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FRESH
YARN PRESENTS:
Sergeant
Masterson, M.D.
By Dan Martin
PAGE
TWO
 But
just when you thought Sergeant Masterson wasn't capable of anything
else, he shined brightest as our psychologist. After a failed suicide
attempt by a fat kid who got stuck in a third floor dormer window,
he ordered us to form a circle in the middle of the barracks to
discuss the situation; to find out how the rest of us were doing.
I'm assuming this was because it helps to talk to people when you're
stressed and angry; that the sheer act of expressing your feelings
helps you to deal with them. But I was mistaken.
"Turn to the idiot on your right," he started, "You've
got exactly four minutes and thirty seconds. Start talking... now!"
He explained to us that this would be an appropriate amount of time,
set by headquarters, to whine like little girls to each other about
how pathetic our sorry stupid asses were and how maybe if we all
wore maxi-pads we might, then, and only then, begin to feel better.
There was an apparent correlation between suicide and the use of
sanitary napkins.
As he paced around the group with his stopwatch, I mentioned to
my bonding partner on the right that because Iraq had invaded Kuwait
just days before we arrived in Texas for our training, I was nervous
about the future. A confession made more uncomfortable now that
Sgt. Masterson had heard me.
"What's the matter, Martin? The Iraqi soldiers scare you? You
want to kill yourself?"
"No, Sir!"
"You sure, retard?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Well I wish you would, cause I know a three-legged dog with
more brains than you."
"Yes, Sir."
"Don't 'Yes, Sir' me you dumb son of a bitch."
"Yes, Sir."
"Did you just wink at me?"
"No, Sir."
"Yes you did you homosexual. Get in your locker! Now!"
Standing in my locker, I found the darkness comforting. I could
hear Sgt. Masterson screaming something about my disease coming
out of remission, but after four weeks of being at the doctor's
office, I needed time to address the issues. I hadn't realized that
I was afflicted with so many defects and now I felt buried in them.
I had racked up 18 different forms of cancer, 12 different diseases,
10 complications that all ended with "itis," seven deformities
that should have had me put down at birth, five infections that
were all treated with the same bed-making antibiotic, three inflammations
and one pestilence that required a quarantine to the kitchen where
washing dishes seemed to be the only cure.
It made me wonder why my mother hadn't been more proactive in my
health care, or why she hadn't taken notice of my apparently slow
motor skills. Why hadn't she seen that, as a small child, I required
more time learning how to tie heavy equipment to my feet and jumping
off a boat and less time learning about expressing emotions? Quite
frankly, it made me angry that my mother was more preoccupied with
teaching me manners and less concerned with the issues that mattered,
that T-shirts were to be folded into perfect four-inch squares.
And just when I thought about the awful parental card that I'd been
dealt, that if only I had been born to a mother who understood how
to mold and shape my young, impressionable mind, my prayers were
answered.
"I'm your mother now, you understand me, Martin!?"
Finally, everything was going to be okay.
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