The Electric Strawberry

         The taxi dropped us off at a gate and we slowly found our way to the unit. Apparently there had been a mix up and the liaison had just left for the airport. The NCO on duty was calling to cancel the pick up when we hesitantly spoke up about Gleason still there. A brief shame-on-you-for-leaving-a-brother-behind scolding was administered before paperwork was done and we were shown our rooms. The next day was a Saturday leaving us free time. Herndon, a fellow Kansas boy and battle buddy from basic, and I decided to head down to Waikiki for a taste. Diaz joined us as we were leaving and off we went blindly into the heart of the island. The cab driver sensing our cluelessness took us on a northbound scenic route to Waikiki located at the southern end of the island. But we didn’t care. We were mesmerized by this foreign paradise and all its quaint charms. Once in Waikiki we were let off near the hotel catering specifically to military. Herndon got the room and we went up and settled in. It was just after noon leaving us ample time to explore. A plan was laid out and we set off. First we grabbed a quick bite then made our way to the beach. You’d think with my past anti-sun stance that such a place as Hawaii would be antithesis to my comfort and joy. But thanks to the tenderness of the summer sun in southern Georgia such solar prejudices were shown to be futile and foolish. So the sun became my friend. When looking out upon the Pacific I feebly tried to get my mind around its enormity coupled with the submission one feels upon accepting that you are on a relatively tiny piece of in rock at the mercy of this blue abyss. I fell back and let the others get way ahead of me. I felt very small and completely isolated as I stared into the Alpha-Omega of ocean. My eternal respect was given and I gave myself to it by running fully clothed into a rolling tide. The energy unleashed over me- and like a cat with a mouse picked me up in its jaws and playfully flung me back to the beach- the paw of the ebbing tide batted me into a helpless whirl. After it passed I heard it laugh at my curious zeal reminding me to be patient when taking on god. I gathered my senses and caught up with Herndon and Diaz just as they discovered the feast of flesh banqueting Waikiki beach. Despite these carnal allures I left and went back to the room grabbing a quart of rum from the ABC store on the way. In perhaps a regression to older habits I sat out on the balcony and drank alone. A man who seemed on the cusp of his prime, free and virile in a tropical paradise populated by every sort of hedonistic possibility, would instead choose to fortify his self-indulgent misery with liquor and solitude. Such was the way of things.

         Two weeks passed in that waiting room unit doing essentially nothing. We went on a tour followed by a lesson in Hawaiian culture and history. Here I learned that not only am I on an island surrounded by endless water I am also on an island surrounded by people marinated in a century plus of imperially induced hate and rage which is directed at whitey or haole as were affectionately called- especially military haole. This made every ensuing venture beyond the gates of the base a defacto movement through hostile enemy territory. Just a little something to write home to mom about. While on base we learned its history and stared at the bullet holes in some of the buildings walls. Residue of Pearl Harbor. Finally we were given our new orders stating our final destination unit. Mine was Bravo 1/27th Infantry Regiment, the wolfhounds. The night before our delivery we meticulously polished our boots til they reflected the pores of our nose and ironed n’ pressed our BDU’s to rigid razor sharp precision. That next morning with our packed luggage at our feet we lined up behind our units crudely handwritten sign- standing tall and looking sharp- scared shitless. The others in the 1/27th line were Herndon, Diaz, Dearth, Williams, and Kirk who was in my platoon in basic. No one said anything while we waited and that was awhile. We were the last to be called. We threw our gear onto our backs and in our arms, undoing the primping, and made our way over. Once we got there Herndon, Williams, and Kirk went to Alpha- the other two and I went to Bravo.Our guide instructed us to leave our gear on the patio and follow him upstairs. The taunting and shit talking began as soon as we set foot on their property. It was like a scene out of a prison movie but these motherfuckers were supposed to be my brothers and here they are verbally sodomizing us. We set our stuff down and followed up stairs convinced that we would never see that gear again, at least not on us. He knocked on a door labeled “Hellhounds” then stuck his head inside saying a few quick words. Turning to leave he smirked at us pitifully. “Good luck cherries.” I looked around this square entryway a door with a different ominous name on each wall. In the corner by the door leading to the hall sat a heavily perspiring and panting black kid with a defiant smile on his face. From behind the “Hellhounds” door stepped a Bic headed average sized white guy. He ignored us walking over to the kid in the corner. “Have you had enough Wilcox?” “Nah Sgt. Odom, I’s jus startin to have fun.” Sgt. Odom shrugged and pointed out the door. “Let’s go then smartass.” Wilcox sprung right up still smiling and looked at the three of us.”Oh boy cherries! Now I ain’t the fresh fish no more!” Laughing he followed Sgt. Odom out. The door swung open and a compassionate looking man gestures us in. “Come in gentlemen.” We stepped forward into the cramped office already occupied by five others and a coffin sized desk. “Welcome to 3rd platoon. I’m your platoon sergeant SSG. Merced. This is the PL, platoon leader, Lt. Torres. The tall ugly one there is SSG. Miller, 3rd squad. Sitting as usual is Sgt. McCrae, 1st squad. And SSG. Waits, 2nd squad, let you in. Let me see your paperwork.” We handed the files to him then stepped back into the wall. Merced motion the others to come around him and they looked back forth between us and the papers. “What’s your PT score Diaz?” The question from the huddle hung in the air unanswered. McCrae’s head shot up his eyes on Diaz. “Well, what is it?” “270…I think.” “You think? You think what?” “I think that was my last score.” “Are you trying to piss me off? Address me as sergeant. First of the last warnings for all y’all.” “270, sergeant.” The NCO’s went back to the huddle. McCrae and Waits were audibly bickering over Diaz. Then Merced spoke up. “Who got the last one?” Waits pointed at McCrae who frowned. “Man, he don’t count.” “Doesn’t matter, buyer beware.” McCrae pouted as Waits apparently won the rights to Diaz. “Welcome to second squad Diaz.” Dearth and I stood there like bruised fruit. They went back to the paperwork. “Pomeroy, you ran an 11:21?” “Yes Sgt. Waits.” “Just give me Dearth. Joe Dearth. You can have Pomeroy and Diaz.” And like that we had been sold to the highest, rather more persistent, bidder. They dismissed us and sent us down to the company area. I was surprised to see my stuff unmolested as I picked it up. Sgt. Odom motioned us over to the grass where many guys stood around smokin and jokin and Wilcox was crawling around spasmodically. Timid as school girls we made our way over to the group shrinking beneath the predatory stare of those along the curb. A grinning bobble headed Specialist stepped towards us. “Which of you cherries in 2nd squad?” Diaz and I raised our hands. “Diaz and P...Pom…PomErOy…what the fuck kind of name’s that?” I shrugged. “Hey Sgt. Fraser, we got some cherries here!” An ugly steroid abortion of a human walked over from the side. Apparently some sort of pet-gimp they keep for acts of sadism named Sgt. Fraser. And it spoke too. “You and Navarjo…” He pointed at Diaz- then looking at Dearth and me. “Let’s have a cherry fight! You two, Dirt…Pisseroy!” How clever of him I thought. A circle of my new platoon formed in the grass punctuated by howls and growls. Shit, I thought. I sized up Dearth as an equal and wasn’t really worried about that. It was the whole primal back alley ugliness. I knew then I had made a mistake and was properly fucked.

