What Do You Think, Goo Man? Essay
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 Corps with those other ladies in Fourth Battalion, Parris Island, Goo Man? Do you want to call your congressmen, Goo Man? Real good, Goo Man. Real fucking good. Do you feel fucking harassed, princess? Are you crying for your mommy, Goo Man?”
Spittle speckles Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Baker’s face as he turns back to the ill-favored recruit on the quarterdeck, “Mountain climbers. In cadence, exercise: one-two-three.”
The recruit: his military-issued BCG’s—birth control glasses—hang from an elastic strap against the close-cropped stubble of his brain housing group. His useless shoulders, that have not yet been molded to kill, move up and down in time with his whimpering.