May 30, 2001

  • Holding the Vision: Panama--The Setting


     


    The First Sergeant was heading out and heading home for the weekend.  Of course, he ruled the barracks of his 93rd Signal Company like a king, but didn’t live there.  And he always ensured that his weekends in the paradise that can be Panama were enjoyable weekends, and thus, by his definition, barracks-free. 



    “OK, sergeant,” he said speaking to me, “let’s inspect the barracks before I turn them over to you.” 



    Yes, I had it and hated it: Charge of Quarters (CQ) for 24 hours beginning Friday night.  Twenty-four hours when, as the charged non-commissioned officer, one was responsible for everything going on in and everybody going in/out of the barracks building.



    But the traditional passing-of-the-baton inspection this particular Friday evening with the First Sergeant was a little later than usual, for the troops had mostly finished the workday and were already back in their rooms resuming the party which had been  interrupted by work demands, but which otherwise really never would ever seem to end.  And as we proceeded up the first flight of stairs to the 2nd floor, the First Sergeant stopping halfway up, sniffed most demonstrably three full times, then said, “Well, sergeant, I’m running a little behind…and whatever’s going on up there I don’t need to allow to ruin my weekend, so it’s all yours.” 



    Of course, the partying had already begun and it was intense.  Music, attitude—what have you.  Here was the seedier promise of paradise . And booze was the elixir and cannabis the incense.  And I had just been charged with the bureaucratic authority and responsibility to bust it all up, shut it down, and break the whole thing wide open.  Right.  Like putting on a Superman costume and expecting it to confer upon me the ability to fly.  Exactly.  No, no, no.  My intent was just to do good by the First Sergeant and make sure his building wasn’t burnt to the ground before he returned on Monday morning.  Or actually, even more modest than that—make sure that it didn’t go up in flames on my watch.  Beyond that, just like every other CQ, I wanted to make sure that the troops kept the building’s public areas clean.  Otherwise, when I handed the watch over to the next CQ in 24 hours, upon failing his/her passing-of-the-baton inspection, I would probably  have to clean the any mess created myself.



    So the games had begun.  And boys (2nd floor) were being boys.  And girls (3rd floor) were being, well, ...bait!  And my hourly tours through the barracks were only to insure that the doors to each room were kept closed and locked, that there was no excessive frolic in the halls or restrooms, and that no spies were creeping about.  I only prayed it would all last intact for 24 hours, and then I could  return off-duty to this very milieu myself only long enough to change and run.  That’s right.  Most of those burdened with the 24-duty, when they got off, would either go directly to the mess hall to eat or go right to sleep.  But I’d run.   I’d run for an hour up and down a small jungle mountain  along an unimproved jeep trail seemingly my own since I nearly never saw anyone else upon it.  I’d run because I’d rarely eat or only irregularly so.  I’d run because I hated to sleep—I wanted to always to stay awake and open to all there was to know.  I’d run because I was tripping, and the jungle when tripping, was a scene.  I’d run to detoxify.  I’d run to be me.



    During this duty-day, however, smoothness hit a snag as early in the morning I encountered a troop with only her bra and panties on, her head sunk into a toilet bowl in the men’s latrine, and her body seemingly otherwise sprawled lifelessly there about.  My first impression was a scene of murder-rape.  My first reaction was to touch, which I did, and my heart flamed as she responded with an intoxicated stir.  She was only sick, having turned the toilet bowl into a vomited kettle of quicksand.  And her underwear was still intact and unfussed, so I assumed (big assumption) that even though intoxicated, she had kept control of her own private parts.  But, alas, too, there next to here on the latrine floor lay a sandwich baggy much too overfilled with the best of Columbian gold.  *Damn it!  Now I’ll have to bust this bra-bursting bitch.* was my first inkling. 



    But on second thought, I came up with a better plan.  I confiscated the dope, roused her to her feet, escorted her to bed, and finished off my round-the-clock charge without one word of what had transpired put into the barrack's official log.  Then I was again free.  And free in more ways than one.


     


    ...End of Part II


    Part I: What Kind of Holiday Was That?


    Part III: All That I Could Be...

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