         Navarjo was a stocky bald Chicano and his eyes informed you that no one was home. Diaz is a twinkie Chicano, brown on the outside white on the inside, and although he too is stocky and strong he’s just not ready. Navarjo thrashes him in under a minute clearing the way for my debut. We shed our BDU tops to the side and stood center circle. Sgt. Fraser gives me some comforting last minute advice. “Pissboy. I’m your team leader in 2nd squad and I will skull fuck you if you fuckin’ lose.” Taking that sage wisdom to heart I knew that I must kill Dearth. They signaled for us to fight and I went apey. Before he could react I charged and speared him to the ground. We grappled clumsily until I regained top position my knees straddling his ribs. I forsook all technique wrapping my hands around his neck and literally strangled him. My fingers wrenched tighter as my thumbs crossed over his Adams apple pushing it back and up his throat. An instinctual moan growl of survival was the only sound from him as the others went wild with death lust. Just as blood vessels in his eyes were set to burst he wisely tapped out in submission. I relinquished my prey from my clutches and stepped back. I felt like a ghoul and a sheep. All around me was just static and I was stuck in a daze. It seemed that my display satisfied their need of virginal sacrifice. The bobble head specialist from earlier and who I took for as his lackey helped me to my room with my stuff. SSG Waits came by shortly after. Bobble head was named Davison and the other one was an air head pretty boy named Krieger. Davison retold SSG Waits of my strangulation submission victory. He looked at me uncertainly. “Davison help square him away. Tie downs and squad shit. Oh, Pomeroy, stay away from Bosch. Have a good weekend gentlemen.” Davison and Krieger patiently went over the preparation of my equipment with me and before leaving Davison reiterated that I should stay clear of Bosch. “He already doesn’t like you.”

         After a shower that failed to wash away my overwhelming sense of doom I stealthily made my way to the base PX and bought a clock radio. Staring at what was to be a long weekend filled with dread I got a handle of cheap rum before heading back to my room. Once there I locked the door, pulled the shades, and secured the dark. I found an AM jazz station and settled in for some serious drinking. My paranoia had reached hallucinatory psychosis by the end of the night which had left me passed out with my ear pressed to the door where I had last been listening to the marauding gang of cherry poppers salivating in the halls. That whole weekend I left my room only to piss. My roommate who I had yet to meet made a couple of attempts at contact and I heard him talking about me to someone at some point. “Nah, I haven’t seen him. I’ve been here the whole weekend and I don’t think he’s left his room once.”

              The anticipated hazing that made a coward of me never materialized. In fact everything that caused me to be fearful before proved to be all hyperbole and embellished ribbing used by all to alleviate the day-to-day drudgery. With Christmas growing near the census of the entire unit fell off noticeably. The platoon dwindled from forty to fifteen. After PT we spent the days either cleaning weapons and equipment or hiding. My drinking dried up as well so I filled the new idle time with the creature comforts of game systems. I put on weight and bordered fat-boy territory. The holidays concluded and people returned as did the weirdness that came to define life on the Electric Strawberry.

