One of these days (just wait and see)
I'll sail away to a southern sea.
I'll find an island with a palm-lined coast;
I'll lie on sand as warm as toast.
I'll eat papaya and abalone stew;
I'll top it all off with a mango or two.
I'll drink spring water and coconut wine.
I'll pick big berries right off the vine.
I'll swim in the sea, but I'll never bathe;
I'll race with dolphins from wave to wave.
I'll live in a hut without any doors,
I'll sleep in a shack without any floors.
I'll have some friends (maybe one or two)
On the next isle over, just out of view.
I'll invite 'em all when the weather's fine
To come help drink some coconut wine.
We'll dive for pearls and sunken loot;
We'll sing and dance and holler and hoot.
We'll wear grass clothes or none at all
We'll swing through trees; we'll have a ball.
So if you wake one fine spring morn,
And find me gone, don't weep or mourn.
Don't fret yourself; and don't be sad;
Think instead of the times we've had.
Just smile to yourself and know I'm free,
Sailing somewhere on a southern sea.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Friday, March 28, 2014
The Craft of Napping
Guppies at
work are bored a lot. Boredom leads to drowsiness, and
drowsiness leads to naps. Since management generally
disapproves of sleeping on the job, Guppies must develop
good clandestine napping skills to get the rest they need to
be sharp and alert after work when their real day begins.
Napping is about equal parts art and craft; the art you are
born with, but the craft can be learned. Here, then, are
the basic principles for the craft of napping:
To prevent these sorts of embarrassing disasters, learn to use triangles in your nap postures. The triangle and its relative the pyramid are the strongest, most stable of the geometric shapes; if you ensure that your head and upper body are supported by triangles, you can snooze for hours in rock-solid security. There are many triangular postures--some quite daring and exotic and recommended for experienced nappers only--but the most basic is the old chin-in-the-hands position: lean forward, place your elbows on the desk at about shoulder width, and place your chin on the joined heels of your two hands with the fingers resting comfortably on each cheek. Your face should point to your terminal, as if you are studying something intently on the screen. This is a tried-and-true technique and, if other conditions are right, will give you many hours of peaceful slumber.
Bathrooms are good for naps, but sitting on a commode for long periods tends to make your legs fall asleep. The danger is that the company will call a surprise fire drill and you will have to be carried out of the building. Sleeping in the bathroom also can be hazardous if you tend toward hemorrhoids. I once worked with a man who spent at least four hours of every work day locked in a stall in the bathroom, sound asleep. He complained a lot about hemorrhoids, and we speculated that he used them for a snooze alarm. The theory was that he sat on the commode and slept until his hemorrhoids hit the water; the shock would wake him up so he could return to his desk for a while until the next nap attack struck.
It was nap heaven.
I drifted peacefully in and out of consciousness for several days, delighted and well-rested in my new surroundings, before a curious sound intruded to disturb my naps. I began to notice that every few minutes a short beep sounded. It wasn't loud, but it was like a leaky faucet--I couldn't sleep for thinking about it. At first I was mystified; I thought the illustrators must be doing it, but I soon discovered that it came from Leroy's direction. I turned around quietly (we sat back-to-back) and watched him. He seemed to be working. He was leaning back in his chair, his left hand supporting his chin in a good napping position, but his right hand was on the keyboard and he seemed to be scrolling up through a file looking for something. Suddenly, the scrolling stopped at the top of the file, and the terminal emitted the offending beep. Leroy, as if treated to an electric shock, immediately roused up and took a quick look around to ensure nobody had sneaked up on him. He then placed his finger on the right arrow key and began scrolling back down through the file while he went back to sleep. When it hit the end of the file, it beeped again, rousing Leroy for another quick perimeter check before he reversed the process again. He spent all day scrolling up and down through the same document and getting lots of rest.
But for his most entertaining nap sessions, Harvey used the bobbing-for-apples technique. I can close my eyes and--if I don't fall asleep--I can still see him: He sits hunched over his desk, pencil touching the pad of paper before him. Slowly his head begins to sink. At first it is a slow, gradual lowering, as if he is trying to get closer to what he is writing. But the lower he goes, the more speed he picks up. Finally, after he has attained terminal velocity, lowering his forehead toward the desk at a frightening speed, he suddenly snaps to a stop and pops back up. But he doesn't recover quite as far as his starting position. He starts another descent, and, like a bouncing ball, each bounce is a little lower in amplitude than the one before. Miraculously, he never descends to the point where his head bumps the desk. At the end, when the bounces have died out, he is sitting with his forehead about three inches above the pad, sound asleep. He starts to snore.
Achieve a Stable Posture
This is the first principle of napping on the job. Part of the great attraction to napping is the relaxation response that occurs when all of your muscles let go as you drift peacefully off into the arms of Morpheus. But when this happens, unless you are either lying down or are in a structurally sound position with bones bracing and supporting your body parts, you are likely to experience some sort of collapse. Nothing detracts from a good nap more than falling out of your chair, or dashing your face painfully into the keyboard--both considered extremely poor form, by the way.To prevent these sorts of embarrassing disasters, learn to use triangles in your nap postures. The triangle and its relative the pyramid are the strongest, most stable of the geometric shapes; if you ensure that your head and upper body are supported by triangles, you can snooze for hours in rock-solid security. There are many triangular postures--some quite daring and exotic and recommended for experienced nappers only--but the most basic is the old chin-in-the-hands position: lean forward, place your elbows on the desk at about shoulder width, and place your chin on the joined heels of your two hands with the fingers resting comfortably on each cheek. Your face should point to your terminal, as if you are studying something intently on the screen. This is a tried-and-true technique and, if other conditions are right, will give you many hours of peaceful slumber.
Select the Napping Site Carefully
It is perfectly acceptable to sleep at your desk if you have a modest amount of privacy from bosses or nosey passersby, but if your desk is exposed, you may have to select another nap site.Bathrooms are good for naps, but sitting on a commode for long periods tends to make your legs fall asleep. The danger is that the company will call a surprise fire drill and you will have to be carried out of the building. Sleeping in the bathroom also can be hazardous if you tend toward hemorrhoids. I once worked with a man who spent at least four hours of every work day locked in a stall in the bathroom, sound asleep. He complained a lot about hemorrhoids, and we speculated that he used them for a snooze alarm. The theory was that he sat on the commode and slept until his hemorrhoids hit the water; the shock would wake him up so he could return to his desk for a while until the next nap attack struck.
Have Explanations Handy
Sooner or later, somebody is going to catch you napping. When that happens, it helps--particulary if the catcher is a boss--to have a plausible explanation ready. If all else fails, claim narcolepsy.Great Nappers I Have Known
In my thirty years as a Guppie, I've had the opportunity to observe many nappers and their techniques. Three stand out in my memory for their creativity and style.Leroy
Leroy and I shared a cube in a secure area that was protected by a locked door, so surprise visits from the boss were not a problem. A couple of illustrators worked in the cube next to ours, and they insisted that the overhead lights be kept off because reflections on their CAD screens gave them headaches.It was nap heaven.
I drifted peacefully in and out of consciousness for several days, delighted and well-rested in my new surroundings, before a curious sound intruded to disturb my naps. I began to notice that every few minutes a short beep sounded. It wasn't loud, but it was like a leaky faucet--I couldn't sleep for thinking about it. At first I was mystified; I thought the illustrators must be doing it, but I soon discovered that it came from Leroy's direction. I turned around quietly (we sat back-to-back) and watched him. He seemed to be working. He was leaning back in his chair, his left hand supporting his chin in a good napping position, but his right hand was on the keyboard and he seemed to be scrolling up through a file looking for something. Suddenly, the scrolling stopped at the top of the file, and the terminal emitted the offending beep. Leroy, as if treated to an electric shock, immediately roused up and took a quick look around to ensure nobody had sneaked up on him. He then placed his finger on the right arrow key and began scrolling back down through the file while he went back to sleep. When it hit the end of the file, it beeped again, rousing Leroy for another quick perimeter check before he reversed the process again. He spent all day scrolling up and down through the same document and getting lots of rest.
