Staff/Sgt Hooms missed badly.
“Mother FUCK!“ He swore loud enough that we heard him in the mess fifty meters away. He slapped his holster as though about to shoot the offending golf disc, then swaggered out to retrieve it and try again, shaking his head with exaggerated disgust.
This, like everything he did, was a performance. He wanted all of us to see that, despite his lack of combat experience, he was a salty old veteran.
I’d seen his type before. Career NCOs yearning for a combat star. They strutted around the FOB like John Wayne, armed to the teeth.
I swear, Randy, you are the laziest man I ever seen. You sit there on the hot porch and you won’t even bother to fan yourself.
Why I should fan myself, Mama, when I got this here cold beer you brung me? And thanks, by the way. If you happen past the kitchen, maybe get me another?
If I wasn’t sure you were my son I’d wonder where you got such a powerful ease.
Mama, one of us working so hard should please the Lord enough to smile.
Why don’t you at least fix up that fan like you promise?
I stand behind the bar in the same dirty black pants, the same stained white shirt and bow tie. Good thing they can’t smell me.
They schedule me to work just under forty hours, so no overtime. The theater can’t afford it, they say. Looking at how these crowds are dressed, I find that hard to believe. You never saw so many Rolexes and diamond tennis bracelets.
Come intermission, they’ll pile out like cattle, line up to buy a plastic cup of merlot or chardonnay for ten bucks. Then it’s back to the second-rate orchestra and the same tired ballet.