         I had yet to make any bonds with those in my platoon and remained invisible. Perhaps I was just being neurotic but I truly felt I had nothing in common with them so I spent my free time with Kirk or Williams from basic. Williams and Kirk were polar opposites; Williams was a lanky onyx black kid from Compton married to a fat white chick- Kirk was a corn-fed towheaded Texan who liked to frequent prostitutes. The only common ground to be found between the two was they were both arrogant braggarts. I couldn’t stand either one of them but they both had cars so I took their defects with grace. Around the end of January was Kirk’s birthday. On that night he drunkenly insisted we drive to Waikiki and “get some gook pussy”. Against my better judgment I went and followed him as he bird-dogged every celestial whore on the strip. At last he decided on a teen streetwalker named Milani selling discount pussy back at her apartment. While in the cab Kirk hit me up for the ends to pay for her tail and I obliged on account of his birthday.

         The complex housing her apartment had all the third world charm of a leper colony. Formless people moved in the shadows along the corridor their eyes suspiciously appraising our white skin and our potential wealth. When we walked into her apartment the aroma of fetid desperation and island stagnation wafted over us. The living room was lit by the tv’s ironic showing of the Springer show intently watched by a reclining fat woman. I could see the room was quartered off by a yellowing sheet strung upon a clothesline. “Slow night mom.” Milani said as she led Kirk behind the curtain leaving me and the orca in the flickering tv light. A light went on outlining the amorous couple and they embraced. I looked back and forth at the tv, mom, and the sheet giggling to myself. Madam mom set up with a thump. “You goin’ too?” I looked around the room. “Me? Nah. Just my friend. It’s his birthday.” “Ain’t that nice? Sit down.” Noticing the only things in that section of the room where the recliner, tv, and a pile of clothes in the corner. “Where?” “Here, take this seat.” I could hear the sticky unpeeling of her skin as she lifted herself up from the vinyl seat leaving a greasy sweat residue. “Fuck no... I mean no thank you. I’m sure he won’t be long.” She plopped pack down with a squish just as Kirk emerged from the love nest. “Done so soon?” “She was fucking good bro. You should get some.” I reappraised the sad scene shaking my head as Milani stepped out. “Nah man, I’m cool. Let’s get the fuck back to your car and back to base before the natives get organized.” We waved good-bye and headed out into the night nearly running the halls to the street and then the mile back to his car. That was the last time I hung out with Kirk. A week later he got a DUI and then a drunk and disorderly at the base PX. They were going to discharge him for failing to adapt so in the weeks it took to process his discharge he was kept on barracks restriction and extra-duty. The day before leaving he showed up at my door with the hundred fifty he owed me. “Even though you’re from Texas, you’re alright people Kirk.”

         My sole companions now gone I returned to the solitude of Madden football in my room. I finally made my roommate’s acquaintance but I found him to be crass and boorish and he thought my quiet way was a sign of weakness. We avoided each other exchanging pleasantries if we crossed paths in the commons area of the room. Our barracks rooms were laid out almost like apartments. About the size of a college dorm room with a tight closet and a view out onto the courtyard of the quad its walls were covered with drab burlap weave and accommodated by cheap pre-fab furniture- desk, dresser, bed. Each person made sad efforts to personalize their cells that rarely helped and quite often were vetoed by anal superiors upon inspection. But my room remained unadorned by attempts of individual expression. I treated it as if it were temporary and left it its original permanence.

         Turned out that my stay in that room was temporary and I was moved to the second floor where the barracks bound members of my platoon resided in February. I took up residence with a burly punk rock madman named DeShazo hailing from Oklahoma. He was highly intelligent and slightly intimidating if you didn’t know him. It was a nice contrast to my outward façade of reserved stoicism. DeShazo did not run a tight ship evident by the mosaic of trash that greeted your entrance. Random islands of discoloration patterned the tile and smearing streaks of questionable origin accented the walls. Objectively taken all together it was a rather impressive display of abstract modern art. Unfortunately the barracks was not a good medium for such expressions which resulted in endless reprimands down the road. Despite DeShazo’s disdainful disorder he was a good soldier.

                There are two types of soldiers: one that shines while in the field during training exercises and one that is starched and shined immaculate while back in the rear aka Barracks Soldier. The field soldiers held no respect for the Barracks Soldier considering him essentially a kiss ass and a fake infantryman. In turn the Barracks Soldiers took pleasure in seeing the field soldiers disciplined for their ineptitude or disregard for the spit n’ polish status quo while in the rear. Not that one type couldn’t display characteristics of the other as a matter of necessity it just wasn’t in their nature. Most of the guys I befriended were of the field type and I was too. Rarely is there a soldier possessing both attributes but Spc. Watson was one. I admired his military bearing and his effortless command of his environment from my arrival. Yes it was likely some sort of asexual man-crush akin to that of zealous fan for idolized athlete. But I quickly grew annoyed by it all and saw it for the narcissistic defense mechanism it was. His judgmental self-righteousness kept me away from him but I still respected his game and followed his lead when it came to military matters.

