeks to get to know each other better, after our First Date on Tuesday. Malcolm had his finals on Monday, Thursday and Friday, so we wouldn’t be able to return to Camp Ripley until the following weekend. Oh, how I came to love Logic--- especially when its not me but Malcolm who has to study the crap!! It’s times like this when that worthless, unfeeling, obnoxious, cold-hearted, cocky piece of scum was actually an OK-dude in my book. Since he had the Camaro, and I was without wheels of my own, I was stuck in Morris until Malcolm was free to make the return trip. Woo hoo!! "Footloose and fancy free" I called my situation, until I needed to be somewhere urgently. Malcolm charged a flat fee-- 25-cents a mile-- to ‘haul my ass around town’ as he so eloquently put it. So, at those times when I required transportation, to escape the dreadful boredom of the typical college afternoons or evenings, I called my situation desperate.’

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Speaking of desperate situations, I could use Malcolm’s Camaro to escape THIS dreadful evening of terror and terrorism… if only I could get off this damnable girder!! And, speaking of Malcolm, where the Hell is that slick SOB?! I could definitely use his brotherly guidance and stupid sage advice right about now! I was glad he had not decided to follow my lead, plunging into the open air duct as boldly, bravely, blindly as I had. Still, he must have known I was in a bit of trouble by now! So, where was he?!

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"Where’s King?" the stern-faced Officer Candidate barked from his post position in front of First Platoon.

"I’m right here, Cadet!" I spoke up from my place in the second squad of soldiers, bouncing up and down behind the first rank and file, waving my one good arm overhead frantically to get Sorenson’s attention.

"Not YOU, King…" the cadet huffed the usual retort whenever I volunteered myself in place of any one of my other brothers, "Where’s your brother? Where’s the Ghost?"

"He’s uhhhhmmm… " I stuttered and stalled, hoping to come up with a good excuse. "Maybe he’s in the bathroo--- uhh, the latrine?!"

"The bath-latrine, huh?" Sorenson laughed, trying to maintain control as chuckles and giggles erupted throughout the 4 ranks of First Platoon troops. "well, Ghost 2: The Sequel, I suggest you go collect your brother and the rest of the Slacker Squad from the bath-latrine so we can get this day of training under way…"

"Okey-doke!" I cheered, stepping forward and bounding from the row of sharply formed soldiers.

Before I could take 2 steps toward the restroom, Cadet Sorenson barked again harshly. "HALT, Private!"

Although his voice was sharp and stern, as I turned, I noticed the curl of a slight, cocky smirk at the corners of his mouth, and I realized: Sorenson wasn’t angry… he just wanted to mess with me some more, to save face in front of his troops. Besides, Sorenson ALWAYS sounded gruff; he had a voice like coarse sand-paper, rough and deep and throaty, droning, but none too damaging when it came right down to it.

"Aren’t you forgetting something??" he snapped, stroking his brow suggestively with his fingertip, indicating the salute I’d forgotten to render before breaking formation.

"Oh…" I fooled. "Okie-dokey, SIR!" I roared, alerting the entire armory docking bay to my antics.

"Get the Hell outta here, Sequel!" Sorenson had to shout to be heard over the outburst of laughter from his troops. "Bring back the Ghost, and I might just let you slide this time…" Yeah sure! Even in my limited experience in the National Guard, I had learned early on that Cadet Sorenson never, NEVER let anyone slide! Still, I had a mission, and once again set out on a bee-line for the Men’s Room, hoping to find Malcolm, and to avoid any further harassment from the gung-ho cadet.

Ever since joining the Guard unit in Morris, I had been a constant source of amusement and entertainment for the non-commissioned officers—the corporals, sergeants, and first sergeants and such—as well as for the officer-types, including Cadet Sorenson and even the Company Commander, Captain John England. Malcolm had set the stage for my arrival, starting off on the wrong foot with everyone in the upper echelon of command, joining up with the Slacker Squad from Day One. Before I had even set foot on the grounds at the armory, I had once again been granted a reputation as the younger brother of my bigger, faster, stronger, lazier sibling. Malcolm’s impeccable ability to disappear along with his select group of cronies whenever there was the slightest real work to be done, earned him the nickname ‘Ghost’ as christened by Cadet Sorenson himself.

The entire unit latched on to the nickname soon enough, after Sorenson strategically placed a plastic clip-on Casper The Friendly Ghost figurine on the tip of the antenna on Malcolm’s Camaro. At the close of duty for the day, as everyone filed from the armory to watch Malcolm and the other Slackers squeal and race madly around the parking lot in a pointless bid to be the first ones off the lot, peals of laughter erupted from the bystanders. Malcolm hadn’t noticed Sorenson’s gift, and was cruising with usual reckless abandon, weaving amongst the rows of parked cars, Casper bobbing gingerly in the wind the whole time.

