From Dark Treats

Copyright 2024 Ray Gregory

 

Colonel Pusi and Miss Perfect

I was back in the war zone working on an article for The Post, this time about military suicides. There’d been a rash of them in the news lately. So I decided to look up my old high school buddy Hack. He might have a tale or two about guys killing themselves.

Hack enlisted right after our high school graduation, before I went off to college. He reenlisted just before I got my degree in journalism. Last time I talked to him last year, he told me he loved the Army, said he would re-up again and again.

As luck would have it, I was able to reach Hack by phone. He was back at his home base after a month in the field. “Yeah, dude! Come see me!” he shouted. Same old Hack, everything shouted. “But make it quick. I’m headed back out next week.” I didn’t mention my article. Best to catch Hack unrehearsed.

Two days later I was lounging with Hack in his hooch, drinking canned beers with him as he steered the conversation to our high school football exploits. Hack had been a beefy tackle, me a lanky wide receiver. Almost eight years later Hack, the consummate trash talker, could still recount all my embarrassing fumbles.

Even though he was “short” after nearly two years in-country, Hack displayed no visible signs of war weariness. He’d always been macho to the core, but now he’d added the airs of the seasoned military pro to his repertoire. When I mentioned suicides, Hack rolled his eyes. “Boot camp’s sposed to weed out those types.” Sure, he’d heard of guys who “got wack” from combat, did “all kindsa dumb-ass shit,” even “snuffed theirselves,” but he never knew any. “Not in my unit.” He reminded me of back in school, why I hid my interest in writing from the guys on the team, especially Hack.

After a few beers we were jawing about how bizarre it was that the Buccaneers were looking good for a change. Just as weird, as Hack put it, how the Cowboys “sucked grown-up donkey dongs.” Then Hack lurched bolt upright. “Fuck beer!” He slung his empty can across the hooch. “Let’s hit Pom Poms, down some real swill.” He winked. “See what else we can get ourselfs into.”

I agreed to go with him to Pom Poms, the infamous local full-service brothel, but insisted on only the liquor and floor show for me.

“Whatever.” Hack rolled his eyes. “But who knows? You might even find something a fag writer can get into in Pom Poms.” Hack guffawed. He slung open the rickety door to his hooch, then grinned and bowed. “After you, ma’am....”