Pup Read online

  Pup

  Christopher

  Slater

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Studio Digital CT, LLC

  P.O. Box 4331

  Stamford, CT 06907

  Copyright © 2015 by Christopher Slater

  Cover design by Barbara Aronica-Buck

  Story Plant Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61188-211-7

  Fiction Studio Books E-book ISBN: 978-1-936558-64-3

  Visit our website at www.TheStoryPlant.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by US Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant.

  First Story Plant Printing: June 2015

  Printed in the United States of America

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  To my family and friends who show the joy I keep inside.

  You are all much braver than I.

  Introduction

  җ

  This is not the story of a hero. If you were hoping to read about a hero that the biggest star in movies would play on the silver screen, then you might want to look for something else to read. There are lots of stories about heroes out there. Look around and find one of those. I’m sure there are probably some on the Best Sellers list. This is the story of a screw-up. A grade-A, monumental, epic screw-up. I wouldn’t even be writing this down except that my wife wants me to record it so that our children can read it when they grow up. There’s a brilliant idea! If my kids haven’t figured out how much of an idiot their father is by the time they’re old enough to read this, I might as well provide textual evidence to convince them! My therapist also said that it might be cathartic for me to write it all down. What a quack! He still tells me that I should be proud of myself when I look in the mirror. I look like a cartoon character. Why should I be proud of seeing that in the mirror?

  All right, I suppose I should stop stalling and get this thing started. I would say that my adventures began the day I was drafted, but that would be a lie. My adventures probably began the day I was born. I often wondered if the doctor dropped me on my head after he saw me. If he did, is it possible he picked me up and dropped me again just to be certain? Whatever happened on that day, I ended up with all kinds of issues. I haven’t been diagnosed with anything. Part of the reason is because I wouldn’t allow myself to be tested, but there are still labels that apply to me: socially awkward, clumsy, forgetful, hyper, geek, spaz, schmo, screw-up, goofball, and clueless are at the top of the list. Those are just the labels given to me by friends and family. My grades never reflected these things. I always scored well in class. I can tell you the capital of Tajikistan off of the top of my head (it’s Dushanbe, in case you wanted to know), but I couldn’t tie my shoes before sixth grade, I still have to think hard to remember my left from my right, and my first attempt to boil water on the stove made it on the evening news.

  Of course, everyone has their issues. I have a cousin that is scared to death of ducks. I’m not kidding. Every time she sees a duck coming toward her, she breaks out into a cold sweat and looks like she is about to have a psychotic episode. The difference between other people’s issues and mine is the fact that you aren’t likely to have to confront ducks on a daily basis. People are an entirely different story. I have to confront them every day. To tell the truth, I suck at it.

  I could probably write a four-volume treatise on my time in school. Just imagine being in an institution for thirteen years where everyone else knows that talking to yourself in public is strange except for you, and where color-coordinating your clothes is highly suggested and you tend to ignore that suggestion. That pretty much sums up as much of my time in school as I think anyone needs to know. Oddly enough, though, I enjoyed it.

  It isn’t like I never had friends. I had quite a few friends. It turns out that when you spend most of your time fighting against or trying to hide your quirks, you gain a certain amount of insight into people. That insight turned me into a bit of a problem-solver. People would come to me with their problems and I would listen and help talk them through it. When you do things like that, you get a reputation as a nice guy. The funny thing is that I wasn’t a nice guy. Sure, I had manners and tried to treat people decently because my mother would make my life miserable if I didn’t, but that wasn’t the main reason why I helped. I liked hearing these people talk about their problems because it helped me forget about mine for a little while. I never told any of them that. I’m pretty sure it would have ruined my reputation.

  I admit it. I’m stalling. I could spend several pages just talking about how I managed to never touch the toilet seats in the school bathrooms (they really are gross!), but I know that I would just be coming up with ways to avoid telling the story that my wife and my quack therapist want me to tell. Here it goes. I graduated from high school and had been accepted into a college to study psychology. That’s when the war broke out; I’m sure you know the history, so I’ll leave the details out of it for now. I’ve always had a habit of reading. I read a lot. I read about a lot of stuff. At the time, I had become particularly fond of military action novels. Science fiction was my choice for television and movies, but military action seemed more “real” to me in books. It always amazed me how they could make the heroes so invincible and the villains so conniving. I think that my sense of patriotism was especially aroused by these novels. When the Second Korean War broke out I went and bought flags in every available size, got red-white-and-blue shirts and hats, and I got all kinds of posters and decorations to show my love of country. Obviously, none of this did anything to actually help the war effort, but that’s just the way that I think. I figured that looking patriotic would be my contribution. I didn’t really consider enlisting. I’d never shot a gun before, and I had the upper body strength of a . . . well, everything has more upper body strength than I did. So I figured I would just wear my shirts and hats and shout “U-S-A!” whenever appropriate and that would be enough.