Harvey
I shared an office with Harvey back in the days before computers, when we wrote everything by hand on yellow legal pads. He was the best napper I've ever seen; he was always on the verge of taking one. He took a morning nap, and an afternoon nap, and during lunch he put his head down on the desk and took a lunch nap. To Harvey, napping was a devine right. He made little effort to conceal it when he felt the urge to doze. I've seen him sit reared back in his office chair, arms hanging straight down on either side almost to the floor, head lolled back so that he faced the ceiling, slack jawed, mouth open, snoring like a dirt bike, and not giving a damn who walked by and saw him. The man was a master.But for his most entertaining nap sessions, Harvey used the bobbing-for-apples technique. I can close my eyes and--if I don't fall asleep--I can still see him: He sits hunched over his desk, pencil touching the pad of paper before him. Slowly his head begins to sink. At first it is a slow, gradual lowering, as if he is trying to get closer to what he is writing. But the lower he goes, the more speed he picks up. Finally, after he has attained terminal velocity, lowering his forehead toward the desk at a frightening speed, he suddenly snaps to a stop and pops back up. But he doesn't recover quite as far as his starting position. He starts another descent, and, like a bouncing ball, each bounce is a little lower in amplitude than the one before. Miraculously, he never descends to the point where his head bumps the desk. At the end, when the bounces have died out, he is sitting with his forehead about three inches above the pad, sound asleep. He starts to snore.
Richard
I shared a cube with Richard right after he retired from the service. His great napping talent was his ability to fall asleep in the middle of a conversation. He loved to talk and tell war stories, so he usually initiated the bullshit sessions. But after he had told his story, and it was your turn to respond with one of your own, he would sit and look you right in the eye and smile and nod as if he were following what you were saying, but his lids would droop and finally close completely. All you could do was stop talking, turn back to your desk and go back to work. After a while, he would wake up and, as if nothing had happened, start telling another war story. I heard later that he was diagnosed with narcolepsy, but it was damned disconcerting to watch him fall asleep while looking you right in the eye.Cowboying
My first
inclination as a lad was to follow the cowboy profession. I
discovered cowboying through Saturday double-feature
matinees. In those pre-television days, it was customary
for parents to deliver their children to the local movie
theater on Saturday with a quarter to cover the price of
admission and refreshments, and a promise to pick them up
three hours hence. It was the high point of the week for
the children and the parents, although, I suspect, for
slightly different reasons. The only ones who failed to
enjoy these weekly rites were the theater employees, who
were usually high-school kids working their first jobs to
earn money for dates or college or a car. They all aged
noticeably by the end of the second feature, and, as a
result, the turnover in these jobs was fairly brisk.
There were two distinct and antithetic schools of cowboy thought in those days, each based on the work of one of the two foremost practitioners of the cowboy art: Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. We kids were about evenly divided between those who maintained that Roy could out-shoot, out-ride, out-fight, and out-sing Gene, and those who swore that the opposite was true. Arguments raged frequently between the two constituencies, and friendships sometimes ended abruptly in fisticuffs.
I was a staunch admirer and defender of Rogers--until, that is, one Saturday when he committed the unforgivable sin: he kissed a girl. Sounds of shock, disgust, embarrassment, and derision filled the theater. The Autry admirers hooted and taunted, and we in the Rogers crowd could only sit and take it. Some, unable to bear the humiliation, got up and left the theater. I hunkered down there in the dark and stayed to the end of the picture, but I vowed on the spot to have nothing more to do with The King of the Cowboys.
For a time I threw my allegiance to the Autry camp, but the kissing incident had so tarnished my concept of cowboy life that it was never the same for me again. If there was the remotest possibility that one would have to kiss girls in the course of cowboy work, I wanted no part of it. Of course this attitude soon began to change, but by then it was too late--the time for cowboying had passed and I was never able to get the excitement back.
I've never forgiven Roy for that.
There were two distinct and antithetic schools of cowboy thought in those days, each based on the work of one of the two foremost practitioners of the cowboy art: Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. We kids were about evenly divided between those who maintained that Roy could out-shoot, out-ride, out-fight, and out-sing Gene, and those who swore that the opposite was true. Arguments raged frequently between the two constituencies, and friendships sometimes ended abruptly in fisticuffs.
I was a staunch admirer and defender of Rogers--until, that is, one Saturday when he committed the unforgivable sin: he kissed a girl. Sounds of shock, disgust, embarrassment, and derision filled the theater. The Autry admirers hooted and taunted, and we in the Rogers crowd could only sit and take it. Some, unable to bear the humiliation, got up and left the theater. I hunkered down there in the dark and stayed to the end of the picture, but I vowed on the spot to have nothing more to do with The King of the Cowboys.
For a time I threw my allegiance to the Autry camp, but the kissing incident had so tarnished my concept of cowboy life that it was never the same for me again. If there was the remotest possibility that one would have to kiss girls in the course of cowboy work, I wanted no part of it. Of course this attitude soon began to change, but by then it was too late--the time for cowboying had passed and I was never able to get the excitement back.
I've never forgiven Roy for that.
Soldiering
When I was in
high school, World War II was still fresh in our minds, the
Korean War had just ended, and the draft was a fact of life
for young males. Boys who had graduated in previous years,
returned to town in spiffy new uniforms with shined shoes
and neat haircuts, and I saw how the girls watched them
shyly, and how the old folks treated them with a respect
that hadn't been there when they were mere damp-eared
students like me. Soldiering seemed an exciting and
rewarding way to earn one's living, so I announced that the
military life was for me, and, shortly after graduating, I
enlisted in the Marine Corps.
The problem with soldiering, I soon discovered, was that the Corps did not view my decision to join in the same light that I did. I had naturally assumed--based on the assurances of the local recruiter (a scurrilous class of scoundrels, I later found out, who are notorious and shameless liars)--that the Corps would be exceedingly glad to see me when I reported for boot camp. Indeed, I expected to be welcomed with smiles and, if not open arms, at least handshakes and slaps on the back. I expected some gratitude on their part because I had consented to become one of them.
But the sergeant who picked me and seven other enlistees up at the airport, didn't seem glad to see us at all. Instead of welcoming us like future heroes, he treated us like vile members of the criminal class. He remarked--in language that, although certainly colorful, is not suitable for repitition here--that the country was in a sad state when such scum as we were allowed into his Marine Corps. He said that he suspected we were communist agents whose only purpose was to screw up his Marine Corps, but that he was on to our plot and he was going to personally see that we did not succeed.
At first we assumed that he was just having a bad day, but when we got aboard the base we discovered that everybody else in the Corps was apparently having a bad day, too. This mass ill humor persisted the next day, and the next, and the next, until it dawned on me and my fellow recruits that this was how it was going to be every day.
I concluded early on in my tour--that first day, in fact--that my decision to enlist had been a bit hasty, but I was unable to prevail upon the Corps to let me reconsider my contract. I served the entire four years, and it has cured me of any hint of the soldiering urge to this day.