The move helped solidify my place in the platoon. Two new cherries arrived thereby promoting me to just an ordinary private. My well cultivated deftness for human observational study gave me a firm understanding of the social dynamics and code of ethics unique to every platoon. A hierarchy transcending rank drove the current of events. Platoon sergeant Merced, although the commanding NCO, was viewed as a hot-headed buffoon, nicknamed Troll doll, and mocked tirelessly sometimes in front of his face which would go over his empty head. From Brooklyn originally and a former Marine, something he’d boastfully remind us when in his manic chest thumping mood, he was most likely bipolar. He’d fly into these tantrums, spittle flying from his frothing mouth, of eloquently compounded expletives and incoherent recitation of Bible passages all in bastardized Brooklyn English. Ironically he was a certified minister so his rabid rants would have the undertones of a revival sermon. It wasn’t his psychotic caprice that caused him to be loathed by all but rather his holier-than-thou hypocrisy crudely displayed through acts like fist fights with NCOs during field exercises over a humvee, verbally emasculating a few of his own NCOs while we were all in formation, and other indiscretions that a leader of men/ man of god should not engage in.

The only NCO that commanded any respect was SSG Miller. He wasn’t intimidating in any obvious way aside from being tall it was intangible. The fact that he actually seemed to care and take interest in the soldiers under his command endeared him to all in his squad. Additionally he was the sole voice of reason to rise up against the tyranny of the troll. SSG Harris followed by Sgt. Gutierrez were my squad leaders after the exodus. Harris was waiting out his last years before retiring but was far past his expiration date. Broken body and spirit he was unfit to lead and the troll mocked him ruthlessly into submission. Sgt. Gut replaced him as a squad leader and focus of the trolls ridicule. Merced openly obstructed any of Sgt. Gut’s attempts at promotion or improvement completely undermining him in our eyes. It didn’t help Gut that his leadership was deficient accented by absent-minded mistakes in the field or rear and possessing the interpersonal qualities of an adolescent. If it weren’t for Watson and the innate skill of the other squad members covering for him he would have been discarded like the others. 

            The pecking order for the Joes (those beneath the rank of sergeant, although Specialists could fall either way depending on who it was) did not have the cut-throat quality of that found with the NCO’s. There was a handful that acted above their rank becoming sycophants for the specialists in the platoon. These types were either married living in base housing or just natural douche bags. The rest cliqued up with some circles overlapping depending on the activity. I eventually found my niche amongst the misfit partiers and settled in.

              Through DeShazo I was introduced to Baker who brought me into the outsider’s world at last one February night. Baker and his roommate Ratcliff were having a little fiesta in their room. Tippie, Gannon, and Taylor who also made up the platoon’s hard party group were there and everyone one was huddled in Ratcliff’s room when DeShazo and I walked in. Baker stepped out to greet us. “Pomeroy, come in man, have a beer. DeShazo, you stayin?” DeShazo shook his head no and opened the mini-fridge grabbing an arm full of beer bottles. “No, I’m good. Later Baker. Get the door would ya roomie?” I opened the door and he casually strolled out and down the hall to our room. I closed the door and turned to Baker who handed me a beer. “Fuckin come on in man.” He led me to his room where Pracht sat in a beanbag chair semi-conscious. I stood against the wall and opened my beer shaking the foam off that had bubbled out onto my hand. Ratcliff zipped into the room up to Baker with a fistful of cash. “OK, here, eighty-five. Try and get a gram.” Baker took the money and put it on the bed looking back and forth between Ratcliff and me. Ratcliff did a double take finally noticing me. “Fuck, are you cool Pomeroy?” “No worries man.” He turned back to Baker and then reluctantly left the room. “Well Pomeroy, now you know.” “I used to do dope all the time. What is it, coke or crank?” Baker shook his head and chuckled. “Ice. The purest shit I’ve ever done.” Pracht shot up from his stupor. “Who said ice? Who’s got some?” Baker walked over to him and kicked the side of the beanbag chair. “Get up we’re goin on a run.” “Man fuck that. I’m not goin to Wahiawa right now…” He looked at the alarm clock through one squinted eye. “…it’s like fucking past midnight man you’re gonna get robbed.” “Fuck that shit. Pussy go back to sleep. Pomeroy, come with?”

