issue56bradchap7

                                                                ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM

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CATCH 23

     Ignoring the wet smacking sound of meat and concrete I dreamed of Tiki Beach and the mystical waves of Surf City and the Blonde waiting for me on the beach …
     Long stay.
     This time.
Court martial for going on an extended surfing safari for 78 days.
     Back in the brig.
     90 days hard labor.
     And my neighbor pounded his head against the concrete deck in hopes of cracking his skull.
     At night they beat the prisoners because supposedly a law had just passed ordering the guards to keep hands off, so they couldn’t beat on ya during the day—as much as they would have liked to beat on ya during the day, so they beat on ya at night—mostly.
     My neighbor on the other side tried to open the veins of his wrists with a metal nail clipper. He got to go to the doctor’s lab but I’ve heard that’s not a nice place.
     Another guy tried to strangle himself by tying his shirt to the cell bars and his neck so when the guards opened his cell door the shirt tightened around his throat. That didn’t work and the guards got mad so there was a beating that night.
     When they called your number you snapped to attention.
     “23!”
     “23 yes!” I said.
     “Get a bucket and clean up that goddamn mess in the chicken cage!”
     The chicken cage was the main punishment cage. You could only wear your underwear in there and you weren’t allowed to have any other possessions.
     I got a bucket and cleaned up the blood and hair and skin and bone from the guy who finally cracked his skull open.
     On hard labor days we got to scrub barnacles off the bottom of boats and clean up storm debris. The black widows loved to claw around on those old pieces of wood but we weren’t allowed to wear gloves because that wasn’t “regulation uniform.”
     The days went by and I was asked to sign a waiver to transfer out to another ship in case my ship went left port or an extended period or didn’t want me back.
     I quickly signed.
    But, said the Skipper, he wanted me back because I was an Assault Boat Coxswain, graduated from boat school in Coronado, trained by Navy Seals, and it’s hard to find good men like that.