The problem with soldiering, I soon discovered, was that the Corps did not view my decision to join in the same light that I did. I had naturally assumed--based on the assurances of the local recruiter (a scurrilous class of scoundrels, I later found out, who are notorious and shameless liars)--that the Corps would be exceedingly glad to see me when I reported for boot camp. Indeed, I expected to be welcomed with smiles and, if not open arms, at least handshakes and slaps on the back. I expected some gratitude on their part because I had consented to become one of them.
But the sergeant who picked me and seven other enlistees up at the airport, didn't seem glad to see us at all. Instead of welcoming us like future heroes, he treated us like vile members of the criminal class. He remarked--in language that, although certainly colorful, is not suitable for repitition here--that the country was in a sad state when such scum as we were allowed into his Marine Corps. He said that he suspected we were communist agents whose only purpose was to screw up his Marine Corps, but that he was on to our plot and he was going to personally see that we did not succeed.
At first we assumed that he was just having a bad day, but when we got aboard the base we discovered that everybody else in the Corps was apparently having a bad day, too. This mass ill humor persisted the next day, and the next, and the next, until it dawned on me and my fellow recruits that this was how it was going to be every day.
I concluded early on in my tour--that first day, in fact--that my decision to enlist had been a bit hasty, but I was unable to prevail upon the Corps to let me reconsider my contract. I served the entire four years, and it has cured me of any hint of the soldiering urge to this day.
Dreams
I know people
who claim they never dream, but I can't imagine a writer who
doesn't. Writers deal in dreams, and, as a consequence, I
suspect that they dream differently than normal people; they
spend so much time inside their own heads that things are
bound to be a bit bizarre in there. The solutions that
writers seek nearly always come from some deeper resource
pool that can often be tapped only after a good (or bad)
night's sleep. When you wake in the morning to find the
plot solution or word association that eluded you the
previous day there awaiting your order, you can bet that
during the night, your dream-self went rummaging back
through the dusty attic of your subconscious to retrieve it.
You may or may not remember the dream, but the night shift
has probably put in a good day's work to have it ready for
you when you woke.
Most of my best dreams occur in the hour or so just before I arise in the morning, when I meander back and forth across the border between sleep and wakefulness. It is a fertile dream time for me, and I find that my mind sometimes likes to play semi-erotic word association games. A few years ago, in this pre-awakening state, I suddenly found the word "virgin" intruding insistently into my dream thoughts. The word floated in and out through the open jalousies of my mind like a white butterfly. Every time I shooed it outside, and tried to resume my journey toward consciousness, the darn thing would sneak back through a side window and dance white and tantalizing there before me, obscuring everything else. Suddenly, as if to neutralize the confounded thing, another word, a brown furry word, sprang in through a window and grabbed the white apparition in mid air; they fell heavily to the floor in front of me and lay there writhing and struggling, as if demanding my attention, insisting that I recognize some association between the two of them. The other word was "infallible". I was puzzled. Why had these two words juxtaposed themselves in my morning reveries? Then, by changing the spelling, I saw the relationship, and almost laughed aloud in my sleep. The relationship went like this: virgin = inphallible.
Another time, I was again making my hazy way up toward the light, when I saw hundreds of plastic breasts, such as department store manikins have, raining down before me. There was nothing gruesome or particularly erotic about the scene, it just kept forcing itself into my thoughts, insisting that I notice it. I struggled with the meaning of this vision for a while, and was getting nowhere with it when the word "bra" flashed into my mind and established the connection that I had seemingly been tasked to find: bra = breast pockets.
I am one of those who, from time to time, records dreams in a journal. I don't get them all, for dreams are vaporous wispy things that vanish quickly in the light, and sometimes they evaporate before I can capture them on paper. I tend to be cranky on those days when a good dream has escaped.
On five occasions, astounding secrets have been revealed to me in dreams--secrets so profound that I knew immediately I had been given the keys to the universe. On each of these occasions it was as if a rainbow appeared in the heavens with the Universal Answer to Everything writ large across it. I felt overwhelming joy, amazement, and relief that the solution to all of life's problems and mysteries was so simple and obvious. The fear that I would not be able to remember the revealed truth in the morning roused me from the dream just long enough to scribble it on a pad beside the bed. I then plunged happily back to sleep, knowing that when I woke I would save the world.
I have kept the five secrets in my journal for years now, and periodically I go back and review them. Something happened between the time I saw and understood everything in the dream, and the time I awoke to find the cryptic messages scrawled on the bedside note pad--the simple and obvious meanings that so excited me in the dreams evaporated in the daylight. I still ponder the messages from time to time, and occasionally I catch glimpses of the shadowy meanings behind them, but I cannot quite make them out, and I cannot figure out how to apply them. The gods giveth and the gods taketh away.
As a service to mankind, here are the five great cosmic secrets of the universe, as revealed to me in dreams. Maybe you can figure them out and save the world--but you'd better hurry. Time is running out.
Most of my best dreams occur in the hour or so just before I arise in the morning, when I meander back and forth across the border between sleep and wakefulness. It is a fertile dream time for me, and I find that my mind sometimes likes to play semi-erotic word association games. A few years ago, in this pre-awakening state, I suddenly found the word "virgin" intruding insistently into my dream thoughts. The word floated in and out through the open jalousies of my mind like a white butterfly. Every time I shooed it outside, and tried to resume my journey toward consciousness, the darn thing would sneak back through a side window and dance white and tantalizing there before me, obscuring everything else. Suddenly, as if to neutralize the confounded thing, another word, a brown furry word, sprang in through a window and grabbed the white apparition in mid air; they fell heavily to the floor in front of me and lay there writhing and struggling, as if demanding my attention, insisting that I recognize some association between the two of them. The other word was "infallible". I was puzzled. Why had these two words juxtaposed themselves in my morning reveries? Then, by changing the spelling, I saw the relationship, and almost laughed aloud in my sleep. The relationship went like this: virgin = inphallible.
Another time, I was again making my hazy way up toward the light, when I saw hundreds of plastic breasts, such as department store manikins have, raining down before me. There was nothing gruesome or particularly erotic about the scene, it just kept forcing itself into my thoughts, insisting that I notice it. I struggled with the meaning of this vision for a while, and was getting nowhere with it when the word "bra" flashed into my mind and established the connection that I had seemingly been tasked to find: bra = breast pockets.
I am one of those who, from time to time, records dreams in a journal. I don't get them all, for dreams are vaporous wispy things that vanish quickly in the light, and sometimes they evaporate before I can capture them on paper. I tend to be cranky on those days when a good dream has escaped.
On five occasions, astounding secrets have been revealed to me in dreams--secrets so profound that I knew immediately I had been given the keys to the universe. On each of these occasions it was as if a rainbow appeared in the heavens with the Universal Answer to Everything writ large across it. I felt overwhelming joy, amazement, and relief that the solution to all of life's problems and mysteries was so simple and obvious. The fear that I would not be able to remember the revealed truth in the morning roused me from the dream just long enough to scribble it on a pad beside the bed. I then plunged happily back to sleep, knowing that when I woke I would save the world.
I have kept the five secrets in my journal for years now, and periodically I go back and review them. Something happened between the time I saw and understood everything in the dream, and the time I awoke to find the cryptic messages scrawled on the bedside note pad--the simple and obvious meanings that so excited me in the dreams evaporated in the daylight. I still ponder the messages from time to time, and occasionally I catch glimpses of the shadowy meanings behind them, but I cannot quite make them out, and I cannot figure out how to apply them. The gods giveth and the gods taketh away.
As a service to mankind, here are the five great cosmic secrets of the universe, as revealed to me in dreams. Maybe you can figure them out and save the world--but you'd better hurry. Time is running out.
