and kicked his ribs until Gooch lay hunched in a fetal position on the floor.
“Did you hear him use that word in front of Theresa?” Pig said to me.
“That’s not Theresa, Pig,” I said. “That’s a photograph of Theresa.”
“It’s the same thing to me, Will. You know that. It’s like church. When I look at the statue of the Virgin, I fill up with love. I kiss the feet of the statue like it was the mother of God herself.”
“Gooch,” I said.
“Yes, Mr. McLean.”
“It’s Will, Gooch. Apologize to the photograph of Theresa and Pig might let you go sometime this week.”
“I might rip your gall bladder out with my bare hands if you don’t,” Pig said.
“I’m sorry, Theresa,” Gooch whined. “I’m so sorry.”
Pig chopped him to the floor again with a rabbit punch to the neck. Then looking up at me again for approval, he said, “He just doesn’t learn, beloved roommate.”
“What did I do wrong?” Gooch moaned.
“You mentioned her first name. I don’t want Theresa’s name ever mentioned by a scummy tongue like yours. Its all I can do right now to keep from tearing your tongue out of your head.”
“Call her Miss Devito,” I instructed.
“I’m sorry, Miss Devito. I apologize. I’ll never do it again,” Gooch said, nearing hysteria.
“That’s better, Nothin’,” Pig said, appeased as last.
But Gooch was swept away by the theatricality of remorse. He made a swift, fervent grab at the photograph and began planting wet, sorrowful kisses all over Theresa’s dark, shining face.
A demonic howl rose from Pig’s furious lips as he began to cuff Gooch’s ears with stinging slaps that resounded throughout the room. I jumped on Pig’s back and screamed at Gooch, “Run, man. I can only hold him for a second.”
With speed born of terror, the normally phlegmatic Gooch Fraser sprinted from the room without a single wasted motion.
Pig did not move. I was wrapped around his back like a ludicrous, outsized papoose. I waited for him to separate our bodies with one of the fierce, hammering blows that he kept in his inexhaustible repertoire. But he remained motionless as though he had hibernated on the spot. Finally I spoke.
“Pig, we’re late to Abigail’s house. So let’s get ready. I don’t want to have to whip your behind before dinner.”
“Will,” he said.
“Yeh, Pig.”
“You can’t hold me for a second, beloved roommate. You can’t even hold me for a nanosecond.”
“I worked out this summer, Pig. My strength has become gorillalike.”
“Do you know what I learned over the summer?” he said in his low rumbling voice.
“No.”
“I learned how to kill a man using only my thumb.”
“Pig!” I screamed out so it could be heard throughout R Company.
“Oink,” he screamed back.
“Pig.”
“Oink.”
“Pig.”
“Oink, oink, oink, oink.”
Chapter Five
O n Thursday, I received an invitation to meet with General Durrell in his office after lunch. I put on my full-dress salt-and-pepper uniform, shined my shoes and brass, and stood before the mirror as Mark expertly wrapped me in the scarlet sash required when a cadet had an audience with our remote and distinguished president. An invitation from the General was not an invitation at all. In the complex vernacular of military euphemism, it was an inescapable summons. I had sent back word through the orderly of the guard that I would be delighted and honored to accept the General’s invitation.
Delighted, honored, and extremely agitated, I arrived at the General’s office at precisely 1300 hours. Generals made me very nervous, and I avoided all encounters with them when humanly possible. But Bentley Durrell was not only a general, he was a sublime prototype of the species. On campus, General Durrell was known simply as “The Great Man.” People actually referred to him in that grandiose way, even in his presence. He was the Institute’s living memorial, their single, undeniable totem of
“Did you hear him use that word in front of Theresa?” Pig said to me.
“That’s not Theresa, Pig,” I said. “That’s a photograph of Theresa.”
“It’s the same thing to me, Will. You know that. It’s like church. When I look at the statue of the Virgin, I fill up with love. I kiss the feet of the statue like it was the mother of God herself.”
“Gooch,” I said.
“Yes, Mr. McLean.”
“It’s Will, Gooch. Apologize to the photograph of Theresa and Pig might let you go sometime this week.”
“I might rip your gall bladder out with my bare hands if you don’t,” Pig said.
“I’m sorry, Theresa,” Gooch whined. “I’m so sorry.”
Pig chopped him to the floor again with a rabbit punch to the neck. Then looking up at me again for approval, he said, “He just doesn’t learn, beloved roommate.”
“What did I do wrong?” Gooch moaned.
“You mentioned her first name. I don’t want Theresa’s name ever mentioned by a scummy tongue like yours. Its all I can do right now to keep from tearing your tongue out of your head.”
“Call her Miss Devito,” I instructed.
“I’m sorry, Miss Devito. I apologize. I’ll never do it again,” Gooch said, nearing hysteria.
“That’s better, Nothin’,” Pig said, appeased as last.
But Gooch was swept away by the theatricality of remorse. He made a swift, fervent grab at the photograph and began planting wet, sorrowful kisses all over Theresa’s dark, shining face.
A demonic howl rose from Pig’s furious lips as he began to cuff Gooch’s ears with stinging slaps that resounded throughout the room. I jumped on Pig’s back and screamed at Gooch, “Run, man. I can only hold him for a second.”
With speed born of terror, the normally phlegmatic Gooch Fraser sprinted from the room without a single wasted motion.
Pig did not move. I was wrapped around his back like a ludicrous, outsized papoose. I waited for him to separate our bodies with one of the fierce, hammering blows that he kept in his inexhaustible repertoire. But he remained motionless as though he had hibernated on the spot. Finally I spoke.
“Pig, we’re late to Abigail’s house. So let’s get ready. I don’t want to have to whip your behind before dinner.”
“Will,” he said.
“Yeh, Pig.”
“You can’t hold me for a second, beloved roommate. You can’t even hold me for a nanosecond.”
“I worked out this summer, Pig. My strength has become gorillalike.”
“Do you know what I learned over the summer?” he said in his low rumbling voice.
“No.”
“I learned how to kill a man using only my thumb.”
“Pig!” I screamed out so it could be heard throughout R Company.
“Oink,” he screamed back.
“Pig.”
“Oink.”
“Pig.”
“Oink, oink, oink, oink.”
Chapter Five
O n Thursday, I received an invitation to meet with General Durrell in his office after lunch. I put on my full-dress salt-and-pepper uniform, shined my shoes and brass, and stood before the mirror as Mark expertly wrapped me in the scarlet sash required when a cadet had an audience with our remote and distinguished president. An invitation from the General was not an invitation at all. In the complex vernacular of military euphemism, it was an inescapable summons. I had sent back word through the orderly of the guard that I would be delighted and honored to accept the General’s invitation.
Delighted, honored, and extremely agitated, I arrived at the General’s office at precisely 1300 hours. Generals made me very nervous, and I avoided all encounters with them when humanly possible. But Bentley Durrell was not only a general, he was a sublime prototype of the species. On campus, General Durrell was known simply as “The Great Man.” People actually referred to him in that grandiose way, even in his presence. He was the Institute’s living memorial, their single, undeniable totem of
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