"Gotchya, Ghost!" Sorenson smiled, content with this small victory, knowing there would be greater things to come if he had his way…

Malcolm’s absence from such trivial duties as cleaning details at the end of each day of training rarely came to reflect negatively on his overall military-career standing. But, the antics of the Slacker Squad did have a mystical way of almost-always getting ME into trouble in one way or another! Most cases involved Malcolm over-sleeping the morning of the Guard drill, leading to our tardiness or absence from the morning role-call, and Cadet Sorenson’s sour attitude for the rest of the weekend. Though Malcolm was obviously to blame for our tardiness on most every occasion, the trickle-down theory of my childhood STILL managed to come into play into my adulthood, as I was singled out at the end of days for the menial manual labor tasks, while Malcolm and the Slackers fled and hid out.

"Here we go again…" I muttered, pushing open the door into the Mens’ Room. Before I even saw them, I knew I’d find Malcolm and the others close-by; something deep in my gut stirred the instant the door swayed open.

"I hope it’s not going to get too hot down there this year…" Justin was whining already, and the trip to Ripley had not even begun yet!

"This aint hot, Carlson!" Charley countered. "Want to see hot? Spend a Summer in Arizona with me and my cousins… THAT’s ****ing HOT!"

"No, man…" Justin disagreed. "Arizona has ASU chicks, and ASU chicks are hot, so that would be so cool! HA! HA!" This was the typical ‘bath-latrine’ humor of the Slacker Squad. When they weren’t concocting new and different ways to verbally thrash the Cadet or verbally or physically abuse each other in as playful a manner as possible, the troublesome trio would gather in the latrine, or just about anywhere else out of sight and out of mind of the A-Company cadre, and prattle on about the various mysteries of life. Most often, these sordid and assorted mysteries involved the female form, in one graphic and detailed guise or another. How they walk, how they talk, how she sits, stands or…

"Sucks! This shit ****ing sucks!!" Charley seethed, apparently caught up in some fantasy about college coeds and scorching desert sun. "I’m so damn bored!"

"Relax, Chuckles!" Justin smiled. "This week is bound to be a blast! Just you wait! Hey, King, where the hell are ya?!"

"Did somebody say BOARD?!" I recognized Malcolm’s bellow even before I saw him leap from one of the stalls behind Charley, as Charley studied his moping mug in the mirror across the room. A loud and violent -SMACK!- of wood across his shoulder blades sent Charley yelping and dancing in a fit of frantic-fake pain. The crack of the flimsy particle board slat reverberated loudly in the cramped tiled latrine, as laughter erupted from the terrorizing trio.

"Bastage…" Charley coughed, flushed with pain and embarrassment, while Malcolm hooted with glee behind him.

"Excellent ****ing hit, King!" Justin Carlson howled, stepping up to Charley and whacking him heartily across the back with his open palm, and laughing as Charley cringed.

"Yeah…" Charley agreed, regaining his wind and shrugging Justin off. "Real slick!" These 3 troublemakers were always harassing and torturing each other, physically, verbally, or mentally, whenever I was out of the line of fire any way. Almost as if on cue, the trio turned to face me, and I somehow sensed Malcolm’s greeting even before his lips had formed the words.

"Slickster! What the ****’s up, huh?" his words boomed off the dingy tiles, and his half-cocked smirk instantly told me that he knew as well as the others did exactly why I had wandered into the latrine at that particular moment.

"Yeah, Li’l fairy queen, whaddya want?!" Charley greeted, approaching me stiffly, squashing my camouflage-patterned soft cap atop my head.

"Are they in formation out there yet, Dick?!" Justin wondered with his usual flair, though he most likely already knew the answer to his question. He also knew my real first name, and my ‘preferred’ nickname, but he reveled in insulting me, for whatever twisted reason.

Still, he was reaching to adjust my soft cap, smoothing the mashed and wrinkled edges, returning the cap once more to its full-military bearing; how considerate, how completely out of character… a moment later, Justin swiped the perfectly sculpted cap from my head and tossed it forcefully into the dome-lidded waste basket… how rude!!

Then, as I pulled the dome from atop the garbage can, to sift through the debris of paper towels, toilet paper and razors, Justin and Charley stepped up on either side of me, and hooked a hold of my belt loops. The twin terrors then hoisted me up and over, depositing me inside to over-sized barrel, and squashed the lid back over my head, before again exploding in uproarious laughter.

"Perfect fit!!" Carlson cackled. "Now, where’s that damn board, Chuck?!"

Oh crap!

The newest form of harassment and torture the guys had come up with involved beating each other across the back, arms and legs with pieces of wood; not REAL wood, used in construction of any kind, merely particle-board fragments, flimsy and prefabricated, hardly capable of causing any serious, long-term damage to any poor soul unlucky enough to be caught unaware on the receiving end of a good whack. Most times, the wood would make a hearty crack, and would splinter on impact, as the class-clowns of Alpha Company over-acted in such supreme splendor, to the shock and surprise of anyone who would witness the display and was uninitiated to the sweet science of the Slacker Squad shenanigans. Still, the affect of even a gentle wallop--- assuming that Justin Carlson was even capable of anything resembling gentleness--- against an aluminum side of the trash can, might just prove deafening to anyone unfortunate enough to be trapped beneath the domed lid.

=WHAA-A-A-A-A-A-C-C-C-C-L-L-L-L-O-O-O-O-O-N-N-N-G-G-G-G-G-G!!!=

"AUGH!"