- Ones and nudes are palaces.
- The Bedlam Duchy.
- Twenty-seven thousand dozen puck appointments.
- Bits o' bars and bite buckets.
- They live like Seikhs in shacks that leak like sieves.
Fog
Fog always
reminds me of Camp Pendleton. I spent four weeks there in
the winter of '59, in Charlie Company, 2nd Infantry Training
Regiment--ITR for short--learning the basic infantry skills
that all Marines know. Every Marine, regardless of his or
her job, whether it be mess cook, office pinky, wing wiper,
or embassy guard, is trained first to be an infantry
rifleman. The Corps demands that all Marines be ready and
qualified to man the front line in times of crisis. ITR is
every Marine's first stop out of boot camp, and it is where
they first begin calling you "Marine", rather than
boot, or screw, or maggot, or shit coolie, or any of a dozen
other colorful pet names the Corps uses to keep its
initiates properly humiliated and humble.
Now, after nearly four decades, images from that time still appear, but always, it seems, out of the fog.
Once, when I was flanking a firewatch post around the company perimeter in the lonely hours before dawn, a ghostly platoon of recon Marines came double-timing out of the thick fog on their customary morning run. They were the Corp's version of the Army's Green Berets and the Navy's Seals. They trained constantly to drop behind enemy lines or to go ashore on an enemy coast undetected to gather information and do mischief. I stood beside the road and watched in awe as they passed, for we had all heard tales of these clandestine warriors and their exploits. Looking neither right nor left, they padded past me into the mist, chanting their macabre anthem in cadence, "RE-con, RE-con, KILL, KILL, KILL."
The foggy dampness seemed to penetrate my field jacket, and I suppressed a sudden shiver as, for the first time it came home to me that we were not just a bunch of grown boys playing John Wayne fantasy war games. This was deadly serious business we were about.
Another time, on a particularly foggy morning, Staff Sergeant Tucker, our head training NCO, called us out onto the company street for roll-call and morning chow formation. Our mess hall was about a mile down the road from our barracks, and we and all the other training companies in the command had to march to and from chow in formation each morning before the day's training started.
After the roll call was completed, Sergeant Tucker called me to the front of the formation. I was right guide for the second platoon, which meant I was a sort of junior platoon leader. I did a quick mental check of recent events to try and anticipate why I was being singled out. I couldn't think of anything I had done that warranted an ass-chewing, but I had been in the Corps long enough to be worried and wary. I double-timed up to him and snapped to quivering attention, as any good boot should.
Sergeant Tucker was Marine to the core. He was a wiry little mule of a man, a Korean War veteran with a raspy voice and a thick, slow, Tennessee drawl that made everything he said sound extremely important.
"Right guide," he said, "Take charge of the formation and march the company to chow. Have them back here ready to go to work by 0730."
I was barely able to blurt out, "Aye, aye, sir". It was unheard of for a trainee to be put in charge of a company. I had marched smaller formations--work details, fire teams, squads, even the platoon a couple of times--and I knew how to call cadence and give the proper commands as well as any DI, but an entire company! And in the fog to boot! Standing at the customary spot at the center of the formation, I could not see the lead platoon on the left nor the last platoon on the right.
I knew that one moment of indecision, or a command issued in error or at the wrong time, could turn a well-drilled, 250-man company into an aimless, meandering mob in the fog. But, by shuttling forward and back along the formation, and always thinking ahead to the next command and maneuver, I managed to get the company to and from chow in good order.
Somewhere within me there is still pride in that nineteen year old kid, not long out of the Ozark mountains of Missouri, barely four months a Marine, and in charge of a 500-legged creature that disappeared into the fog fore and aft and responded to his commands like a finely tuned machine. The fog-muffled crump, crump, crump of 250 boot heels striking the pavement in unison comes back to me now whenever I see fog, and it is heady stuff.
Now, after nearly four decades, images from that time still appear, but always, it seems, out of the fog.
Once, when I was flanking a firewatch post around the company perimeter in the lonely hours before dawn, a ghostly platoon of recon Marines came double-timing out of the thick fog on their customary morning run. They were the Corp's version of the Army's Green Berets and the Navy's Seals. They trained constantly to drop behind enemy lines or to go ashore on an enemy coast undetected to gather information and do mischief. I stood beside the road and watched in awe as they passed, for we had all heard tales of these clandestine warriors and their exploits. Looking neither right nor left, they padded past me into the mist, chanting their macabre anthem in cadence, "RE-con, RE-con, KILL, KILL, KILL."
The foggy dampness seemed to penetrate my field jacket, and I suppressed a sudden shiver as, for the first time it came home to me that we were not just a bunch of grown boys playing John Wayne fantasy war games. This was deadly serious business we were about.
Another time, on a particularly foggy morning, Staff Sergeant Tucker, our head training NCO, called us out onto the company street for roll-call and morning chow formation. Our mess hall was about a mile down the road from our barracks, and we and all the other training companies in the command had to march to and from chow in formation each morning before the day's training started.
After the roll call was completed, Sergeant Tucker called me to the front of the formation. I was right guide for the second platoon, which meant I was a sort of junior platoon leader. I did a quick mental check of recent events to try and anticipate why I was being singled out. I couldn't think of anything I had done that warranted an ass-chewing, but I had been in the Corps long enough to be worried and wary. I double-timed up to him and snapped to quivering attention, as any good boot should.
Sergeant Tucker was Marine to the core. He was a wiry little mule of a man, a Korean War veteran with a raspy voice and a thick, slow, Tennessee drawl that made everything he said sound extremely important.
"Right guide," he said, "Take charge of the formation and march the company to chow. Have them back here ready to go to work by 0730."
I was barely able to blurt out, "Aye, aye, sir". It was unheard of for a trainee to be put in charge of a company. I had marched smaller formations--work details, fire teams, squads, even the platoon a couple of times--and I knew how to call cadence and give the proper commands as well as any DI, but an entire company! And in the fog to boot! Standing at the customary spot at the center of the formation, I could not see the lead platoon on the left nor the last platoon on the right.
I knew that one moment of indecision, or a command issued in error or at the wrong time, could turn a well-drilled, 250-man company into an aimless, meandering mob in the fog. But, by shuttling forward and back along the formation, and always thinking ahead to the next command and maneuver, I managed to get the company to and from chow in good order.
Somewhere within me there is still pride in that nineteen year old kid, not long out of the Ozark mountains of Missouri, barely four months a Marine, and in charge of a 500-legged creature that disappeared into the fog fore and aft and responded to his commands like a finely tuned machine. The fog-muffled crump, crump, crump of 250 boot heels striking the pavement in unison comes back to me now whenever I see fog, and it is heady stuff.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
The Shooter
A young traveler paused atop a ridge to rest and survey the way that lay before him. Road dust filled his trouser cuffs and caked the sweat stains on his shirt. He shook out a red bandanna and, removing his hat, wiped first his brow and then the sweatband in the hat. He waved the hat before his perspiring face, creating a hot breeze that gave neither pleasure nor relief as he squinted toward the horizon.
The landscape shimmered under the midday sun. Ridges rolled away before him like ocean swells, patterned by irregular blotches of wilted timber and parched pasture. A dust devil pirouetted listlessly along the crest of the next ridge. The road bisected the panorama in a more or less straight line to the horizon, mounting ridge after ridge in a succession of narrowing vertical dashes.
