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LJ Idol 6.22: Token
Apr. 12th, 2010 12:29 pm"Listen up!" said Marine Senior Drill Instruction Jansen, striding into our squad bay, "when I call your name from this roster, I want you to answer up with your religious preference. Is that clear?"
"Sir! Yes, sir!" our platoon shouted in unison. Although we had been in boot camp for only three days, we recruits had already learned that the first and last words out of our mouth when speaking would be "sir!"
"What was that, ladies?" Our response had failed to impress him.
"Sir! Yes, sir!" we yelled, neck tendons straining and eyes popping.
Jansen turned and planted himself behind the battered wooden table at the center of the squad bay. As if on cue, the two assistant Drill Instructors, Edwards and Bass, strutted into the room in freshly starched uniforms and began to pace up and down between the twin rows of recruits standing at attention in front of their "racks." They proceeded to critically examine every aspect of our appearance, from our posture, to the alignment of our belt buckles, to the presence of stray threads jutting from our clothes.
"Abercrombie!" barked Jansen.
"Sir! Catholic, sir!"
"Alden!"
"Sir! Protestant, sir!"
And so it went, without a hitch, until the H's.
"Hawthorne!"
"Sir! Baptist, sir!"
"That means you're a Protestant, Hawthorne," said Jansen, after a beat. He spoke in a tone one uses to explain difficult concepts to small children.
"Sir! No, sir! I'm a Baptist, sir!"
Religion was momentarily forgotten as the assistant Dis pivoted toward their new prey like a pair of coyotes about to take down a newborn lamb. Hawthorne had crossed the line.
"I?" bellowed Edwards, in Hawthorne's left ear.
"I?" echoed Bass, in Hawthorne's right ear.
"Do you know what an 'I' is, maggot?" asked Edwards, loud enough to be heard at the other end of the building.
"Do you, huh, you steaming pile of puke? Do you?" spluttered Bass. His body jerked like a mad puppeteer's marionette.
"An 'I' is something you look out of," said Edwards, answering his own question. He suddenly turned to make sure the recruits behind him—myself included—were still at attention, with eyes locked to the front. Meanwhile, Bass dropped his voice and said, to Hawthorne, "Jumping jacks!… Ready!… Begin!" Hawthorne, having been rudely jerked back to the here-and-now of recruit training, obeyed the order, hopping while moving his arms and legs, in a fair imitation of someone trying to play hopscotch and dance the Highland fling at the same time.
It was just as well that Hawthorne had not uttered the other word forbidden to us—"you"—because that sin brought forth (in addition to the inevitable punishment exercise) a verbal tirade in which "you" turned into "ewe," with said female sheep transitioning abruptly to one particular degenerate thing one might do with a female sheep, to the subject of sex in general, and eventually, to a desire to engage in homosexual sex with a drill instructor. Despite the speciousness of this etymological "chain of reasoning," it was, under the circumstances, irrefutable.
Having thus established Hawthorne to be a "Protestant," Sergeant Jansen continued down the roster. I was prepared to answer "no preference" when my name was called because frankly, I was not particularly religious, and because, in some small way, I wanted to assert my individuality. My notion was scotched when Jansen got to the K's.
"Kirk!"
"Sir! No preference, sir!"
"What do you mean, Kirk?" asked Jansen.
"Sir! The private has no preference, sir! The private's an atheist, sir!"
The squad bay was silent for several beats, for although Marines are reputed to be the meanest cusses to walk the earth, they're also supposed to be a God-fearing crew. It says so, right in the Handbook.
"No preference, huh, Kirk?"
"Sir! Yes, sir!"
I heard a rhythmic tapping noise from Jansen's direction. It sounded like a pencil eraser bouncing off a clipboard, but I dared not look, lest I risk the wrath of the ever-vigilant assistant Dis. The tapping paused for a second, then resumed. Then stopped again.
"Kirk, since you've got no preference, you're a Protestant," said Jansen.
"Sir?"
"We've got fifteen Catholics and eleven Protestants," explained Jansen, "so, you're a Protestant. Is that clear?"
"Sir!... Yes, sir!"