While I was tucked safely out of sight and the others were laughing hysterically at my dilemma, the door to the latrine whooshed open violently and in stepped Cadet Sorenson.

"CARLSON! ANDREWS! KING! MOVE OUT!" he roared sternly, then backed out of the room. The silence of that moment was at least as deafening as the noise the moment before, and I took that moment to announce my presence.

"Uhhh, Cadet Sorenson’s looking for you guys…" I said, rising from under the dome, and shrugging it off my shoulders.

"Oh, and thanks!" I smirked slyly, fishing my soft cap from the can and whacking it back to bearing across Carlson’s shoulder, before once again returning to full-uniform, donning the cap and turning away from the gang defiantly.

"Sorenson?! HA!" Justin joked, his somewhat staunch belly bucking into me as I passed and he laughed. "He probably wants me to drive that other ****in’ deuce-n-a-half!" Carlson was 1 of the few registered assistant drivers for the 2.5-ton trucks assigned to the Morris armory, but, as per usual, he usually managed to ‘disappear’ whenever his services were required.

"Bullshit!" Charley cried. "We went down on the AP last week! You won’t have to drive that ****ing deuce!" The Advanced Party was assigned to make a pre-AT trek to Camp Ripley, to insure proper billeting assignments, rationing, and equipment appropriations had been made; it was a slack job, perfectly suited as some level of ‘pay-back’ as Sorenson would call it. Justin and Charley most likely volunteered themselves for such trivial duty, to avoid something more stressful or strenuous on campus--- like studying for finals or something! For Specialists, there sure wasn’t anything special about Justin Carlson or Charley Andrews!!

Both Carlson and Andrews were Specialists, E-4 in rank, same as Malcolm, one rank higher than myself. One would logically think that Spec-4s had gained some higher level of skill, some greater maturity, and should garner a larger degree of respect along with the rank. This, however, was not the case with Specialists Carlson, and Andrews. In fact, it was Malcolm’s initial friendship with the pair of Specialists that started his troubles with the NCOs. Justin was the original party animal at the Morris unit, so when Malcolm and Charley joined the unit, they immediately took a liking to him, and were almost as immediately branded the Slacker Squad by anyone in the upper-rankings of authority.

All of that was in the pre-Sorenson/pre-Ghost era, in the year when Malcolm himself was a new man at the unit, along with Charley, and the two of them could get away with most things just for being the newbies. Being another year older and more accustomed to the Guard-way of living and running things should have helped wear down the antics of the Slacker Squad, especially once the career-centered cadet transferred into command of Alpha Company, First Platoon, just before my arrival in the small college town. Instead, however, it seemed that the entire unit’s day-to-day operations were adjusted to accommodate the trio’s high-jinx. Month after month, during the opening formations, it was none-too-surprising to hear Cadet Sorenson ask,

"Squad leaders, who’s missing?" and to hear all 4 squad leaders, as well as most of the rest of First Platoon, respond in unison.

"Carlson, Andrews, and King…" while Cadet Sorenson shook his head in disbelief. Every month, the follow-up question, "Squad leaders, where are your men?!" would most likely be followed-up by a blank stare, a shrug and a grunt of humiliation and embarrassment from second-squad leader, and baby-sitter to all 3 slackers, Sergeant Jesse Graham! 20 minutes later, after Sgt. Graham had been taken aside and sternly dealt with by Cadet Sorenson for not keeping better control over the men in his squad, who should appear but Carlson, Andrews, and King, grinning, laughing and always ready with a well-thought-out excuse for their whereabouts. In response, the ‘re-educated’ Sgt. Graham would threaten his tardy troops verbally.

"Well, boys…" he’d huff with a sly smug glare, "When the rest of us have finished training tonight, the 3 of you are going to be hard at it! I guaran-****ing-tee it! I’ll burn the slack-and-sluff shit out of you boys yet!"

Then, at day’s end, when the good Sergeant looked for the troublesome trio to complete the days menial labors, of course, they were nowhere to be found. The troubles of one day would melt away and blend in with those from days gone by, and nothing in the way of serious punishment ever came to befall Carlson, Andrews, or King.

Only one man kept a constant tally of ‘dues owed’ by the troublesome troops. Cadet James Sorenson knew it all, and kept meticulous written records— as meticulous as you can get in a 3x5 inch notepad. No matter the infraction or degree of insubordination, Sorenson documented EVERYTHING, in one of several thick notepads which he kept close at hand at all times. Before his tour was done, Sorenson would see to it that all those debts were paid in full… I guaran-****ing-tee it!

From simple monthly comments such as ‘I’m watching you, King’ or ‘That’s 1 you owe me, Carlson’ or ‘a bit late again today, are we gentlemen?’ to simple, silent jots in his notebooks, Cadet Sorenson let everyone know that their minor lapses in judgment had not gone totally unnoticed. Normally, the Cadet’s warnings and notes went unheeded by the more prominent rough-housers; but, Sorenson’s patience, as well as his supply of note paper, was wearing thin. If Cadet Sorenson had his way, pay-backs would begin soon… very soon!