Redonning his hat, he prepared to resume his journey when something--a wink of bright color--caught his attention. It was too far away to identify; all he could see through the hot wavering air was a shape squatting beneath a large oak tree three ridges ahead. When he topped the next ridge, he saw that the object was a small building painted bright red, with yellow and blue designs on the side and front; gaily colored pennants and streamers stirred listlessly in a meager breeze. From atop the second ridge, he saw that the building was a roadside stand of some sort--probably fruits and vegetables, he thought--with a waist- high window across the front, and painted signs above and below the window. He thought he heard a calliope wheezing faintly across the hollow. As he trudged up the last ridge, he saw that it was indeed a business stand, but, contrary to his expectations, the sign across the top of the structure announced in bright yellow, foot-high letters that this was:
"ANNIE'S WORLD FAMOUS SHOOTING GALLERY!"
Other equally bright but smaller signs plastered the building, exhorting non-existent customers to take a chance:
EVERYBODY A WINNER! TEST YOUR SKILL! PRIZES GALORE! FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY! TRY YOUR LUCK! PRIZES! PRIZES! PRIZES! MAKE YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE!
On the counter, a small sign read:
ONLY 10 CENTS A SHOT!!!
Next to the sign a rifle, anchored with a chain, lay pointing at targets in the far end of the building. Machinery whirred and clanked softly as it drove the targets--five rows of flat wooden ducks swimming in alternate opposite directions--through blue- painted plywood waves. At the top of the target pyramid, a golden star flashed briefly in a narrow window at random intervals. Carnival music issued from three loudspeakers mounted in a fan arrangement on top of the facade.
A young woman sat near one end of the counter, chewing gum energetically and manicuring her nails with a long file.
"Hello," the young man said.
"Hi." She barely glanced up from her work. She looked to be a Gypsy; a red scarf held lush black hair back from her face, and silver rings dangled from her earlobes. Long lashes veiled dark eyes as she continued gazing intently down at her hands.
"Uh....How's business?" the young man asked.
"Not bad."
The young man waited, but she did not elaborate. "This is an unlikely place for a shooting gallery," he observed.
"I suppose."
"Do you get many customers?"
"Not many."
"I'm not surprised. Surely you could do better in town."
"I suppose."
"Are you Annie?"
"No. I just work here."
"I see." The young man removed his hat. "How far is it to the next town?"
"Not far. You can be there in an hour."
The young man waved the hat in front of his face. "This shade feels good. Do you mind if I rest here a while before I go on?"
"Nope."
The traveler sat with his back against the oak tree and gazed out across the dusty country. He picked up fallen acorns and tossed them out into the sunbaked road. He shook the dust from his trouser cuffs. He glanced at the young woman several times, but she remained absorbed in her manicure. After a while, he approached the counter again. The young woman was applying a coat of crimson polish carefully to her left little fingernail.
"I hate to be a bother, but could I trouble you for a drink of water?" he asked.
The young woman extended her left hand, dropped her head first to one side and then the other, and inspected the scarlet nails critically. "You'll have to shoot for it," she said, making her gum pop.
"Pardon?"
"You'll have to shoot for it. The boss won't let me give away anything for free."
The young man was puzzled. "You mean...shoot...with the gun?" he asked.
"Yes. If you hit a duck, I can give you something to drink. It's the rules of the house." She blew gently on her nails and waggled her fingers. "It only costs a dime," she said, smiling at him for the first time.
The young man placed a dime on the counter, took up the rifle, sighted, and jerked the trigger. He wasn't sure where he had aimed, but a duck on the bottom row dropped from view. He turned smiling to the young woman, and was surprised to find a tall pitcher of water before him with ice tinkling against the sides.
"There you go," she said, sliding a crystal tumbler toward him.
"Where did that come from?" he asked.
"Isn't that what you wished for?"
"Well...yes." The young man poured and drank a tumbler full of water. It was cool and sweet on his tongue, and his thirst evaporated. He felt remarkably refreshed, as if he had awakened from a restful sleep. He smiled and thanked the young woman.
"How long have you been doing business here?" he asked.
"Not long."
"I notice that you don't seem to have any prizes displayed. Isn't it customary to offer kewpie dolls and teddy bears and such to attract customers?"
"This isn't that kind of shooting gallery."
"It isn't?"
"Nope."
"Well...what kind is it?"
"We grant wishes."
"Wishes?"
"Yes. If you hit a duck, we grant you a wish--for anything tangible. We don't deal in intangibles--except for the grand prize, that is. If you hit the gold star, we give you an intangible prize."
"And what is that?"
"Wisdom."
"I see." The young man laughed. "This is...ah...hard to believe."
"Try it again. You'll see. It only costs a dime."
The young man smiled skeptically, but he laid another coin on the counter.
"What can I wish for?" he asked.
"Anything you want."
"Anything?"
"As long as it's tangible."
"OK, I'm tired of walking. I would like to have a car. In fact, I would like to have a Cadillac." The young man watched to see what effect this would have on the Gypsy.
She began applying polish to her right thumbnail. "Fine," she said.
The young man shouldered the weapon, pulled the trigger, and was again surprised when a duck dropped from sight. He looked at the young woman, and then out at the road.
"Well?" he said, smiling. "Where's my car?"
The young woman grimaced and reached under the counter. She brought up a shiny metal token grasped gingerly between her freshly-painted thumb and forefinger. She slid it across to him.
"When you get to town, give this to the Cadillac dealer," she said. "He'll fix you up."
"Oh ho ho!" laughed the young man. "So that's the scam."
"Scam?"
"Yes. The scam. The flimflam. I'm not the bumpkin you take me for. I've been to the state fair a time or two, you know." The young man said this in a good-humored way. He looked about, smiling and bouncing on his toes, as if he were struggling to keep a belly laugh inside. He felt exceedingly well after the drink.
"Suit yourself," the young woman said as she leaned back over her nails. "Like I said, I only work here."
The young man frowned. He had not meant to offend her. "I will admit, however, that this seems fairly harmless," he said. "You can't fleece anyone very badly at a dime a shot." He waited, but she didn't speak or look up. "In fact, I'd like to shoot some more." He pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket and smoothed it on the counter before passing it across to her. "I'll take ten shots," he said.
She took the bill and said, "OK, name your first wish."
"I'd like to be rich," he laughed. He raised the weapon and fired. A duck fell in the third row.
"Here you go. Present this at the bank when you get to town." She pushed another token toward him. He chuckled and dropped it into his pocket without looking at it.
"Next, I'd like a new wardrobe."
Another shot, another duck fell. The young woman offered another token. "Take this to the men's store," she said.
The young man continued wishing and firing and pocketing the tokens the Gypsy gave him until he had used nine of the ten shots. By then, he had run short of ideas. He had tokens for a boat, an airplane, an estate, as well as some silly things that he named simply because it was all in fun and he didn't believe any of it, anyway. But he thought long and hard about the tenth wish. Finally, he smiled and said, "Love".
"Pardon me?" the young woman asked.
"I wish for love."
"That's intangible. We don't deal in intangibles. The best I can do is to get you the woman of your choice. Whether love happens will be up to the two of you."
"Fair enough."
The young man shot and dropped a duck.
"Give this to any woman that you want, and she's yours," the young woman said, sliding another token to him.
"Suppose I gave it to you," he said.
"It doesn't work for me. Employees and their families are not eligible."
The young man smiled and pocketed the token. He poured himself another tumbler full of the water and drank it.
"Well, I've enjoyed the game," he said, tipping his hat. "But the sun is sinking, and I have business in town. Thanks for the water." He stepped back into the road, and strode away.