My plan had been scuttled. As I prepared to accept my Protestant fate, Jansen called the name of the recruit directly above me in the roster, who stood about a yard to my right.
"Lambros!"
"Sir! Greek Orthodox, sir!" said Lambros, in a voice I felt was a bit louder and more emphatic than it had to be.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jansen's head jerk in our direction. "Christ!" he said, loud enough to be heard on the street, "There's one in every crowd!" Then his arm moved in an arc and I heard something - a pencil – skitter across the floor.
Within seconds, Edwards and Bass had assumed stations in front and on either side of Lambros, like guard dogs waiting for a signal to attack. I felt a smile start to claw its way up past my solar plexus, and stifled it. It was one thing to vicariously enjoy Lambros' moment of being different, quite another to show my enjoyment. I felt Bass looking at me. My eyes stayed locked to the front.
"Private Lambros," said Jansen, "the Marine Corps will do what it can to accommodate your religious beliefs, but in the event an Orthodox chaplain can't be found, which services would you prefer to attend, Catholic or Protestant?"
Mentally, I willed Lambros to stand firm, to cite the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, or even the Mayflower Compact, if need be, but to hold fast, make the most of this modest moment in the sun, and to stand out from the rest of us sorry wretches, as we stood stiffly in our ill-fitting uniforms, with stubble where our hair used to be.
"Sir!" said Lambros, after a moment, "the private would like to think it over, sir!"
Jansen got up and walked over to and stopped in front of Lambros, while Edwards and Bass continued to hover behind him. "Recruit," said Jansen, in a quiet conversational tone, "you think about your answer and tell me what you decide. In the meantime, as our count is still lopsided, I'm going to put you down as a Protestant. Do you find that acceptable?"
"Sir! Yes, sir!" said Lambros, in the same quiet tone. Jansen gave a little nod and returned to his table and the roster. As things turned out, everyone in the platoon besides Lambros fit - or was made to - into the slots of "Catholic" and "Protestant."
I never did find out how the problem was resolved, or if it was at all. I saw Lambros at the Protestant service a few times, perhaps, but really didn't keep tabs, as I typically spent as much time as possible during the Sunday service in a prayerful posture, kneeling, with hands together, head bowed, and eyes closed.
Catching up on sleep, of course.
"Sir! Yes, sir!" our platoon shouted in unison. Although we had been in boot camp for only three days, we recruits had already learned that the first and last words out of our mouth when speaking would be "sir!"
"What was that, ladies?" Our response had failed to impress him.
"Sir! Yes, sir!" we yelled, neck tendons straining and eyes popping.
Jansen turned and planted himself behind the battered wooden table at the center of the squad bay. As if on cue, the two assistant Drill Instructors, Edwards and Bass, strutted into the room in freshly starched uniforms and began to pace up and down between the twin rows of recruits standing at attention in front of their "racks." They proceeded to critically examine every aspect of our appearance, from our posture, to the alignment of our belt buckles, to the presence of stray threads jutting from our clothes.
"Abercrombie!" barked Jansen.
"Sir! Catholic, sir!"
"Alden!"
"Sir! Protestant, sir!"
And so it went, without a hitch, until the H's.
"Hawthorne!"
"Sir! Baptist, sir!"
"That means you're a Protestant, Hawthorne," said Jansen, after a beat. He spoke in a tone one uses to explain difficult concepts to small children.
"Sir! No, sir! I'm a Baptist, sir!"
Religion was momentarily forgotten as the assistant Dis pivoted toward their new prey like a pair of coyotes about to take down a newborn lamb. Hawthorne had crossed the line.
"I?" bellowed Edwards, in Hawthorne's left ear.
"I?" echoed Bass, in Hawthorne's right ear.
"Do you know what an 'I' is, maggot?" asked Edwards, loud enough to be heard at the other end of the building.
"Do you, huh, you steaming pile of puke? Do you?" spluttered Bass. His body jerked like a mad puppeteer's marionette.
"An 'I' is something you look out of," said Edwards, answering his own question. He suddenly turned to make sure the recruits behind him—myself included—were still at attention, with eyes locked to the front. Meanwhile, Bass dropped his voice and said, to Hawthorne, "Jumping jacks!… Ready!… Begin!" Hawthorne, having been rudely jerked back to the here-and-now of recruit training, obeyed the order, hopping while moving his arms and legs, in a fair imitation of someone trying to play hopscotch and dance the Highland fling at the same time.
