The Passage

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Authors: David Poyer
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came out of the pantry and ranged themselves on either side of Ensign Paul. He stared at the coiled brown mass that had materialized in front of him. A single pink candle burned on top of it. “What the fuck’s this?” he said, pushing himself away.
    Harper leaned forward. “Looks like shit. Smells like shit.” He scooped a fingerful out. “Tastes like shit. Must be shit,” he announced.
    â€œYou bastards—”
    â€œAll together now.” And the table burst into:

    â€œHappy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
You look like a monkey,
And you smell like one, too.”

    â€œGee, thanks,” muttered Paul.
    â€œIt’s chocolate and peanut butter, sir,” Antonio offered. “Want a scoop of vanilla with it?”
    A stocky man with lieutenant commander insignia came in. His blond hair stuck up on one side, as if he’d slept on it. “Hello, XO,” somebody said, and George Vysotsky half-smiled. “Happy birthday, Martin,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse.
    â€œDid you hear the one about the bus driver?” Harper said to Deshowits.
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œThere’s this bus driver, see? And it’s the last part of his route,
it’s real late, and finally there’s nobody on the bus except this nun. So they’re talking, and he’s asking her where she’s going. She says back to the nunnery, that she only gets to go out once every ten years. And he says, ‘That sounds terrible. What’s it like being a nun.’ And she says, ‘Oh, it’s not that bad, except that.’”
    â€œExcept that what?” said Horseheads.
    â€œThat’s what the driver said, ‘Except that what?’ And she says, ‘Well, sometimes we wonder. You know, about men.’
    â€œâ€˜Yeah?’ says the bus driver.
    â€œâ€˜Are you married?’ she asks him.
    â€œâ€˜No, I’m not married,’ the driver says.
    â€œâ€˜Well, it’s late, and we’re all alone, and nobody will ever know. So why don’t you show me what it’s like?’ the nun says.
    â€œSo he parks the bus and they go back where the bench seat is, and it’s dark. And she says, ‘But you know, we have to still be virgins when we go to Heaven. So I want you to do it the back way, all right?’ So he does.
    â€œSo they’re done and the driver’s zipping up and he says, ‘You know, I got to tell you something. I lied. I’m really married and got two kids.’ And the nun smiles and says, ‘Well, I lied too. I’m a queer, on my way to a costume party.’”
    Vysotsky glanced down the table at Harper, but he didn’t say anything, except to Antonio: “One over easy, bacon.”
    â€œRight away, XO.”
    Harper launched into a long story about an ex-skipper of his on the USS John R. Craig, DD-885. “The old ‘hatchee-hatchee-go,’ they called it. A chain-smoker, smoked filter tips, and when he was done with ’em, instead of stubbin’ them out, he used to eat the butts. He only had two sets of khakis. He used to inspect them, when he got them from the laundry, for wrinkles along the seam, and if he found any, he’d have the supply officer up on the carpet and scream at him for hours.
    â€œHe got pissed off at the XO once. Left him on Hilo Hilo, wouldn’t let him back aboard when they sailed. Something about letting the Filipinos steal all the wing nuts. He used to put the officers in hack and take the chiefs waterskiing behind his gig. Once he ran it up on Diamond Head, he was drunk as shit. But it was okay—none of the hookers got hurt.”
    Dan grinned at the ensigns and jaygees. “The old Navy,” he told them. “The chief warrant’s your living link with it.”
    â€œYeah, I was on the fucking Nautilus with Captain Nemo … . Pass the go juice, Ensign.”
    Dan had another cup, too. He was

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