Creative Writing: What Do I Think, Goo Man

1355 Words 6 Pages
“Real good,” screams Staff Sergeant Baker, “Real stinkin’ good, Guaman. Just take the easy way out and fucking die.”
Recruit Guaman’s arms shake in the front leaning rest position over a puddle of his sweat on the quarterdeck.
There’s nothing restful about that position.
“Mountain climbers,” screams the drill instructor as his fists rest on his green duty belt, “in cadence, exercise: one-two-three.”
Guaman limply lifts his left foot from the floor.
The muscles in Staff Sergeant Baker’s square jaw flex as he grits his teeth. He kneels, jabbing his index finger with laser precision at the air near Guaman’s face, “What do you think, Goo Man?”
The Drill Instructor turns and barks to the platoon, “Did they make some kind of fucking mistake in MEP’s? Are you supposed to be polluting my beloved
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My arms remain stiff as logs of wood dangling from my shoulder sockets. The order is coming from another bay. A rumble of boots descends the concrete steps.
“Attention on deck!” Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker’s voice thunders, “Platoon. Form up on the hardball. Move it, move it, move it.”
We form up on Midway Avenue.
The first piece of pussy I’ve seen in two months casually meanders through my line of sight: a gorgeous blonde with a perfect ass in tight jean shorts, probably here to see the love of her life for his “Family Day,” the day before he graduates from Recruit Training.
The Drill Instructors notice the blonde. We’re ordered to about face, to face the direction opposite from her.
Ignore the pussy, disregard the pussy. This would be a vital lesson in discipline for future reference, but I didn’t understand at the time.
Guaman eventually joins us covered in sweat.
“C-130 rolling down the strip,” barks Staff Sergeant Baker.
The platoon echoes each staccato grunt back, our boots shuffle synchronously on the pavement: left-right-left-right.
“Kilo Comp’ny gon’a take a little

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