It was just as well that Hawthorne had not uttered the other word forbidden to us—"you"—because that sin brought forth (in addition to the inevitable punishment exercise) a verbal tirade in which "you" turned into "ewe," with said female sheep transitioning abruptly to one particular degenerate thing one might do with a female sheep, to the subject of sex in general, and eventually, to a desire to engage in homosexual sex with a drill instructor. Despite the speciousness of this etymological "chain of reasoning," it was, under the circumstances, irrefutable.
Having thus established Hawthorne to be a "Protestant," Sergeant Jansen continued down the roster. I was prepared to answer "no preference" when my name was called because frankly, I was not particularly religious, and because, in some small way, I wanted to assert my individuality. My notion was scotched when Jansen got to the K's.
"Kirk!"
"Sir! No preference, sir!"
"What do you mean, Kirk?" asked Jansen.
"Sir! The private has no preference, sir! The private's an atheist, sir!"
The squad bay was silent for several beats, for although Marines are reputed to be the meanest cusses to walk the earth, they're also supposed to be a God-fearing crew. It says so, right in the Handbook.
"No preference, huh, Kirk?"
"Sir! Yes, sir!"
I heard a rhythmic tapping noise from Jansen's direction. It sounded like a pencil eraser bouncing off a clipboard, but I dared not look, lest I risk the wrath of the ever-vigilant assistant Dis. The tapping paused for a second, then resumed. Then stopped again.
"Kirk, since you've got no preference, you're a Protestant," said Jansen.
"Sir?"
"We've got fifteen Catholics and eleven Protestants," explained Jansen, "so, you're a Protestant. Is that clear?"
"Sir!... Yes, sir!"
My plan had been scuttled. As I prepared to accept my Protestant fate, Jansen called the name of the recruit directly above me in the roster, who stood about a yard to my right.
"Lambros!"
"Sir! Greek Orthodox, sir!" said Lambros, in a voice I felt was a bit louder and more emphatic than it had to be.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jansen's head jerk in our direction. "Christ!" he said, loud enough to be heard on the street, "There's one in every crowd!" Then his arm moved in an arc and I heard something - a pencil – skitter across the floor.
Within seconds, Edwards and Bass had assumed stations in front and on either side of Lambros, like guard dogs waiting for a signal to attack. I felt a smile start to claw its way up past my solar plexus, and stifled it. It was one thing to vicariously enjoy Lambros' moment of being different, quite another to show my enjoyment. I felt Bass looking at me. My eyes stayed locked to the front.
"Private Lambros," said Jansen, "the Marine Corps will do what it can to accommodate your religious beliefs, but in the event an Orthodox chaplain can't be found, which services would you prefer to attend, Catholic or Protestant?"
Mentally, I willed Lambros to stand firm, to cite the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, or even the Mayflower Compact, if need be, but to hold fast, make the most of this modest moment in the sun, and to stand out from the rest of us sorry wretches, as we stood stiffly in our ill-fitting uniforms, with stubble where our hair used to be.
"Sir!" said Lambros, after a moment, "the private would like to think it over, sir!"
Jansen got up and walked over to and stopped in front of Lambros, while Edwards and Bass continued to hover behind him. "Recruit," said Jansen, in a quiet conversational tone, "you think about your answer and tell me what you decide. In the meantime, as our count is still lopsided, I'm going to put you down as a Protestant. Do you find that acceptable?"
"Sir! Yes, sir!" said Lambros, in the same quiet tone. Jansen gave a little nod and returned to his table and the roster. As things turned out, everyone in the platoon besides Lambros fit - or was made to - into the slots of "Catholic" and "Protestant."
I never did find out how the problem was resolved, or if it was at all. I saw Lambros at the Protestant service a few times, perhaps, but really didn't keep tabs, as I typically spent as much time as possible during the Sunday service in a prayerful posture, kneeling, with hands together, head bowed, and eyes closed.
Catching up on sleep, of course.