Two hours later, the young man had completed his business in the town, and was walking about looking for a suitable hotel for the night, when he happened to pass the Cadillac dealership. The pocketful of tokens jingled as he walked, and he smiled as he thought of the young woman and the shooting gallery. On a whim, he turned into the showroom and walked about admiring the shiny automobiles. He was especially dazzled by a white convertible with red leather seats. A bored salesman who obviously considered the dusty young traveler a poor prospect, approached, took the toothpick from his mouth, and said, "Can I fix you up with that beauty?"
The young man blushed and laughed. "Not unless you'll sell it for this," he said, holding out a token.
The salesman's manner changed in an instant. He shepherded the young man into the sales manager's office, introduced him, and showed the token. To the young man's astonishment, within half an hour he left the dealership driving the white Cadillac. It happened quickly, and he felt sure he was merely dreaming.
"But I might as well enjoy the dream," he reasoned.
At the bank, he shyly pushed a token across the counter to a teller. She looked surprised, excused herself, and returned shortly with the bank president. He took the young man into his private office and personally showed the young man where to sign to open an account that, the banker assured him, already had one million dollars on deposit.
The young man stayed in the town, exchanging the tokens for the wished-for items, and, at the end of the second day, he had redeemed all but one--the love token.
The next day, he had business in the mayor's office. (He was already an important person in town.) During their conversation, the mayor's daughter came in to speak with her father. She was just home, having graduated from an exclusive eastern school the week before. She was a tall blond girl with a face and figure that drew an involuntary sigh from the young man. Her name was Dorothy, and she spoke in soft cultured accents--obviously a young woman of intelligence and breeding.
The young man loved her at once.
"Will you marry me?" he asked, handing her the last token.
"Of Course," she replied, her eyes shining with love and admiration.
The entire town stopped to celebrate their wedding the following week. After the ceremony the mayor made a speech on the courthouse steps and proclaimed that the day officially belonged to the happy couple. The young man said a few words of thanks for the honors and affection heaped upon him and his bride. The people cheered, for they liked the young man, and some even hinted that he was a foreign prince who had decided to settle among them. The couple waved to the crowd, got into the Cadillac, and set off on their honeymoon.
As it happened, they drove back over the same dusty road that the young man had traveled the week before; when he saw the shooting gallery still there beneath the oak tree, he stopped the car, and got out.
The young Gypsy woman still sat on the stool at the end of the counter, engrossed now in a paperback novel.
"Hi," the young man said. "Remember me?"
"Oh, sure," the young woman said. She put down the book and smiled at him, and at Dorothy sitting in the white Cadillac.
"Looks like things have gone your way."
"Yes. I had no idea things like this were possible. I just stopped to thank you, and to apologize for doubting you.
"No problem."
The young man noticed that all of the duck targets were still. The only target moving was the golden star at the top.
"Is something wrong with your machine?" he asked.
"No, the boss just decided to stop offering the tangible prizes. We only offer the one prize--wisdom--now. Care to try your luck?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. I feel lucky." He laid a dime on the counter. The Gypsy smiled and pointed to the new sign that stood there. It read:
ONLY $10,000 PER SHOT!
The young man looked stunned. "Are you serious?" he asked.
"I'm afraid so. Wisdom is a very valuable commodity. Most people live their entire lives and never get a drop of it. Besides, what's ten thousand dollars compared to all that you have?"
The young man thought for a moment. Suddenly, wisdom seemed very desirable. What good are possessions if you are not wise, he thought.
"OK, I'll try it once," he said. He took out his checkbook, wrote a check, and passed it to the Gypsy. Taking up the rifle, he watched the golden star wink three times in the window while he sighted. The star appeared and disappeared so quickly and at such random intervals that it was impossible to anticipate when it would appear. The young man jerked the trigger when he saw it the fourth time, but the star was gone before the bullet arrived.
"Tough luck," said the young woman.
"Darling, what are you doing?" Dorothy called from the car.
"Be there in a second, dear," the young man said. He turned back to the Gypsy. "I'll take another shot," he said as he scribbled another check.
He timed the shot correctly this time, but his hands shook, and the projectile struck beside the window for another miss.
"Perhaps it would help if you braced against the counter," the Gypsy suggested.
"Yes, you're right." He wrote another check.
Dorothy got out of the car and approached just as he fired and missed again. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"Don't worry, darling. This is just a little unfinished business that I need to take care of before we go." He said this while writing another check. Dorothy watched silently, but with an expression of growing concern, as he repeated the procedure twice more. When he began writing another check, she cried, "Stop!"
"Please wait in the car," said the young man. He was sweating now. Dorothy laid a hand on his arm, but he shrugged away from her. She stepped back a few paces and covered her mouth with a trembling hand. After the young man shot and missed five more times, she began to cry.
"You're wasting our entire fortune," she said. "Please stop."
The young man turned a baleful gaze upon her and she retreated another step. He shot and missed again.
"If you don't stop this minute, I'm going back home," she sobbed. But the young man had gone too far to stop. He wrote another check.
He continued to shoot and write checks for an hour, and it wasn't until he had written the check that cleaned out his bank account, that he noticed that Dorothy had taken the car and driven back to town.
"That's the last of my money," he said to the Gypsy.
"I'm sorry," she said.
The sun was high in the sky by this time, and the young man mopped his brow with a clean linen handkerchief.
"Look," he said. "I've got an airplane. A jet. Brand new. How many shots can I get for it?"
"One," the young woman said.
"But it's worth three million dollars!"
"Sorry. The boss is very strict about that. Only one shot each for tangible assets."
The young man rested his head in his hands for a moment, but in the end he agreed. He missed the shot badly. The same fate soon disposed of his yacht, his estate, and all the other possessions, both valuable and frivolous.
When he had fired the last shot and missed, he laid his head on his crossed arms and remained still for a long time. The Gypsy went back to reading her paperback, until the young man's sobbing disturbed her.
"Look, I'm sorry," she said. "You were so close. Here, have a glass of water on the house." She placed a tall glass of ice water before him. The young man ignored the water and continued to sob. The Gypsy rolled her eyes skyward and sighed loudly.
"OK," she said. "The boss will fire me if she finds out, but I can't stand to see a grown man cry. I'll give you one more shot, on the house. But you must promise never to tell."
The young man raised his head and gazed at her with sad red eyes. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his silk shirt, and stood up. He took up the rifle slowly, brought it to his shoulder and pointed it at the small window where the golden star winked. He was suddenly very calm.
He pulled the trigger smoothly and the star disintegrated into a thousand golden fragments.
"Great shot!" said the Gypsy. "Congratulations."
The young man stood motionless, looking at the shimmering pile of shards on the floor. "Do I get anything?" he finally said.
"You get wisdom."
"Where is it?"
"You've got it now."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"I don't feel wise."
"Believe me, you are."
"It doesn't seem right not to get a prize. Something . . . tangible."
The young woman sighed again. "OK. If it makes you feel better, you can have this." She reached under the counter and brought up a small teddy bear.
The young man took the bear and stared at it absently for a long time. Finally, he tucked it under his arm. "Am I still wise?" he asked.
"Sure."
The young man turned and stepped out into the sunlight. He stood at the edge of the dusty road and looked back toward the town. The dust from Dorothy's dash in that direction had long since settled. He sighed once, turned, and, without a word or nod to the Gypsy, began trudging along the road in the direction from which he had come days before. The Gypsy watched him mount successive ridges until he disappeared at the horizon. Then she went back to reading the paperback novel.
The landscape shimmered under the midday sun. Ridges rolled away before him like ocean swells, patterned by irregular blotches of wilted timber and parched pasture. A dust devil pirouetted listlessly along the crest of the next ridge. The road bisected the panorama in a more or less straight line to the horizon, mounting ridge after ridge in a succession of narrowing vertical dashes.