As soon as I arrived at the Morris National Guard Armory, I immediately fell in with the Slacker Squad; once again, I found myself drawn into the shadow of my bigger, faster, stronger brother. Malcolm was the only person I knew at the unit, so I decided to make an effort to make his friends my friends, or have no friends at all… which may have proven to be the better of the two options, in hindsight. So, I would make friends with Malcolm’s friends, even if it killed me!

I knew quite well that Malcolm and I were 2 entirely unique and different individuals, in almost every way; and therefore, his friends would most likely be hell-raising hooligans with a similar slant on life as him, as opposed to the quiet, introspective genius that was me. But, as I was a stranger in a strange land, I had no choice but to latch on to any connection I could; besides, I had ALWAYS been the good kid growing up, and this was the ‘college years’ time for me to raise a little Hell! It would be nice to leave people guessing about me and my motives and intentions; surely they could see the naïve and innocent wanna-be on the surface, but hopefully some of the Slacker Skills would rub off on me and make me all the more an enigma. Once again, my big brother’s ideals would warp my mind and lead me astray, forcing me into the middle of a confrontation between the trouble-making threesome and the gung-ho cadet.

"Come on guys!" I begged, stepping toward the Men’s Room door. "Cadet Sorenson’s really pissed this time!" Carlson responded with a long, drawn-out guttural belch, and Charley laughed. It took my brother’s witty insight to set me straight, as only Malcolm could.

"Get a f-ckin’ life Slick, huh?!" Again with the cursing… how rude!! "They aint going anywhere without us, so just relax, huh?"

That last little arrogant ‘huh?’ always stung me more than any of the other drivel Malcolm might spout. Most of the rest I just tuned out as a jumble of cursing, babbling gibberish, but that selfish, defiant, know-it-all twang when he spewed his closing ‘huh?!’ always made me feel my lowest. ‘What’s your f-ckin’ problem, huh?’ or ‘who the Hell do you think you are, huh?’ No matter what ungodly obscenities preceded it, that unanswerable, rhetorical ‘huh’ always held me in check.

"Time check!" Malcolm asked, punching through the silence he had rendered in me a mere moment after he had hushed me with his ‘huh?!’ He was always into those sorts of mind games too; just get you swayed into a lull of one line of thinking, when he’d totally shift gears and blast away with the other barrel, or from the complete opposing viewpoint of the argument. He was a master at manipulation, and I hated that in him. Almost as much as I hated my poor pathetic
self.

"0849…" I droned after a quick check of my wrist watch, adding, "That’s about 10 minutes to 9, to you slacker civilian types…" my slight went unnoticed, and I was curious about the sudden silence from the usually boisterous boys. Perplexed, I turned back to them as they stood, locked in a perpetual triangle of blank stares, transfixed, almost…afraid? A second glance at my wristwatch and a moment of quick thought sent my mind to the same plane of existence, if on some lowly Private First Class Level, as the others, when we realized just how late we were. A quick recap of the daily training schedule we’d each received with our monthly mailer reminder of the guard drill and AT training dates set us all straight:

0800: OPENING FORMATION
0815-0840: FINAL BRIEFING PRIOR TO DEPARTURE
0845 SHARP: DEPARTURE TO CAMP RIPLEY

"Oh, great!" I muttered, following hurriedly as the others scrambled past me, bolting for the door. "Late again…"

"Yeah, but," Charley Andrews began his regular-as-clockwork excuse, "it wasn’t our fault!"

Nothing these guys did was ever their fault, according to them! Somehow, I didn’t think Cadet Sorenson would buy it this time though. Pay-backs are a b-tch, and the b-tch’s name in James Sorenson! Actually, the b-tch was named Angela, but her boyfriend was the squad leader under Cadet Sorenson, so in a weird way, it’s all connected…

"Sorenson, HA!" Carlson cracked again as he emerged from the latrine. "Let me at ‘im!" He began dancing and shadow-boxing in raucous reverie, rights and lefts, jabs and hooks, ducking and dodging, to the delight of… nobody! No one remained in the armory docking bay as we, the Slacker Squad of Alpha Company stepped forward to once again face the music, and atone for our delinquency.

"What the---" Charley choked. "I guess we’re off the hook! They all left already! Woo Hoo!"

"Uhhh…" I paused, pointing across the bay toward the entry corridor to the offices of the armory. Following my finger dumbfounded, the others could do little else but sigh and whimper in unison, as their gazes met with the straight-faced stern scowl that was Cadet Sorenson’s game-face. Sorenson simply stared back, the showdown at the AT Corral, as he scrawled in his notepad without shifting his gaze from our hapless hopeless crew. Not flinching an inch from his glare, not pausing a moment to check his spelling or dot his ‘I’s or cross his ‘T’s Sorenson suddenly summoned us in turn.

"King, King, Andrews and Carlson… you’ve got exactly 2 hours to get your butts to the contonement area at Camp Ripley… 2 hours, or your asses are all mine!! DISMISSED!!"

We knew we had 2 hours to make the 90 mile drive to Ripley, but Cadet Sorenson often felt it necessary to restate the obvious to the Slacker Squad, if for no other reason than to hear himself talk. Of course, following Sorenson’s angry exit from the armory, Justin Carlson took a few moments to mock the hard-core cadet, compounding the strict, stern senior officer’s attitude with attitude of his own.