              It didn’t have the makings of a fateful decision but as we drove off base on the road towards Wahiawa I was struck by an ominous sense that this would lead to my inescapable demise. We drove down the main street leading you into the city limits and took a turn onto a enshrouded side street stopping a block up in a liquor store parking lot. He shut off the car and lit a cigarette while opening his window. “Roll down your window.” I looked around the dimly lit parking lot completely empty except for us and cracked open the window. “So what next we just wait here to get shot?” Baker shot me a quizzical look and touched his ear. “Listen for a ukulele.” “What? Why?” “He always has a ukulele with him and keeps the baggies inside. When he’s got some ice he’ll walk around playing it.” “Some kind of perverse Hawaiian version of an ice cream man…what the fuck?” “Yeah, I guess. I think it’s kinda smart. I mean he’s been around for awhile so he hasn’t been caught yet plus he always hooks us up.” I laughed to myself and reclined the seat back to await this strolling dope peddling minstrel. Time passed in silence as Baker chain smoked and frenetically surveyed the street muttering repeatedly “Come on you fuck where are you…” From out of the darkness across the street stepped to young looking Hawaiians headed for the car. Baker sat straight up startled by their swift approach and opened his door. They closed in on us and announced their intentions. “Hey haole, you need ice ya?” Baker waved them off. “No. We’re good man.” “You sure cuz?” “Yeah, thanks.” The two would be hustlers backed up eyeballing us before slowly heading down the street. “Those fucker sell salt. Salt! I was with Pracht once back when we just started this when he bought a forty off those guys and it was nearly all salt. By the time we realized what it was we were back at b-jacks (barracks). Rookie mistake.” “Sounds like it. I hate getting burned and…” “Shhhhh!” The gentle strumming of a ukulele sounded through the darkness and sparked a sudden joy in Baker who leapt from the car into the parking lot. He stood absolutely still resembling a tracking dog poised and attentive. The melody made its way into the parking lot followed by its maker. Baker took the money from his pocket and rushed him comically. The guy stopped and hesitated thrown off by Baker’s overeager greeting. I leaned over to the driver’s side and tried to make out what they said but they were too far away. Baker handed him the money and the guy extracted the packets from his instrument passing them over. That is somewhat clever I thought and gave the guy points for style. Baker rushed back into the car and handed me the product. “Check this out for me will ya. We gotta get the fuck outta here.” The engine whined and grinded before sputtering to a start propelling us back to the relative sanctuary of base. I looked at each of the five baggies in the faded interior dome lighting then opened them checking for sodium chloride. “As far as I can tell they’re straight. But I don’t know how the whole exchange rate goes here.” “What the fuck are you talking about Pomeroy? Are they cool?” “I mean what amount for what price. If you paid eighty-five for this much supposedly high-quality dope then I’d say you got what you paid for.” “Hide em’, we’re at the gate.” I took my hat off and put the bags inside. They checked our ID’s and waved us through. Baker drove to the barracks parking lot then back out and headed elsewhere. “Where are we going?” “Just up a ways where there’s no traffic or people.” “And why may I ask?” “I’m taking a finder’s fee before delivery.” “Ohhh, I see. A pinch hit for the runner.” Along a secluded side street on the boundary outskirts separating the residential area and training area we sat in the idled car as he skimmed a fair amount of ice from each baggie. Each package still looked honest although maybe a bit on the short side but that’s the breaks when you buy off the street. With his military ID deftly gathering into a pile his scraps he smiled at what was rendered. I noticed and nodded “good job” impressed at the take. He pressed the ID down into the CD case pulverizing the crystal shards and grains careful not to let any explode out from the sides. The CD case glistened with ice and struck me as a magic pixie dust that when sprinkled up your nose evoked happy thoughts and the unshakeable belief that one could fly. Baker sensed my enticement and broke out a line holding the case up to me. “Grab that hollowed out pen right there.” I picked up the pen sticking out from between my seat and the console. “Go ahead man. Blast off.” Head tilted toward the shimmering line, one end of the tooter at the ready up my nostril, and the other end guided along the dusty trail. Snnnnifff. Phew…wowzers. “Burns like a bitch don’t it?” I gave an affirmative thumbs up as my sinus’ seared and inflamed, the membranes absorbed the offending substance which was expedited to the brain deciphered then dispersed throughout the central nervous system. I was exhilarated and instantly infatuated. Baker helped himself to a couple of lines then passed the case to me. “Be careful. I know you said you’ve done this before but nothing like THIS.” He was right on that. The speed back in Kansas was usually impure and did the trick but it was mere No Doze in comparison. Splitting the remains into two lines I took another rail and passed it back before I snorted the last one too. He finished it off then put the car into gear and drove off. “Try to be mellow and don’t show you’re tweeking or they’ll know something’s up, cool?” “Roger that sir.”

                When we walked through the door we nearly ran over Ratcliff who must have been behind the door anxiously awaiting our return. Baker went into his room with Ratcliff and me in tow. As those two sorted the stuff out the others filed in and shut the door behind. Ratcliff dispensed the packets to their purchasers with everyone moving to an area of the room with a flat surface. The only sounds were baggies being opened, their contents emptied and ground to powder, and sniff sniff snuff. There was a noticeable charge in the air as the drug took hold of everyone in the room simultaneously. Shortly thereafter rapid fire conversations broke out amongst us. Everything took on an exaggerated importance and irrelevant view points were vigorously argued and grand plans were schemed and the whole place was spun. I kept my word to Baker and restrained myself but the constant grinding of my teeth and jaw gave me away but no one noticed. Tippie and Gannon voiced their suspicions of me that stirred up a moment of paranoid panic in the others and stone cold fear in me. Baker allayed their concerns vouching for my trustworthiness and Taylor of all people seconded the motion. Soon all was forgotten and they moved over to Ratcliff’s room to tweek out on Madden. Pracht, who remained asleep through the binge, woke up and looked around at the torn baggies on top of the dresser and night stand. He stood up and walked to the night stand and licked the residue from the surface, repeated the same actions on the dresser, and then walked out of the room and into the hall. Baker was engrossed in a porn magazine rendering him oblivious to Pracht’s sad scavenging. I reevaluated the transformation that took place fully engineered by that drug and concluded that it was evil and must be avoided in the interest of self-preservation... but it felt so divine to fall under its inescapable enchantment. The ice age had commenced for me and nothing was ever the same again.