Redonning his hat, he prepared to resume his journey when something--a wink of bright color--caught his attention. It was too far away to identify; all he could see through the hot wavering air was a shape squatting beneath a large oak tree three ridges ahead. When he topped the next ridge, he saw that the object was a small building painted bright red, with yellow and blue designs on the side and front; gaily colored pennants and streamers stirred listlessly in a meager breeze. From atop the second ridge, he saw that the building was a roadside stand of some sort--probably fruits and vegetables, he thought--with a waist- high window across the front, and painted signs above and below the window. He thought he heard a calliope wheezing faintly across the hollow. As he trudged up the last ridge, he saw that it was indeed a business stand, but, contrary to his expectations, the sign across the top of the structure announced in bright yellow, foot-high letters that this was:
"ANNIE'S WORLD FAMOUS SHOOTING GALLERY!"
Other equally bright but smaller signs plastered the building, exhorting non-existent customers to take a chance:
EVERYBODY A WINNER! TEST YOUR SKILL! PRIZES GALORE! FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY! TRY YOUR LUCK! PRIZES! PRIZES! PRIZES! MAKE YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE!
On the counter, a small sign read:
ONLY 10 CENTS A SHOT!!!
Next to the sign a rifle, anchored with a chain, lay pointing at targets in the far end of the building. Machinery whirred and clanked softly as it drove the targets--five rows of flat wooden ducks swimming in alternate opposite directions--through blue- painted plywood waves. At the top of the target pyramid, a golden star flashed briefly in a narrow window at random intervals. Carnival music issued from three loudspeakers mounted in a fan arrangement on top of the facade.
A young woman sat near one end of the counter, chewing gum energetically and manicuring her nails with a long file.
"Hello," the young man said.
"Hi." She barely glanced up from her work. She looked to be a Gypsy; a red scarf held lush black hair back from her face, and silver rings dangled from her earlobes. Long lashes veiled dark eyes as she continued gazing intently down at her hands.
"Uh....How's business?" the young man asked.
"Not bad."
The young man waited, but she did not elaborate. "This is an unlikely place for a shooting gallery," he observed.
"I suppose."
"Do you get many customers?"
"Not many."
"I'm not surprised. Surely you could do better in town."
"I suppose."
"Are you Annie?"
"No. I just work here."
"I see." The young man removed his hat. "How far is it to the next town?"
"Not far. You can be there in an hour."
The young man waved the hat in front of his face. "This shade feels good. Do you mind if I rest here a while before I go on?"
"Nope."
The traveler sat with his back against the oak tree and gazed out across the dusty country. He picked up fallen acorns and tossed them out into the sunbaked road. He shook the dust from his trouser cuffs. He glanced at the young woman several times, but she remained absorbed in her manicure. After a while, he approached the counter again. The young woman was applying a coat of crimson polish carefully to her left little fingernail.
"I hate to be a bother, but could I trouble you for a drink of water?" he asked.
The young woman extended her left hand, dropped her head first to one side and then the other, and inspected the scarlet nails critically. "You'll have to shoot for it," she said, making her gum pop.
"Pardon?"
"You'll have to shoot for it. The boss won't let me give away anything for free."
The young man was puzzled. "You mean...shoot...with the gun?" he asked.
"Yes. If you hit a duck, I can give you something to drink. It's the rules of the house." She blew gently on her nails and waggled her fingers. "It only costs a dime," she said, smiling at him for the first time.
The young man placed a dime on the counter, took up the rifle, sighted, and jerked the trigger. He wasn't sure where he had aimed, but a duck on the bottom row dropped from view. He turned smiling to the young woman, and was surprised to find a tall pitcher of water before him with ice tinkling against the sides.
"There you go," she said, sliding a crystal tumbler toward him.
"Where did that come from?" he asked.
"Isn't that what you wished for?"
"Well...yes." The young man poured and drank a tumbler full of water. It was cool and sweet on his tongue, and his thirst evaporated. He felt remarkably refreshed, as if he had awakened from a restful sleep. He smiled and thanked the young woman.
"How long have you been doing business here?" he asked.
"Not long."
"I notice that you don't seem to have any prizes displayed. Isn't it customary to offer kewpie dolls and teddy bears and such to attract customers?"
"This isn't that kind of shooting gallery."
"It isn't?"
"Nope."
"Well...what kind is it?"
"We grant wishes."
"Wishes?"
"Yes. If you hit a duck, we grant you a wish--for anything tangible. We don't deal in intangibles--except for the grand prize, that is. If you hit the gold star, we give you an intangible prize."
"And what is that?"
"Wisdom."
"I see." The young man laughed. "This is...ah...hard to believe."
"Try it again. You'll see. It only costs a dime."
The young man smiled skeptically, but he laid another coin on the counter.
"What can I wish for?" he asked.
"Anything you want."
"Anything?"
"As long as it's tangible."
"OK, I'm tired of walking. I would like to have a car. In fact, I would like to have a Cadillac." The young man watched to see what effect this would have on the Gypsy.
She began applying polish to her right thumbnail. "Fine," she said.
The young man shouldered the weapon, pulled the trigger, and was again surprised when a duck dropped from sight. He looked at the young woman, and then out at the road.
"Well?" he said, smiling. "Where's my car?"
The young woman grimaced and reached under the counter. She brought up a shiny metal token grasped gingerly between her freshly-painted thumb and forefinger. She slid it across to him.
"When you get to town, give this to the Cadillac dealer," she said. "He'll fix you up."
"Oh ho ho!" laughed the young man. "So that's the scam."
"Scam?"
"Yes. The scam. The flimflam. I'm not the bumpkin you take me for. I've been to the state fair a time or two, you know." The young man said this in a good-humored way. He looked about, smiling and bouncing on his toes, as if he were struggling to keep a belly laugh inside. He felt exceedingly well after the drink.
"Suit yourself," the young woman said as she leaned back over her nails. "Like I said, I only work here."
The young man frowned. He had not meant to offend her. "I will admit, however, that this seems fairly harmless," he said. "You can't fleece anyone very badly at a dime a shot." He waited, but she didn't speak or look up. "In fact, I'd like to shoot some more." He pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket and smoothed it on the counter before passing it across to her. "I'll take ten shots," he said.
She took the bill and said, "OK, name your first wish."
"I'd like to be rich," he laughed. He raised the weapon and fired. A duck fell in the third row.
"Here you go. Present this at the bank when you get to town." She pushed another token toward him. He chuckled and dropped it into his pocket without looking at it.
"Next, I'd like a new wardrobe."
Another shot, another duck fell. The young woman offered another token. "Take this to the men's store," she said.
The young man continued wishing and firing and pocketing the tokens the Gypsy gave him until he had used nine of the ten shots. By then, he had run short of ideas. He had tokens for a boat, an airplane, an estate, as well as some silly things that he named simply because it was all in fun and he didn't believe any of it, anyway. But he thought long and hard about the tenth wish. Finally, he smiled and said, "Love".
"Pardon me?" the young woman asked.
"I wish for love."
"That's intangible. We don't deal in intangibles. The best I can do is to get you the woman of your choice. Whether love happens will be up to the two of you."
"Fair enough."
The young man shot and dropped a duck.
"Give this to any woman that you want, and she's yours," the young woman said, sliding another token to him.
"Suppose I gave it to you," he said.
"It doesn't work for me. Employees and their families are not eligible."
The young man smiled and pocketed the token. He poured himself another tumbler full of the water and drank it.