"Oh yeah, Sore-Nut-Sack?!" the gagster Guardsman guffawed, suddenly acquiring a strong Hispanic accent. "Weeeel, man, I say, yo esai… we ain’ no stupido gringos! We gots ourselves a Z-28 homes… -VARROOOOM!" Justin took off, behind the wheel of his Imagimaro-28, zooming and careening wildly around the loading dock, squealing and squawking maniacally.

"CARLSON! DISMISSED!!" the thunderous command shook the empty room to the rafters, and the shocked Specialist blushed brightly, and ceased his antics. An unexpected expulsion of laughter from behind him flashed Justin’s flushed face from embarrassment to anger as he turned to face only Malcolm, myself, and a stout-chested Specialist Andrews as Charley roared once again. "I said DISMISSED, Carlson! Dammit!!"

"Very funny, f-cker!" Carlson sighed, slugging Charley in the shoulder, wiping away the flush from his cheeks.

"Watch it, jerk-off!" Charley danced away from the slugs, then dove back toward Justin, clutching Carlson’s bare forearm in his 2 hands gruffly. "This is a little trick I learned from my cousin…SNAKE-BITE!" he twisted his hands back and forth rapidly against the flesh of Justin’s forearm, searing the skin slightly in the pinch-and-twist, leaving the area red and raw and tingling with slight pain. Justin howled in overly-exaggerated anger and torturous pain, collapsing to the floor writhing, as the rest of us looked on, in hysterics. Charley dug into the deep cargo pocket of his combat-fatigue pants, and pulled out a crusty, dry brownish pod of some sort, and began dancing and shaking the thing maniacally, hissing and hooting the whole time.

When Justin recovered, he stormed to Charley angrily, clutching Charley’s wrist in his grip.

"Watch out!" Charley warned, still shaking the tiny pod, which clicked and clacked with each shuffle of his wrist. "This rattlesnake’s about to strike! -Hisssssssssss!-"

"Don’t piss yourself, worm!" Justin shoved Charley away playfully. "And you can shove that rattle up your ass!"

"Hey now!" Charley calmed himself, still shaking the rattle vigorously. "This is a genuine rattlesnake rattle from a diamondback rattler I wrangled with my own 2 hands a few years ago at my cousin’s…"

"Whatever!" Carlson huffed. "It is kinda cool though, fool…"

"Let’s go, King." Charley laughed, taking off in a half-trot across the parking lot while Justin playfully pummeled him repeatedly about the head and neck. And finally, we were off…

For a quick moment, I thought we were actually going to make it to Camp Ripley on time to take our punishment and get down to some serious barbecuing. Then, I made the mistake of asking the question.

"So, we’re actually going to get to Ripley on time this time?"

"Oh, Hell yeah!" Malcolm promised, revving the engine of the Camaro as the other slackers took their seats. "In fact, we have enough time for a quick Nintendo break!"

"YAAHOOOO!!" Carlson cheered, drowning out my protests while Malcolm rocketed the Z-28 from the parking lot. Yeah, Yahoo! There was no such thing as ‘a quick Nintendo break’--- or a quick
anything--- where the Slacker Squad was concerned. So, we headed back to our off-campus home for what would be the beginning of the end, or, more accurately, the end of the beginning, of a very long weekend.

35 minutes later, we began to pack the Camaro with our gear: duffel bags, backpacks, utility belts, and personal bags, when Slacker Squad Delay Tactic #357 took affect.

"Hey!" Charley realized. "How the flying f-ck are we going to remember whose f-cking ruck is whose?" He did have a point; each of our OD-green duffel bags was marked in black stencil with our names, social security numbers and unit marker, but the 4 rucksack backpacks were unmarked and looked identical. A simple solution would be to open them upon arrival at Ripley and deduce from the contents inside whose was whose. But of course, these were the Slackers I was dealing with, so nothing was ever quite that simple.

"Check this out!" Charley cheered, once again fishing the rattlesnake rattle from his pocket. Deftly, he lashed the rattle to the drawstring of his rucksack, and left it to dangle, before stuffing his pack into the trunk.
"Ahhh…" Malcolm saw the logic in this action, and stepped around the Camaro, snapping off the Casper figurine that he had always wanted to remove from his car, his chariot, but never actually got around to until now. He clipped the figure to the front of his rucksack, and turned to me.

"That just leaves you 2 losers…"

"Hey! I don’t want to touch Dick’s shit!" Carlson sassed. "Gimme something to tie to mine!"

"I got it covered, Carlson." I realized, revealing the empty tin ball-and-bat key-chain I always carried with me, for luck, since the dreadful day on the softball diamond. I clipped the chain to my rucksack strap, and we completed the loading of our gear in the compact Camaro trunk.
Only then did we find that there wasn’t enough room in the small car for the 4 of us and our gear, as the full effect of Slacker Squad Delay Tactic #357 took hold! 10 minutes of thoughtful discussion over the merits of leaving the gear behind and heading to Ripley with just the clothes on our backs vs taking 2 vehicles, then reloading half the gear into Charley’s station wagon, and again, finally, we were off! Following a ‘quick pit stop’ we were only about 1 hour and 10 minutes behind the rest of Alpha Company.