              I was living a double life- mild mannered Pvt. Pomeroy during the week and speed freak on the weekends. This type of habit was called being a “Weekend Warrior” by the ice peddlers we frequented. Baker became my runnin’ buddy and we spent most Friday or Saturday nights in Waikiki meth marching up and down the strip searching for sensations of which there was never a shortage. The Waikiki strip is divided into two distinct tracks both running parallel to the ocean. The more family friendly avenue winding along the beach was stocked with merchants, assorted tourist traps, and crawling with vacationers from all points on the globe. This was usually the place to hook some naïve young ladies that were most always square but good for some moonlight head on the beach, or so I was told. I kept primarily to the seedy side a block over. Here is where the hedonism was catered to. You could find night clubs ranging from the vanilla of a sports bar or top 40 dance to the tutti-fruity flavor of brothel strip bars or drag/leather bars. Standard fare fast food joints and third rate diners serving post-binge drinking friendly fried dishes were strategically located within stumbling distance of each bar. But none of these places provided the charm that was found on the sidewalks or courtyard passages connecting the sleazy with the sanitary. You would find assorted nuts, malcontents, sloppy drunk college kids or young military men soon to be victimized by locals, mahus (men attempting to pass for women, sometimes convincingly), and my personal favorite the whores. I was strangely drawn to them not by lust but an intrigue that comes when encountering a subject of lore in the flesh. They possessed an airbrushed glossy finish straight out of one of the more classy skin mags. The consistency of beauty in the majority was surprising but the rates for a date with such quality shocked me. I enjoyed the little chats I had with some of the friendlier working girls or that matter anyone that seemed interesting. It provided more substance to the whole strip experience.

              The usual routine when we went down there would be Baker gets a hotel room and I get the beer. He’d drink several quickly in the room then we’d refresh the pixie dust before heading to the street. Baker’s libido would now be in overdrive reducing to tunnel vision his quest for pussy. This always provided me with comic relief. Thanks to his innate lack of social grace with girls compounded by the desperate swirl he was in failure was relentless. After an hour of constant rejection he’d grow sullen and either returned to the hotel for the solace of beer or follow along with me pouting the entire time. When the whole clique would head down to go clubbin’ Baker, only 19, would be odd man out, and I’d stick with him. Not out of pity but because I didn’t care for clubs anyway. The only place he could go was this shithole strip bar so we’d hunker down in there until the stench of baby powder and Summer’s Eve choked us out. Typically all went well despite his sour mood. The only time trouble found us turned out to be an escape and evasion exercise. Baker, Pracht, and I had a room downtown as usual and were lost in our drugged routine. After our nth lap around the strip we stopped at a Jack in the Box so Pracht would stop bitching about hunger. While in there I noticed a couple of locals at a table mad dogging us, not unusual, but outside on the sidewalk were four more taking the same aggressive position. Baker noticed this too and proclaimed “The natives are getting restless!” I stared through him vexed by this cocky outburst. “Don’t fuckin antagonize them. We’re outnumbered behind enemy lines.” He snorted growing bolder thanks to his Napoleonic complex. Pracht elated by the burger in his hand and blissfully unaware of the circling sharks, swayed and stepped past us outside. We followed him up the block turned and looked and saw no one behind us. Relief was short lived. From a side street and behind us a swarm of shouting savages descended upon us. We broke out into a full sprint knocking Pracht’s burger from his hands in passing. Instinctually he followed and we made it to the next block cutting the corner sharply. Familiar as we were with the area they still had home field advantage. Pure drive for survival motored us up and down alleys and streets. The pounding fleet of our pursuers’ feet echoed in time to our hearts’ beat. It became a game, like tag, and I felt like a kid. At last we made it to home base and were safe in our rooms. From the window you could see some of them still on the hunt for their white prey. It crossed my mind that this must be what it was like to be black and on the streets of a town in the deep south after sunset.

