The Non-Custodial Parent
originally published in JMWW
Ft. Benning, 20 November 1995
from Reliquary
originally published in Rock, Paper, Scissors
nominated for a Pushcart Prize, 2011
originally published in Rock, Paper, Scissors
nominated for a Pushcart Prize, 2011
Take some paper, stationary. Dab it with perfume. Add some ink. Make it not matter what the ink says, just that it is there. Put the paper in an envelope. Dab more perfume. Address to a soldier. Take care with the handwriting to show that you know he is lonely. Mail the letter.
Make the letter arrive on 20 November. Put it in my hand. Make me read the words and forget them. Sit me on my bunk, careful the way recruits are careful not to dimple its hardness. Make me read the words again.
Now take a barracks. Add me, haunches soft on a hard-made bed. Add more beds. Add a hundred beds. Make them metal, with thin mattresses and olive drab blankets. Notice the floor, polished every day since I have arrived. Make it brown, with the same drabness as the bunks even through the high sheen polish.
Add more soldiers. Bring them in bunches and gaggles. Notice that each chooses a different moment to remove his hat. Notice that each removes his hat. Make the soldiers ruddy and vibrant from training. Give me a bandage on my foot. Lean a crutch against the metal post of my bed.
Make me see the soldiers, but take no notice. Swarm them past me, parting for my bunk and rejoining in groups at their own. Send some to their foot lockers to gather toiletries. Start others at games of quarters to pass the time while waiting for the showers. Make none notice me. Make none mention my name.
Now take a voice, manly as it can muster. Place it near the door. Make it break as it calls out At Ease. Take the soldiers. Scramble them to the ends of their bunks. Place their feet apart, their hands behind their backs. Make them stare into the nothing just above eye level. Take me. Make me stumble as I come to my feet. Make the crutch clatter to the floor.
Take the Drill Sergeant. Place him in front of me. Twist his features with rage. Press the brim of his hat into the bridge of my nose. Make him tell me I’m a broke dick. Make him say I’m all ate up like a soup sandwich. Make him ask me if my pussy hurts. Press his body into me. Make him solid. Push me backward until I stumble again. Make me grab for the post. Make the Drill Sergeant push me away from the bunk. Make him overturn the bunk. Make him yell until the words blend together.
Take me. Take my tears. Keep them just inside and under my eyes. Make me tremble. Make me say no Drill Sergeant. Make me say yes Drill Sergeant. Make me say I’m a soldier Drill Sergeant. Take a soldier. Make him snigger. Make him audible. Make the Drill Sergeant pass to him. Make the soldier say no Drill Sergeant. Make the soldier say yes Drill Sergeant. Make him say I’m a soldier.
Take the soldiers. Drop them for pushups. Take the Drill Sergeant. Make him kick a garbage can. Send it down the aisle. Make it strike a soldier, the one who sniggered. Make his head bleed. Make him cry out. Take the soldiers. Make them oblivious to his pain.
Take the Sergeant. Make him leave. Make the room still, deathly quiet. Make one soldier replace the garbage can. Start the showers again. Start the quarters. Now take me. The overturned bunk. Take the soldier with blood on his face. Bring him to my bunk. Make him help me right it. Make him help me make the bed hard. Make us both deathly quiet.
Make me give him the letter, because it is all I have to give.