Needless to say, Cadet Sorenson was more than a little upset by our tardiness.

"A little late again, hey boys?" he checked his watch and flipped open his notepad with a single quick flick of his wrist.

"Yeah, but, it wasn’t our fault!" Charley pleaded. Carlson chimed in, as usual, adding to the myth and the legend that would become Slacker Squad Story #897.

"Well, you know about those escapees from Sauke Center?" even though the cadet stared back at them, straight-faced and stone-cold sober, unwavering, the guys continued. "Well, we ran into them at 7-11, when Dick had to piss… and they wanted a ride out of town. We declined, of course, because it would make us late for AT, so they chased us. We ran around all the back-roads and hick towns, all over Hell…" The story grew to epic proportions as Justin and Charley seemed to get lost in the heaping steaming pile of their own insanity, all over some half-cooked tale about bandits or crazed killers who were stalking us from the mental asylum, until Malcolm miraculously lost them…
"…and THAT’s why we’re so late!"

"Oh, and Slick…" Malcolm interjected, almost as a side-note, including me as a part of the whole scheme. "All that extra chasing around is going to cost you! An even hundred should cover it!" I should have spoken up right then and there, blown the whole crazy story completely out of the water, but I didn’t think I would have to…

"Come on, Carlson…" Sorenson couldn’t help but laugh, "You guys met up with escapees from Sauke? That part I might believe. But, why would you malcontents run away from a group like that, psychotic as they may be? Seems to me they’d fit right in with the rest of you, Carlson, Andrews, King… and Li’l King!" Crap! He noticed me! Thanks again, Bro!

It was amazing how, even when cornered and caught completely, Malcolm, Justin and Charley were able to band together, to concoct such wildly diverse tales of misery, mayhem and adventure, with little or no predetermined collaboration. Using the flimsiest bits of the truth, the wizards of words would create wonderful works of fiction to explain away their every misguided error in judgment. True, we had heard a tiny snippet of a news story on the radio, concerning a group of apparent escape mental patients from the Sauke Center Regional Correctional Facility, but those reports were very vague. In fact, the first news of the event we’d even heard at all came to us as Malcolm changed cassettes, and the web of lies began to weave itself.

"…details are sketchy at this hour…" the report blared between the guttural moans of Aerosmith and the wretched upheavals of Tesla, "But, we can tell you this… Earlier in the week, reports of an escape attempt were released from the Sauke Center facility. Reports claimed that as many as 16 inmates of the facility were unaccounted for. By Wednesday, we had confirmed reports of at least 12 patients who remained unaccounted for, following a lock-down and subsequent manhunt… K-Q News will keep you informed of the details as the manhunt continues… Hate groups and teenagers, the subject of an in-depth probe for the 10 o’clock hour… In Sports news, rumors of trade talks swirl around Minnesota Twins, as maybe pitching ace Frank Viola AND center fielder Kirby Puckett are on the block—"

FOUR

"Carlson! Andrews! Report to the Mess Hall immediately for KP!!" Cadet Sorenson ordered before turning his attention to Malcolm and me. "As for you two, Ghost and Sequel…" I didn’t exactly like the evil glint in Sorenson’s eye, or the cocky smirk that crossed his face; in that moment, he reminded me of someone else whose omnipresent arrogance riled me on a daily basis--- Malcolm! That evil glare always only meant one thing: Trouble, with a capital T and that rhymes with P, and that stands for PT. In this case, Cadet Sorenson had arranged an interesting and challenging format of strenuous physical training, at least for 2 of the Slacker Squad. Specifically, Sorenson’s orders sounded something like this:

"OK Kings… Let me see you low-crawl!" I was still a newbie in the unit, and pretty wet-behind-the-ears when it came to dealing with the high-ranking officials, but even I could not believe that Cadet Sorenson would force me to low-crawl in my seriously-injured state.

"But, what about my arm, Sir?" I held up the plaster-casted appendage without thinking, demonstrating my mobility with no indication of pain. "And my ribs?" I lowered my arm and began wincing and moaning, about 30 seconds too late…

"What about them, Sequel?!" Sorenson grunted, smirking still. Casually, and now fully immersed in my mock-pain antics, I explained the injuries, hoping the conversation would crack that smirk and weaken the cadet’s resolve to torture us Slackers. For a moment, I saw a glimmer of hope…

"You got hurt THIS bad, during a softball game?!" Sorenson sobered up with concern, and I nodded pitifully, playing on his weakness, a skill I had learned over the years, from watching Malcolm. "But, you LOST the game?" Again, I nodded, and shrugged slightly.

Sorenson half-frowned, then flashed that damnable devilish smirk, pointing to the ground, and growling. "You lose again! Get on down!!"

"But…" I protested to deaf ears, cringing as I dropped to my knees.

"Just get as low as you can then, Sequel…" Cadet caved in.