Life back on base did nothing to balance out the strangeness outside of the gates. With a fresh crop of cherries just arrived and the likes of Bosch and other serious soldiers discharging or otherwise moving on an entirely different energy surrounded the company from the one I experienced on arrival. It devolved into a motley crew and the upper ranks were helpless against this. The soldiers that made up the most recent of cherries brought fucking up to a new standard of excellence. Most noteworthy is Rheiman. Soon as he set foot on this island ice had its grip on him. Within two weeks he was busted smoking dope in his ground floor room with the window open and the shades up during lunch one Tuesday. A week later three Samoans showed up at the barracks looking for him. The following weekend he took the shit bag title when he was found on a Sunday morning in a downtown Honolulu parking lot unconscious, naked, and bleeding from his anus. Never found out why but I was sure the visiting Samoans were a part of it. After a stay in the hospital he came back to the unit completely ruined. They medically discharged him and his became a cautionary anti-drug spook story. Then there was Vang. The Hmong Demon as DeShazo affectionately christened him one night while we were binge smoking ice in DeShazo’s room. “Get outta my face you evil Hmong Demon, you can’t have my soul!” Vang became another poster child for Just Say No but he was different because I hung out with him. In fact the day he went AWOL we were getting high the night before in my room playing Madden. When morning came and it was time for formation he said he was going home to change and never returned. He showed up a month later twenty pounds lighter and hungry.

            The writing was on the wall but I couldn’t make sense of it. I graduated from weekend warrior to daily doin dope and became one of the senior tweekers in the company. But somehow I maintained and even was conscientious in some respects. Like when Snook, a recent arrival who quickly assimilated into the party clique, was given ice for the first time by Ratcliff I flipped out and mourned for the loss of Snook’s innocence. I hated to see another one fall into the abyss and he did. Despite my concern for others I still provided people with it acting as a middle man or runner. Although I gained nothing from it except for what I skimmed and I took all the risk I savored the hunt. And deep down the attention given along with the sense of being needed salved my wounded ego. That summer the true reach of the ice hand was revealed showing up in some unexpected places. Hilliard was the old man of the platoon and a defacto big brother to some. Thirty-something and just a private first class he was still treated with respect by the NCO’s and Joes alike mainly because of his laid back California state of mind. He would throw barbeques several times a month at his base provided house for the platoon. His wife played the doting role and charming hostess but was openly flirtatious behind his back. The kids seemed starved for affection or just starved but kept smiling sweetly. Contrary to outward appearances this was a sick family as I was to find out. Hilliard and I had gone on a dope run one drunken post-barbeque night. Somehow he knew my little habit and asked me to get him and his wife some and I agreed. The next time his wife had gone to California with the kids leaving him home alone. He threw another get together but with just alcohol. After the normal ones left the freaks came out- meaning Hilliard, Vang, Baker, and I. The dope connection was an Army chick named Lucky that was sweet on Baker. She showed up delivering an eight-ball of crystal and a handful of OxyContin. Baker tried to get her to stay but she refused and acted visibly nervous primarily caused by Vang’s lecherous leering and body language. Baker loathed Vang and this drove him out the door with Lucky. I noted that this pissed me off but shelved it for later and turned to my sights on what really mattered. Hilliard divided and dispensed the dope to us. Vang made for the computer that was already cued up with porn and loaded his pipe. Hilliard and I headed upstairs to his room with science on our minds. It was decided earlier that we would mainline the speed but I added that the OxyContin should be included in the solution to which he agreed. Once upstairs he grabbed two of his son’s insulin syringes and brought them into his room. “Shit, spoon…” And he headed back downstairs while I prepped the Oxy. He came back with the spoon and bottled water setting them on the nightstand next to me then retrieving a cotton ball from the bathroom. “Lighter?” I handed him my lighter and the pulverized pills. With precision and focus he mixed the cocktail and drew it into the syringe. “Here ya go boy. One speedball as requested.” I took the rig into my clammy hands and inspected the semi-transparent liquid in the barrel. “Ummm, could you fix me? I don’t wanna fuck up and waste it.” “Sure man, no sweat. Give me your arm.” I laid my arm out for him over my knee and he took the rig and handed me a belt. “Tie off.” I wrapped it tight around left bicep. He swung my arm back onto my knee examining the bend in my elbow probing for the right vein. Satisfied he rubbed an alcohol swab over the target and positioned the spike for entry. “Ready?” I winked the green light. I felt the pop of the vein and beheld a scarlet bloom in the chamber as the plunger drew back slightly then dove forth emptying the elixir into the blood stream. Seven seconds to heaven. Hallelujah. “Cool?” “Frozen solid, baby.” We both laughed but I was laughter. An uncanny liquid warmth cleansed me serene followed immediately by electric deification. The two polar forces wreaked euphoric havoc on my brain eventually reaching a stasis of sustained bliss. I watched him dose himself and rapidly join me on my elevated plane. We understood each other and both got up to go downstairs. He stopped at the landing and turned around while preceded down to the living room. Vang was multi-tasking, putting the flame under the pipe’s bowl, clicking the mouse, lighting the lighter, click, flame to bowl lips to stem, click, inhale, click to full screen mode, hold it, click play, exhale, stare at the fuckin n’ suckin. “Still sucking on that glass dick huh Vang? You should have let Hilliard fix you up.” “Fuck that shit man, that shit’s bad for you.” He took another pull and went back to his cinema. Hilliard walked in the room armed with a handheld camera. “You guys seen Bang Bus? How bout we go make our own?” Vang spun around to face him and exhaled the smoke slowly apparently intrigued by this proposal. The situation had taken a lascivious turn into the perverted and I wanted in. We piled into Hilliard’s mini-van and took off leaving base. The fact that it was past four in the morning held no merit. We were clinically insane and locked in an amphetamine sexual psychosis. It was primal now and I knew that if this delusion materialized we’d end up with a ravished traumatized girl certain to tell the cops thereby forcing us to strangle her and dump her body into the ocean. Somehow this reasoning broke through, must have been the passive opiates. Hilliard aimlessly roamed the island on a mission, Vang as co-pilot, and I manning the camera. It must have been divine intervention because the streets were abandoned even for four AM. The dawn sunlight revealed too much of our darkness so we retreated back to Hilliard’s house. I went in to piss and pocketed the rest of the pills then left without saying good-bye. I couldn’t shake the filth and disgust completely blowing my high. Back in my room I crushed up all of the pills making one fat line and prayed that it would kill me.

