SS-Expeditor4

and out in the open, he would say, “Quit eye-fucking (looking or staring at, usually with curiosity) me, girls, and
do some work. Make some calls.” It seemed that they never learned—Jack’s overpowering presence was hard to
ignore. Despite his slight build, he commanded attention. Jack was also a heavy hooch (hard liquor) drinker, a
fact well known throughout the company, and I was Berkey Tech’s first line of defense every morning against his
booze-fueled temper—another dangerous and unpredictable task that the expeditor was charged with.
     Jack would finally speak for the second time since arriving at HQ. “Michelle,” he’d invariably say, “I’ve got a
gourd (head) on me this morning as big as Daniel Webster’s cock” (“Michael, I have a tremendous hangover and
a painful headache after a night of hard hooch-drinking”).
     I never responded to this. I just carefully nodded, but not too big a nod—just a quick, short nod, to let him
know that I wasn’t MIA (missing in action).
     In all my life, I have never seen caffeine have the high-speed effect on a sleep-deprived human being that it
did on Jack Cotton, especially considering the titanic hangovers that he reported to AD (active duty) with most
mornings. Actually, I began to think that on some mornings, he went straight from the bar to his home to SSS
(shit, shower, and shave), change his clothes, pick out a new field scarf, and hump it directly from the barbershop
to the office without any sleep at all. Fortunately for the safety of the entirely clueless civilians commuting into the
big city from the boondocks (anyplace out in the country), Jack had no car. He took taxicabs everywhere he went
in the city.
     After a few more sips of coffee, he would take off his sunglasses and lay them open on the rims in front of
him, next to the ashtray and his soft open pack of butts.
     I sat my ass anxiously in a hard steel folding chair that I’d scrounged up when I’d first been recruited (hired)
so that I could position myself next to Jack at the desk, while he kept his ass in my comfortable chair. I waited for
his next cue.
     “Last night I was at Bill’s Gay Nineties in the city with Whitey.”
     I said, “You mean Whitey Ford, the famous Yankee pitcher?”
Jack grinned. “Yeah. He’s a pisser (a good-time Charlie, fun to be with). He can really knock back the martins”
(consume martinis).
     “You know Whitey Ford?” I asked incredulously.
     “Sure I do. I know all those guys. Billy Martin, Mickey Mantle, and a bunch of ballplayers all hang out at Billy’s
on the east side. They’re all pissers, and man, can they knock ’em back, like elephants” (drink large amounts of
hooch without passing out or puking).
     Truthfully, I didn’t know what to think or believe, so I just kept nodding until his crumb catcher (mouth) got
tired of talking. At least it took away some portion of my morning fear of him digging through my computer printout
notations and firing questions at me from his steel-trap mind and photographic memory. Even with a hangover or
still drunk, he was one of the sharpest people I had ever met. He taught me his business style by blunt, brusque
example. Over time, there would be many accounts of Jack’s wild nights out with his celebrity buddies. (A buddy is
a best friend. It is said that a real buddy is someone who will go into town when you are restricted to base and get
himself two blow jobs, then come back to base and give one of them to you.) I keenly kept my ears open and
mouth shut when Jack wanted to share these tales of adventures with me, but I desperately yearned for proof of
his escapades.