So, there I was, all a$$holes-and-elbows, on the ground, ready to be put the rigors of a vicious and vile, cruel low-crawl race against my bigger, faster, stronger brother. Only then did it REALLY set in that I didn’t do anything wrong!! I was just a pawn in all this, along for the ride, on my brothers coat-tails, and lost in his shadow, as always! Carlson and Andrews were the real culprits, and they had gotten off easy. KP duty! BAH! Those 2 idiots practically volunteer for KP every month, it’s a non-job!! The only other person involved in all this was Malcolm… what about him? Where the Hell was Malcolm?!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"…if he’s gone and left me hanging like this, I’ll kill him!!" I thought, seeing more than feeling my weaker, heavier left arm slip from the girder once more. The thickly-wrapped limb hung like dead weight from its socket, all sense of feeling sapped from the strain and intensity of my situation. With the heat, the fall, the hostages and the terrorists all bombarding my mind and my body, I couldn’t be sure how long my right arm would hold out either!! Almost directly below me, the ‘EXIT’ door was clearly marked. In fact, there were 4 exits, 2 on either end of the gym. But, in order to reach the doors, I would have to chance the fall, and survive without shattering my legs or hips. OK, so maybe it wasn’t exactly 300 feet—it was only probably around 30 feet at most—but still…

There had to be another way. I just had to find it before the terrorist scum-sucking bastages found me! All the lights were on now, and rapidly warming up, I noticed. Soon, their filaments would be hot enough to completely illuminate the entire room. I would be spotted for sure! A 30-foot fall and a 10-foot sprint to freedom. 10-foot crawl more than likely. 30 feet down, 10 feet back… Using Algebra, I could determine the shortest distance between myself and the EXIT door. Unfortunately, that distance turned out to be even more than the 30-feet straight free-fall; if I swung myself backwards with just enough momentum, AND if I released my hold on the beam at just the right moment, AND if I fell backwards at just the proper angle, I would land like a butterfly against the door and fall through it, performing the most perfectly acrobatic combat-roll and recovering, racing to freedom. The square root of 1000 feet… something like 31.6227766…. feet, if everything went exactly perfect, and I would be free! And They say you never use Algebra again in real life!!

Of course, if I swung too hard or released too late, I’d slam into the wall before collapsing to the floor; and too little momentum or if I released too early would leave me with that much farther to crawl, limp or sprint to the EXIT if I survived the fall. In any case, falling 30 feet, 100 feet, or 31.6227… feet didn’t really sit too well with me at all, no matter how it all worked out Alegebraically! If only there was some other way! If only… my gaze drifted back to the red-glow of the EXIT sign which protruded on a brace from the wall just over the door. The sign was losing its glow as the room slowly brightened around it, though, to me, the chill in the air seemed to increase, and I grew numb.

Oh God! Why is this happening to me?! Why---

----------------------------------------------------------------

"ME?!" Malcolm spoke up from behind the Cadet. "You’re looking for me, Sir?"

"Well, Ghost…" Sorenson snorted. "Tell you what I’m going to do…" His idea was simple; sine this was the slacked opening weekend, a time of joyous reverie, he would give us Slackers a break, while enjoying some fun in the sun for him and the rest of the troops. His ingenious plan of our execution involved the low-crawl race, between 2 of the steel-huts, between Malcolm and I. The winner, Sorenson concluded, would be off the hook for the remainder of the weekend before training really started, and before Malcolm and I had to return to Morris. And the loser?

"You and I will become very close this weekend, Sequel…" Sorenson’s prediction stung me, and again I cringed, not-so-much faking that time.

"Oh great…" my sigh was drowned out by raucous laughter from my friends and fellow Guard troops who had gathered to watch the spectacle of my defeat. Malcolm had already assumed a good low-crawl position upon hearing the award; he was revved up and ready to once again strut his stuff as the King of All Things Athletic, and there I was, staring down the gap 2 huts away, wishing at that moment I had stayed back in Morris… the circular irony of this whole twisted affair really preys on the weak mind, don’t it? Then, there’s the whole idea that the low-crawl race was a study in absurdity in and of itself ; the low-crawl was designed as a safe and effective means to avoid enemy detection, while advancing your position in enemy territory. Used most effectively by snipers and other special forces units, the low-crawl was meant to be undertaken at a snail’s pace, so as to not attract attention to the crawler, until he achieved the objective and found the perfect close-quarters assault point. The whole idea of a low-crawl RACE was absurd, to me from just about every angle!

Fortunately, before my head could explode from dire thoughts of the Hell to come this weekend, Sorenson’s voice boomed, and the race was on. The thin plaster cast on my arm actually turned out to be more help during my half-assed shimmy than I expected. After only a few weeks, the very slight fracture in the bone in my arm was probably completely healed, and didn’t hurt as much as it itched. My bruised ribs didn’t ache so much either, even stretched out ‘as low as I could go’ which was more like on my elbows and knees than actually completely flat against the ground on my stomach, as Malcolm was required to be. I really was feeling fine then, and probably could have gotten completely prone, but hey! What Cadet Sorenson and Malcolm didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me, so…

"Ohhhh, my ribs!" I cried in agony as I reached the far side of the grassy space between the corrugated-steel huts. As I sprawled and gasped in phony-pain, I hoped my antics would grant me a reprieve from Sorenson’s sick and twisted plans for me over the next few days.