"Well, I've enjoyed the game," he said, tipping his hat. "But the sun is sinking, and I have business in town. Thanks for the water." He stepped back into the road, and strode away.
Two hours later, the young man had completed his business in the town, and was walking about looking for a suitable hotel for the night, when he happened to pass the Cadillac dealership. The pocketful of tokens jingled as he walked, and he smiled as he thought of the young woman and the shooting gallery. On a whim, he turned into the showroom and walked about admiring the shiny automobiles. He was especially dazzled by a white convertible with red leather seats. A bored salesman who obviously considered the dusty young traveler a poor prospect, approached, took the toothpick from his mouth, and said, "Can I fix you up with that beauty?"
The young man blushed and laughed. "Not unless you'll sell it for this," he said, holding out a token.
The salesman's manner changed in an instant. He shepherded the young man into the sales manager's office, introduced him, and showed the token. To the young man's astonishment, within half an hour he left the dealership driving the white Cadillac. It happened quickly, and he felt sure he was merely dreaming.
"But I might as well enjoy the dream," he reasoned.
At the bank, he shyly pushed a token across the counter to a teller. She looked surprised, excused herself, and returned shortly with the bank president. He took the young man into his private office and personally showed the young man where to sign to open an account that, the banker assured him, already had one million dollars on deposit.
The young man stayed in the town, exchanging the tokens for the wished-for items, and, at the end of the second day, he had redeemed all but one--the love token.
The next day, he had business in the mayor's office. (He was already an important person in town.) During their conversation, the mayor's daughter came in to speak with her father. She was just home, having graduated from an exclusive eastern school the week before. She was a tall blond girl with a face and figure that drew an involuntary sigh from the young man. Her name was Dorothy, and she spoke in soft cultured accents--obviously a young woman of intelligence and breeding.
The young man loved her at once.
"Will you marry me?" he asked, handing her the last token.
"Of Course," she replied, her eyes shining with love and admiration.
The entire town stopped to celebrate their wedding the following week. After the ceremony the mayor made a speech on the courthouse steps and proclaimed that the day officially belonged to the happy couple. The young man said a few words of thanks for the honors and affection heaped upon him and his bride. The people cheered, for they liked the young man, and some even hinted that he was a foreign prince who had decided to settle among them. The couple waved to the crowd, got into the Cadillac, and set off on their honeymoon.
As it happened, they drove back over the same dusty road that the young man had traveled the week before; when he saw the shooting gallery still there beneath the oak tree, he stopped the car, and got out.
The young Gypsy woman still sat on the stool at the end of the counter, engrossed now in a paperback novel.
"Hi," the young man said. "Remember me?"
"Oh, sure," the young woman said. She put down the book and smiled at him, and at Dorothy sitting in the white Cadillac.
"Looks like things have gone your way."
"Yes. I had no idea things like this were possible. I just stopped to thank you, and to apologize for doubting you.
"No problem."
The young man noticed that all of the duck targets were still. The only target moving was the golden star at the top.
"Is something wrong with your machine?" he asked.
"No, the boss just decided to stop offering the tangible prizes. We only offer the one prize--wisdom--now. Care to try your luck?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. I feel lucky." He laid a dime on the counter. The Gypsy smiled and pointed to the new sign that stood there. It read:
ONLY $10,000 PER SHOT!
The young man looked stunned. "Are you serious?" he asked.
"I'm afraid so. Wisdom is a very valuable commodity. Most people live their entire lives and never get a drop of it. Besides, what's ten thousand dollars compared to all that you have?"
The young man thought for a moment. Suddenly, wisdom seemed very desirable. What good are possessions if you are not wise, he thought.
"OK, I'll try it once," he said. He took out his checkbook, wrote a check, and passed it to the Gypsy. Taking up the rifle, he watched the golden star wink three times in the window while he sighted. The star appeared and disappeared so quickly and at such random intervals that it was impossible to anticipate when it would appear. The young man jerked the trigger when he saw it the fourth time, but the star was gone before the bullet arrived.
"Tough luck," said the young woman.
"Darling, what are you doing?" Dorothy called from the car.
"Be there in a second, dear," the young man said. He turned back to the Gypsy. "I'll take another shot," he said as he scribbled another check.
He timed the shot correctly this time, but his hands shook, and the projectile struck beside the window for another miss.
"Perhaps it would help if you braced against the counter," the Gypsy suggested.
"Yes, you're right." He wrote another check.
Dorothy got out of the car and approached just as he fired and missed again. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"Don't worry, darling. This is just a little unfinished business that I need to take care of before we go." He said this while writing another check. Dorothy watched silently, but with an expression of growing concern, as he repeated the procedure twice more. When he began writing another check, she cried, "Stop!"
"Please wait in the car," said the young man. He was sweating now. Dorothy laid a hand on his arm, but he shrugged away from her. She stepped back a few paces and covered her mouth with a trembling hand. After the young man shot and missed five more times, she began to cry.
"You're wasting our entire fortune," she said. "Please stop."
The young man turned a baleful gaze upon her and she retreated another step. He shot and missed again.
"If you don't stop this minute, I'm going back home," she sobbed. But the young man had gone too far to stop. He wrote another check.
He continued to shoot and write checks for an hour, and it wasn't until he had written the check that cleaned out his bank account, that he noticed that Dorothy had taken the car and driven back to town.
"That's the last of my money," he said to the Gypsy.
"I'm sorry," she said.
The sun was high in the sky by this time, and the young man mopped his brow with a clean linen handkerchief.
"Look," he said. "I've got an airplane. A jet. Brand new. How many shots can I get for it?"
"One," the young woman said.
"But it's worth three million dollars!"
"Sorry. The boss is very strict about that. Only one shot each for tangible assets."
The young man rested his head in his hands for a moment, but in the end he agreed. He missed the shot badly. The same fate soon disposed of his yacht, his estate, and all the other possessions, both valuable and frivolous.
When he had fired the last shot and missed, he laid his head on his crossed arms and remained still for a long time. The Gypsy went back to reading her paperback, until the young man's sobbing disturbed her.
"Look, I'm sorry," she said. "You were so close. Here, have a glass of water on the house." She placed a tall glass of ice water before him. The young man ignored the water and continued to sob. The Gypsy rolled her eyes skyward and sighed loudly.
"OK," she said. "The boss will fire me if she finds out, but I can't stand to see a grown man cry. I'll give you one more shot, on the house. But you must promise never to tell."
The young man raised his head and gazed at her with sad red eyes. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his silk shirt, and stood up. He took up the rifle slowly, brought it to his shoulder and pointed it at the small window where the golden star winked. He was suddenly very calm.
He pulled the trigger smoothly and the star disintegrated into a thousand golden fragments.
"Great shot!" said the Gypsy. "Congratulations."
The young man stood motionless, looking at the shimmering pile of shards on the floor. "Do I get anything?" he finally said.
"You get wisdom."
"Where is it?"
"You've got it now."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"I don't feel wise."
"Believe me, you are."
"It doesn't seem right not to get a prize. Something . . . tangible."
The young woman sighed again. "OK. If it makes you feel better, you can have this." She reached under the counter and brought up a small teddy bear.
The young man took the bear and stared at it absently for a long time. Finally, he tucked it under his arm. "Am I still wise?" he asked.
"Sure."
The young man turned and stepped out into the sunlight. He stood at the edge of the dusty road and looked back toward the town. The dust from Dorothy's dash in that direction had long since settled. He sighed once, turned, and, without a word or nod to the Gypsy, began trudging along the road in the direction from which he had come days before. The Gypsy watched him mount successive ridges until he disappeared at the horizon. Then she went back to reading the paperback novel.
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