Read Online Eleven Kinds of Loneliness by Richard Yates - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Yates
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a speech,” he said, “and I ain’t gonna make one. Onliest thing I want to say is—”He lowered his eyes and stared at his dusty service shoes. “I want to wish all yew men a lot of luck. Y’all keep your nose clean, hear? And stay outa trouble?” The next words could scarcely be heard. “And doan let nobody push y’around.”
A short, painful silence followed, as painful as the parting of disenchanted lovers. Then he drew himself straight. “P’toon! Tetch— hut! ” He looked us over once more with hard and glittering eyes. “ Dis -missed.”
And when we came back from chow that night we found he had already packed his barracks bags and cleared out. We didn’t even get to shake his hand.
Our new platoon sergeant was there in the morning, a squat jolly cab driver from Queens who insisted that we call him only by his first name, which was Ruby. He was every inch a Good Joe. He turned us loose at the Lister bags every chance he got, and confided with a giggle that, through a buddy of his in the PX, he often got his own canteen filled with Coca-Cola and crushed ice. He was a slack drillmaster, and on the road he never made us count cadence except when we passed an officer, never made us chant or sing anything except a ragged version of “Give My Regards to Broadway,” which he led with fervor although he didn’t know all the words.
It took us a little while to adjust to him, after Reece. Once when the lieutenant came to the barracks to give one of his little talks about playing ball, ending up with his usual “All right, Sergeant,” Ruby hooked his thumbs in his cartridge belt, slouched comfortably, and said, “Fellas, I hope yez all listened and gave ya attention to what the lieutenant said. I think I can speak fa yez all as well as myself when I say, Lieutenant, we’re gonna play ball wit’ you, like you said, because this here is one platoon that knows a Good Joe when we see one.”
As flustered by this as he had ever been by Reece’s silent scorn, the lieutenant could only blush and stammer, “Well, uh— thank you, Sergeant. Uh—I guess that’s all, then. Carry on.” And as soon as the lieutenant was out of sight we all began to make loud retching noises, to hold our noses or go through the motions of shoveling, as if we stood knee-deep in manure. “Christ, Ruby,” Schacht cried, “what the hella you buckin’ for?”
Ruby hunched his shoulders and spread his hands, bubbling with good-natured laughter. “To stay alive,” he said. “To stay alive, whaddya think?” And he defended the point vigorously over the mounting din of our ridicule. “Whatsa matta?” he demanded. “Whatsa matta? Don’tcha think he does it to the captain? Don’tcha think the captain does it up at Battalion? Listen, wise up, will yez? Evvybody does it! Evvybody does it! What the hellya think makes the Army g o?” Finally he dismissed the whole subject with cab-driverly nonchalance. “Arright, arright, just stick around. Yull find out. Wait’ll you kids got my time in the Army, then yez can talk.” But by that time we were all laughing with him; he had won our hearts.
In the evenings, at the PX, we would cluster around him while he sat behind a battery of beer bottles, waving his expressive hands and talking the kind of relaxed, civilian language we all could understand. “Ah, I got this brother-in-law, a real smott bastid. Know how he got outa the Army? Know how he got out?” There would follow an involved, unlikely tale of treachery to which the only expected response was a laugh. “Sure!” Ruby would insist, laughing. “Don’tcha believe me? Don’tcha believe me? And this other guy I know, boy, talk about bein’ smott —I’m tellin’ ya, this bastid’s really smott. Know how he got out?”
Sometimes our allegiance wavered, but not for long. One evening a group of us sat around the front steps, dawdling overcigarettes before we pushed off to the PX, and discussing at length—as if to
A short, painful silence followed, as painful as the parting of disenchanted lovers. Then he drew himself straight. “P’toon! Tetch— hut! ” He looked us over once more with hard and glittering eyes. “ Dis -missed.”
And when we came back from chow that night we found he had already packed his barracks bags and cleared out. We didn’t even get to shake his hand.
Our new platoon sergeant was there in the morning, a squat jolly cab driver from Queens who insisted that we call him only by his first name, which was Ruby. He was every inch a Good Joe. He turned us loose at the Lister bags every chance he got, and confided with a giggle that, through a buddy of his in the PX, he often got his own canteen filled with Coca-Cola and crushed ice. He was a slack drillmaster, and on the road he never made us count cadence except when we passed an officer, never made us chant or sing anything except a ragged version of “Give My Regards to Broadway,” which he led with fervor although he didn’t know all the words.
It took us a little while to adjust to him, after Reece. Once when the lieutenant came to the barracks to give one of his little talks about playing ball, ending up with his usual “All right, Sergeant,” Ruby hooked his thumbs in his cartridge belt, slouched comfortably, and said, “Fellas, I hope yez all listened and gave ya attention to what the lieutenant said. I think I can speak fa yez all as well as myself when I say, Lieutenant, we’re gonna play ball wit’ you, like you said, because this here is one platoon that knows a Good Joe when we see one.”
As flustered by this as he had ever been by Reece’s silent scorn, the lieutenant could only blush and stammer, “Well, uh— thank you, Sergeant. Uh—I guess that’s all, then. Carry on.” And as soon as the lieutenant was out of sight we all began to make loud retching noises, to hold our noses or go through the motions of shoveling, as if we stood knee-deep in manure. “Christ, Ruby,” Schacht cried, “what the hella you buckin’ for?”
Ruby hunched his shoulders and spread his hands, bubbling with good-natured laughter. “To stay alive,” he said. “To stay alive, whaddya think?” And he defended the point vigorously over the mounting din of our ridicule. “Whatsa matta?” he demanded. “Whatsa matta? Don’tcha think he does it to the captain? Don’tcha think the captain does it up at Battalion? Listen, wise up, will yez? Evvybody does it! Evvybody does it! What the hellya think makes the Army g o?” Finally he dismissed the whole subject with cab-driverly nonchalance. “Arright, arright, just stick around. Yull find out. Wait’ll you kids got my time in the Army, then yez can talk.” But by that time we were all laughing with him; he had won our hearts.
In the evenings, at the PX, we would cluster around him while he sat behind a battery of beer bottles, waving his expressive hands and talking the kind of relaxed, civilian language we all could understand. “Ah, I got this brother-in-law, a real smott bastid. Know how he got outa the Army? Know how he got out?” There would follow an involved, unlikely tale of treachery to which the only expected response was a laugh. “Sure!” Ruby would insist, laughing. “Don’tcha believe me? Don’tcha believe me? And this other guy I know, boy, talk about bein’ smott —I’m tellin’ ya, this bastid’s really smott. Know how he got out?”
Sometimes our allegiance wavered, but not for long. One evening a group of us sat around the front steps, dawdling overcigarettes before we pushed off to the PX, and discussing at length—as if to
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