"Holy shit, Sequel!" Sorenson stormed up to me, obviously fully-intent on getting in my face right from the start. "Where did you learn to low-crawl like that?!"

"Well…" I babbled from the ground, gawking up at the Officer Candidate gloomily. "My ribs are busted, Sir! And it wasn’t my fault! It’s not a fair test anyway, the low-crawl is supposed to be done slow, and---"

"Incredible!" the cadet cried, checking his stop-watch again. Oh come on! I didn’t think I had gone that slow, I mean the sun was still on the rise, not quite setting or anything just yet! These histrionics were hardly appropriate!

Malcolm was probably basking in all his glory again, carried around camp on the shoulders of his peers, Champion over the gimp again! I looked down the row of huts, fully expecting to see my bigger, faster, stronger brother being showered in wine and roses, swarmed by the masses and cheered for his superior skill and speed and low-crawl style.

Instead, I was stunned to find Malcolm only just completing his struggle from between the huts! I had beaten my bigger, stronger, faster, brother! Even though he was a year older, and had learned to crawl even before I was born, I had crawled the crawl this time better than even he could!! I was King! Malcolm was nothing! Sorenson was right; this WAS incredible!! The cadet was still announcing my record-breaking time, as if it was truly something for the books: 3.54 seconds by his stop-watch. I had slithered about 20 feet in 3.54 seconds, to best Malcolm by almost 4 whole seconds!! Wow! If this don’t get me laid, nothing will!

OK, so I admit I had practically every advantage over Malcolm in the race, it was not fair in the slightest, I was basically on hands-and-knees trotting through the passage between the huts, while Malcolm was flat on his stomach, shuffling slowly. This was a ‘victory’ in the absolute weakest sense of the word. So, then, why was I smiling, BEAMING in fact?! If you only knew Malcolm, you’d understand…

"Unbe-f-cking-lievable!" Sorenson was only adding to my glow with his ranting. "Great job, Sequel!" He whacked me on the back heartily, then turned to Malcolm, who was still doubled over, cussing under his breath and shaking his head in disbelief.

"Ghost With The Most!" the cadet hooted, "You’re ALL MINE!!" he laughed insidiously, and I caught Malcolm giving me the evil eye. Only then did I realize the colossal hole I may have just dug for myself… Malcolm was my ride home!! What a dreadful thought that trip had suddenly become! ‘Footloose and fancy-free’ suddenly meant one long walk back to the UMM campus, and I was in no way prepared to undertake such a trek. Sure, I’d save the $100 Malcolm would most definitely charge me now, but a hundred-mile cross-country hike was not my ideal of a pleasant way to spend a weekend. Talk about a desperate situation!

"Now then…" Cadet Sorenson mused, almost to himself. "What can I find for the Ghost??" He’d hardly said the words before a call went out across the open field between the huts and the supply trucks parked on the road.

"I could use some help over here, Cadet!" a distant and undistinguished figure in fatigues beckoned.

"Who’s that?" Sorenson wondered, squinting across the field.

"I think it’s Quizzy, Sir…" I answered, "Quisberg…"

"You got Carlson over there?" Everybody knew of the Slacker Squad, and Sorenson’s detailed list of debts, so every time a cleaning detail was needed, the call went out ‘Send Me A Slacker!’ Sometimes Carlson… "Or Andrews, maybe?" the distant driver beckoned again.

"Special--- uh, Corporal Quisberg?!" Cadet caught and corrected himself. "’Ghost’ is on the way!" he turned to Malcolm, and barked. "Go ‘Ghost’ GO!"

"Special-Corporal Quisberg’s got some pretty good ears, huh Sir?" I joked. Corporal Quisberg had only been promoted from the rank of Specialist because he was the only truly qualified and licensed driver for the 2.5-ton trucks. As the deuce-and-a-half driver, Quisberg was responsible for hauling the required supplies from the Morris Armory to the various field-training camps and exercises Alpha Company would attend throughout the year, including AT at Camp Ripley. Because of his extra 6-week training courses involving the deuces, Quizzy was also the only qualified mechanic for the vehicles; and in order to be certified as a trainer both in mechanics and operating the vehicles, it required that Specialist Quisberg be promoted to the Officer E-4 Rank of Corporal…kinda like E-4 ½, or something. The promotion had only been in place for a few weeks prior to AT, and Cadet Sorenson wasn’t quite used to Quisberg’s new title.

"Don’t push it, Sequel." Sorenson threatened with a sly grin. " I’m sure CORPORAL Quisberg could always use a second man over there… or, maybe the bath-latrines could use a good spit-and-polish tooth-brushing…"

"Yes Sir! Shutting Up Sir!" I snapped to attention, flashed a sharp salute and smiled, with a wink, as I watched Malcolm jog briskly across the contonement area. Whoa! Malcolm jogging? And to WORK, no less? This was the man who drove 15 feet down our driveway to check the mail, jogging to unload a deuce-and-a-half full of heavy supplies?! Unbelievable!!