            That endeavor into sexual predator land, however loathsome, failed as a warning that things were getting out of hand. That following week our company took on gate guard for six days with my platoon drawing the graveyard shift. I stocked up on stay awake and was ready to guard the gate. The first couple of days/nights went smooth. My squad was posted at one of the lesser used side gates making for a slow night until the morning rush. On the third night fatigue began to show but I combated it with doubled doses- fourth night tripled doses. Night five I lost my mind. During pre-gate guard inspection formation I saw children playing in the lawn across the street. “That’s strange. DeShazo why are those kids out here so late?” I turned and looked to him for an answer. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about man? What kids? You’re fuckin spun and done Pomeroy, you need to quit.” My attention on the kids was broken when Cpt. Smith, the commanding officer, stopped in front of me. He grabbed my rifle and gave it a once over. “What are the orders of a sentry, private?” These three orders had been drilled into us since basic becoming automatic. However, “Someone should do something about those poor kids…,” was my reply. His brow furrowed and eyes narrowed from confusion. He handed me back my rifle. “Drop fifty.” I slowly crouched down onto my knees and balanced the rifle across the top of my hands bracing the ground for fifty push-ups. Mindlessly I counted them off as I stared at the empty lawn across the street. Inspection was over and I got up shaking. Sgt. Gut came over to me. “Hey P-roy, you’re driving tonight, get it squared away and lets go.” “I don’t think th…” My mouth shut as he walked away. “This should be fun.” Once everything and one were in order we took off in a convoy with my humvee in front. The headlights became swaying searchlights washing the street in halogen confusion. Everything looked pixilated and presented in streaming video that occasionally froze to buffer. Sgt. Gut was riding shotgun and must have noticed something off about me. “Speed the fuck up P-roy goddamn!” His bark startled me and I stomped the accelerator. I blew through the traffic light and stop signs coming to a abrupt halt in the gravel parking lot next to our gate post. Sgt. Gut grabbed me by my collar with both hands and pulled me to his face. “You’re never driving again! Crazy fuck, and you forgot to load the water too. Go back to CQ and bring back a five gallon, double-time!” I stepped out of the vehicle and headed down the road back to the company. Along the way I saw other units engaging in PT screaming their cadences and counts. I kept my eyes to the ground wishing it would all stop and broke out into a sprint the rest of the way to CQ. The water jugs were lined up along the wall and I snatched one up that nearly pulled me over. With an awkward shuffle and unbalanced lean I meandered back to the gate my arms and sides cramped. Immediately I was placed on forward guard right outside of the gates on a dividing median and remained there all night. As cars would pass by me along the highway a superimposed duplicate image would trail in a vapor behind them. It occurred to me that I was armed with a semi-automatic rifle with a locked in magazine holding three live rounds. The three rounds whispered to me to be chambered and how sweet it would be to fly through the midnight air. I looked over the M-4 and it begged me to lock and load- aim acquire- and stroke its trigger- sending a five point five six millimeter ejaculation into one of the passing motorists. I got a grip on myself and pondered how far my mind was bent. I considered shooting myself just for the sleep. A trance brought on by an internal kill switch gave me the rest needed just as I was approaching the edge. When our shift ended the next morning I vowed to never put myself through that again but my fingers were crossed.

         These internal realizations and affirmations to change were too late. External intervention had come about the week before as drug test. Normally I wasn’t concerned and had convinced myself with no evidence that my pee would always go unexamined. But the morning of that particular code yellow certain people behaved suspiciously. There was Watson’s comment of “You look tired. Not sleeping much?” and a ‘we got you’ smirk on his face. This came from someone that had said maybe five words to me ever. Then when I went in to piss the monitoring sergeant in the bathroom asked me “Is it gonna be clean?” “Not likely.” “Well, do what you gotta do.” I surveyed the bathroom clueless at what could be done short of filling it with toilet water but that would be handled as a hot UA though not as indictable as one. Defeated, I resigned myself to the inevitable and let forth a life altering squirt of piss. “Fuck it.” I walked back into the arms room where others waited in line and up to the head pee sergeant taking up a collection of specimens defiantly holding my offending sample up on display. “Hot piss here, get your hot piss!” Handing over the cup I sealed my fate. 

To be continued...