| From that moment on, it was a rat race. Jack went into his office and closed the door. Gert made sure that nobody disturbed him. No one, including Gert, knew for sure what he did in there for the next ten minutes, but at exactly 8:55 he came out of his office, quick time, without saying a word to anyone, and headed straight for my desk, with his sport jacket and dark sunglasses still on. He sat in my chair, shoved a butt (a Winston cigarette) into his mouth, lit it with his Marine Corps Zippo (a cigarette lighter made in Bradford, Pennsylvania, and prized by all Marines because of its rugged construction and ability to stay lit during typhoons), and blew the smoke straight out and into the junior buyers’ spaces in front of him, the spaces of men he considered to be FNG privates (fucking new guys with the lowest rank in the Marine Corps who possessed no insignia on their uniforms yet). They would remain FNGs until they achieved the status of purchasing agent and became deserving of some respect from their CO. While he smoked his Winston with his right hand, he tapped the fingers of his left hand impatiently on my desk as he waited for me to get back with his hot cup of joe. As Jack sat there and blew smoke at the FNGs, I frantically had to make my way across the enormous factory floor double time (a marching pace double that of quick time; the Marine’s arms are bent at the elbow and he runs in step with his fellow Marines) all the way to the company chow hall (the place where meals are served, sometimes referred to as a mess), get Jack his coffee, and hump (go on a field march or extended hike) back before the hands on Jack’s Marine Zulu watch showed 9:00, or he would get very tight-jawed (pissed off; angry) and frag (means to kill a soldier, usually by throwing a hand grenade resembling a small pineapple into the room or area where the soldier is located) my ass for sure once I got back from coffee detail. Some days, when there was a line, I would cut it. “Sorry, gangway (an order to clear space for an approaching senior officer)! Excuse, please; I gotta get a cup of coffee for Jack Cotton! Excuse me; pardon me!” I exclaimed to unhappy sleepy faces who didn’t really give a shit, but Jack was a boss, and nobody wanted to lock horns with him in the lunchroom, down the road, over a late cup of rusty joe, so they let me slide. Once I had Jack’s coffee, I had to do a fast tiptoe kind of walk, as if I were in an raw-egg-in-a-tablespoon picnic race, so that I neither spilled Jack’s precious joe nor scalded my hand with it, which would mean reporting to sick bay (the location where sick and injured soldiers are treated). I knew that Jack would never let me report to sick call (assigned time for ill Marines to go to sick bay, usually first thing in the morning) for a minor burn anyway and would probably make fun of me for crying over nothing, accusing me in front of everyone of acting like a wookie monster (a female Marine). Once I made it through the factory and into the main corridor of the front office, I could get a glimpse of Jack sitting in my spot smoking and staring through those ominous dark green General Douglas MacArthur sunglasses. He was the CO and I was basically whale shit (according to many drill instructors, the only thing lower on God’s green earth than a recruit), more lowly than even the house mice (low-ranking Marines who assist the drill instructor), which the junior buyers were. His body language dictated this indisputably. Once I rounded the corner with the Styrofoam cup full of steaming black coffee, Jack still pretended not to see me until I placed his coffee directly in front of him. As soon as the coffee hit my desk, which was his desk for the moment, he reached for it with his tapping hand and drew it close to his soup cooler (mouth) for his first sip, which he savored. “Pull up a chair, Michelle. Stop standing there pounding your pud—saddle up (“stop wasting time and get your gear”). It’s time to get to work.” If any of the junior buyers, who were all men, were caught sneaking glances at Jack while he was at my desk |
| The Expeditor (continued) |
