| Jack’s Work Friends When Jack had drunk almost all his coffee and smoked another Winston, it was about 9:15, so he got down to work. He started digging with both hands through my printout, reading my notes. He rifled through my precious green-striped, folded report so fast that I began to realize that it was merely a formality. For the most part, he already knew what was going on with just about every order on the books and had hundreds of part numbers and delivery dates stored in his white-haired gourd. He could have deep-sixed (meaning to throw something overboard or away) my report and still have effectively interrogated me the way he would a POW (prisoner of war) in front of everybody until I looked like a genuine shitbird (a screwup), but he never did. “What’s this happy horseshit (troubling and unwelcome information)—the 4202-4 stainless housings are on back order? Michael!” (Michelle went away with the worst effects of his hangover.) You get those clowns on the phone ASAP (pronounced “ay-sap” and meaning “as soon as possible”) and tell them to ship those fucking parts in here tomorrow and stop the goddamned fairy tales.” “Okay, Jack. Right, Jack. Yes, sir.” Another thing about Jack was that the largest vendors and the ones he was on the friendliest of terms with were the ones he’d given the most disparaging nicknames. That knowledge allowed me partial comfort with being renamed Michelle first thing every workday. It meant that I was in good company with his closest business associates outside of the company. I could tell by the long lists of part numbers on my print out that Jack did beaucoup (lots of) business with the CGs (commanding generals) of some contract vendors whom he affectionately referred to as the Camel Driver, Dicky Doo-Doo, Baldy, and the Asshole. As a matter of fact Jack, the Camel Driver, Dicky Doo-Doo, Baldy, and the Asshole had formed a Las Vegas–style Rat Pack of sorts and met every Thursday for lunch at some of the finest restaurants in Queens, including the Piccola Venezia in Astoria and Claudio’s Restaurant, where Jack always mentioned that it cost fifty dollars just to open up the menu. When Jack’s Rat Pack went out for lunch on Thursday, rarely did he return to work. Consequently, on most Friday mornings his gourd was exceptionally like Daniel Webster’s cock. I worked at Berkey for a number of months before Jack introduced me to the Rat Pack and I learned their real names. Naturally, I just thought of them as Jack did, so I never thought twice of plainly telling Jack that, for instance, I caught the Camel Driver in a lie when he told me that the 5607-8 brass levers had shipped last week when the scheduler in his office told me that the blank parts were not even milled and drilled yet. Jack especially encouraged me to come up with negative intel (intelligence, or information obtained by undercover work) on the Rat Pack on Thursday mornings so that he could leave them with their asses hanging out (description applied to someone who is either not squared away—not prepared—or whose ignorance is showing) after their long lunch together, which always included lots of hooch and tiger piss (beer). Because Jack was placing large orders with the Rat Pack, he needed to remind them at times who the big swinging dick (man in charge) was. When I did things like this for Jack, it made me feel more important than whale shit and generally reduced the pucker factor in my work life for a few days, so I tried exceedingly hard to get juicy intel on the Rat Pack whenever possible. Despite the Rat Pack members’ outward display of being good buddies, Jack rarely cut them any slack (meaning “to ease off”) when their companies screwed up. He would often call the senior buyers over for a clusterfuck (any group of Marines big enough to draw enemy fire, or several Marines close enough together to be wounded by the same incoming round—something that was all screwed up) around my desk to find out what the hell was going on |
| The Expeditor (continued) |