  I remember that I was wearing one of those shirts when the doorbell rang. I had been spending most of the day trying to figure out how to get along with a stranger as a roommate when I got to college. That probably scared me more than anything about going off to school. I dug into my wallet as I went to answer the door. Various groups had been doing door-to-door fundraisers to support our troops in whatever way they could. Hey, I could give a few bucks. I would do my part. I was wearing a patriotic shirt, wasn’t I? When I opened the door, the deliveryman asked to see my identification. Maybe it was because he was wearing a uniform, or maybe it was because I was young and stupid, but I showed him my driver’s license. He looked at it, double-checked his clip board, and then told me that I was hereby notified that I had been called to active duty through the Selective Service program. He handed me an envelope and then turned to leave. He stopped when I told him thank you. Maybe he thought I was being sarcastic. In truth, it was just an automatic response of politeness. He looked at me with an expression that I couldn’t quite place. Then he told me, “Good luck, kid.” He got in his vehicle and drove off without looking back.

  I looked at the envelope that he had given me. I opened it up and found a great deal of information there. In truth, it was information overload. The words that stood out to me as if they had been highlighted were “active duty, United States Army.” Something about those words disturbed me. Maybe it was the fact that they actually had been highlighted. I rea
d them three times, then dropped the envelope and passed out. The least I could have done was close the door before I passed out. It took my parents two days to round up the cat and dog. My tendency to panic can be so inconsiderate at times.

  It’s hard to remember a whole lot that happened in the following months. I remember my mother crying a lot. That was no surprise. She wouldn’t even let me walk to the neighborhood playground by myself before I was seventeen. By then, I could drive to it. I also remember watching the news a lot. I was really hoping that there would be a breaking news announcement that the Second Korean War had abruptly ended with the enemy’s unconditional capitulation (I didn’t actually expect it to be worded like that; I just wanted an excuse to use the word “capitulation”). I also did a lot more walking. My therapist tells me that I probably did that so that I could experience more of my familiar surroundings before leaving to a more alien environment. Quack. My mother was crying, the television kept showing depressing news stories, and the dog and cat were constantly trying to escape. I went for walks to get the hell out of there!

  The day finally came for me to report for processing. I really didn’t want my parents taking me. That’s kind of like having your parents drop you off at school. It’s embarrassing. I would know; mine did it until the last week of my senior year. Unfortunately, somebody had to drive me and they insisted. My mother kept giving me kisses when she parked the car. I finally had to speak up. “Mom! Stop kissing me!”

  “I don’t care if I embarrass you!” she replied. “You’re my boy going off to war!”

  “It’s not that,” I insisted. “I’m so nervous that I’m nauseous and I think I might puke all over you.” Sometimes you have to hit my mom with the unaltered truth. Imagine my surprise when that just made my mom cry harder. I guess I know where I get some of my issues from.

  The processing was . . . unpleasant. After getting all of my information, having me sign a lot of things that I didn’t really understand, and then taking away everything that I had brought with me, the military sent me to get a physical. I’m not a big fan of physicals. I don’t know of anyone who really is, but I think that I hate them more than most. People poking and prodding and asking questions that I wouldn’t want to answer if they paid me. Why can’t they just have a scanning device like on Star Trek? (Sorry! Flying my geek flag again!) To make matters worse, I had to stand in line in just my underwear with a bunch of other draftees. I guess I should point out that I have never been all that comfortable with being naked, or mostly naked, around others. I always tried to be the last to change in the gym locker room. I don’t know why, probably because everyone is in better shape than me. Some people look like you could put five hundred pounds on a bar and they could bench-press it without difficulty. I look like I could be the bar. I stood in line not making any real eye contact with the others around me. I shuffled forward whenever I saw the feet of the person in front of me move. I don’t know if I should have looked up or not. It might have prevented the shock of what was to come, or it might have prolonged the agony. I’ll never know. I only know what did happen, and that was humiliating enough.

  I shuffled forward and saw a chair in front of me. “Have a seat,” a voice said. A feminine voice. A very feminine voice. I looked up and saw a young lady in green scrubs with a stethoscope around her neck. She was gorgeous. She was about twenty years old with red hair and a smile that could light up an entire room. I would know. She’d gone to high school with me. It was one of those rare instances that I actually recognized someone. She also recognized me. She smiled that dazzling smile. I was too nervous to smile back, but that didn’t prevent other parts of me from . . . responding. While I was standing in front of her. In my underwear.

