FRESH YARN presents: Sergeant Masterson, M.D. ... by Dan Martin

FRESH YARN presents:

Sergeant Masterson, M.D.
By Dan Martin

The mentally retarded, I discovered, love the military. I was unaware of this fact until it was pointed out that there were so many of us.

"What's your name, Son!"

"Dan."

"Jesus Christ you retard! Your last name!"

In Basic Training many of us also suffered, simultaneously, from the affliction known only to Sergeant Masterson as "Dumbassitis." In case we weren't convinced, second opinions were available. This involved a meticulous medical procedure, usually at 4:30 A.M., as a bat slammed against a garbage pail inches from our faces. If we expressed symptoms of panic and fear the diagnosis was clear:

"Dumbassitis, boy. You got it."

But day after day of standing on a cold tile floor with nothing but a pair of boxer shorts on and a grown man screaming and spitting in my face led me to believe that he was onto something. I needed no second opinion.

Although the only certificate I ever saw on the wall of Sgt. Masterson's office was the one that claimed he and his buddies finished first place in the flag football league, I was stunned by his ability as a medical professional. Without the use of any thermometer, stethoscope, or blood pressure pump, he was able to diagnose me with the rare and acute disease of homosexuality. In fact, he diagnosed twenty-seven of us, all of whom were cured by graduation. The only known treatment was a proven method that involved getting you familiar with the darkness inside of your locker until you admitted that you were in fact suffering from the disease. Quite tricky that homosexuality is, but according to Sgt. Masterson, completely curable.

Of course, he wasn't just a general practitioner. On top of dabbling in dermatology and proctology, Sergeant Masterson must have been a very well known gynecologist once as well. In times of great pain and stress, like when I fell behind in a formation run, heaving and gasping for air, he would ask me if my vagina hurt. I appreciated his concern, but politely objected, claiming that I was tired. This led to a whole world of afflictions I apparently suffered from. To start, I was a clear-cut moron. My inability to keep up the pace was a fact that I was defective, like a coffee pot that wouldn't brew. Then there was the fact that my head was in my ass, that my brain was steeped in shit, and that all hope was lost in the war against stupidity.

Later at the barracks, I discovered Sgt. Masterson was also a vocational counselor. He insisted that I must get a job in the fashion industry since every good woman knew how to sew. Or that I should stand at the edge of the driveway and hold the mailbox, since the post was too busy being smarter than me. It was also recommended that I go lay down in a garden to join the rest of the rocks, or that I might be good at wearing a target and running around the firing range. But ultimately, I was perfect for hurling myself off a cliff since the space I was occupying was desperately needed by others.

Sergeant Masterson was also a motivational speaker, excelling in the power of positive reinforcement. He was always there when you needed him most, like when it looked as if you may not be able to finish the obstacle course.

"What's your best friend's name, Son!"

"Eric, Sir!"

"And what's your girlfriend's name, Son!"

"Jennifer, Sir!"

"How does it feel that Jennifer is going down on Eric right now, Son?!"

"Not very good, Sir!"

"You're damn right you retard! Now finish the damn course!"

"Yes, Sir!"

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.