  I don’t think that there’s any need to continue with that particular memory. We’ll just say that she checked my blood pressure (it was high at the moment) and my pulse rate (which was dangerously high at the moment) and sent me to the next table. It was difficult to tell if the smile remained one of familiarity or of amusement. Of course, most people who were familiar with me were also amused by me, so six of one, half a dozen of the other. I guess that it was good news that the rest of the people involved with giving the physical were male. It prevented any repeats of that episode. I almost expected to fail the physical at the hearing test portion. I hear everything very well. The problem is that I can’t seem to understand anyone. It’s like everyone mumbles. Maybe everyone does mumble, and I’m the only one that didn’t receive the memo. That would be about the speed of things. I was all ready to explain this with a vague hope that it might get me a medical discharge when they stuck a couple of earbuds in my ears. I heard a few odd tones come through the speakers and saw the tech look at his laptop screen. After about fifteen seconds, he removed the earbuds and put an approval on my paper. “My hearing isn’t . . .”

  “Your hearing is fine. Move on,” he interrupted. I started to protest when he looked at me with eyes that did not broker discussion. “Your hearing is fine. Move on.” I picked up my paper and followed instructions. At the final table was the only man in the room in an army uniform. I sat down in front of him and handed him my physical form. He took a look at it and checked off a few boxes himself. Since he was the final person in the line of tables, I figured that I had better ask him some of the questions that I had. “Sir, I have a few concerns. First, I have an unusual hearing issue. I can’t always make out what people are saying. Secondly, my stomach tends to get upset when I eat unusual foods. Third, I’m not certain that I am in good enough physical condition for the military. Finally, I was just about to start college. Doesn’t that exempt me from the draft?”

  The corporal (I had studied up a little on military rank) had not looked up from his paperwork while I had spoken. He didn’t bother looking up afterward to answer me either. “Everyone is trying to go to college now,” he began in a bored voice. “Because of that, there are no more college deferments. Your tests say your ears are fine. Boot camp will get you into shape, and you can crap your pants after mess call for all I care so long as you don’t foul up your weapon. Congratulations, pal. You are now a member of the United States Army.” He finally looked up at me. When he saw how scrawny I was and the already-homesick look on my face, I heard him mutter under his breath, “May God help us all.” And that is how my glorious career in the military began.

  And the ball starts rolling . . .

  җ

  Before I start talking about all of the things that happened to me after that fateful day I reported for duty, I feel like I should make something very clear. I may not like every veteran I’ve ever met, but I respect every last one of them. Anyone who has ever worn this nation’s uniform deserves all of the respect we can give. They have given of themselves, voluntarily or not, so that we can all live our lives the way that we wish. They are all heroes. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. I’m the exception to this one. My quack therapist tells me that I’m just fishing for compliments when I say something like this. He wonders why I call him a quack. I’m recognizing reality. You would think he would know the difference.

  The day I reported after being drafted was a day that seemed to last forever. After completing the long and humiliating physical, I was sent into a waiting area filled with steel chairs. I was happy to get the opportunity to sit down and collect my thoughts for a moment. I walked over to a chair and sat down. I immediately squealed and jumped back up. The thirty-some-odd draftees in the waiting area immediately went quiet and stared at me. I gave a sheepish smile. “The chair’s cold. Forgot I was just in my underwear. Sorry.” I watched a few guys shake their heads in exasperation, and everyone went back to their conversations. True, I was not happy with this wonderful impression that I had made on the other draftees, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t see some of them sit down a little more slowly and carefully because of my mishap. Screwing up so that you don’t have to, just another of the many services that
I provide.

  Once everyone had completed their physicals, we were lined up again and sent to a partitioned area that was filled with tables. These tables were all covered with military clothing. Without instructions we were shepherded through the line of tables. There was a private at each table asking us what size we wore of the various articles of clothing. I knew this was going to be bad. You see, according to clothing manufacturers, I don’t exist. There is no line of clothing made for someone with my proportions. The only way that I have combated this throughout my life is by trying on various sizes until I find something that leaves the least amount of me uncovered. Pants are especially difficult. I either look like I’m trying to sag like someone from the hood or I look like I’m getting ready for a flood. The truth is, if you want to know what size I am, I’m size me. Something told me that they didn’t carry that size uniform. The first table had undershirts on it. Without looking up, the private hollered out, “Size?”

  When in a situation like this, I can be a true intellectual conversationalist. “Ummm . . .”

  The private looked at me, exasperated. He grabbed a few undershirts that he must have guessed would fit me and threw them at me. I caught them and moved to the next table. I realized then that the next table had boxer shorts and was manned by a woman. Without thinking, I covered my underwear with the shirts that had been thrown at me. The female private looked at me and what I had done. “Get used to it, honey. We’re all over the place now.” She said it in a mechanical tone, like she had been forced to explain this a thousand times before.

  “Yeah, I feel like I am right now, too, ma’am.” I could feel myself blushing.

  The private looked up at my red face and let out a warm chuckle. I remember hearing that chuckle and thinking that she would make a good kindergarten teacher. I don’t have random thoughts; I have logical responses to stimuli. That’s what I keep telling myself. She held out some boxers for me. “Here you go, pup. You be careful.” I nodded in thanks and moved farther down the line.