Free Loving Women by Pete Hamill Page A

hard. The sound was explosive. He did it again. And again, the metallic sound caroming through the barracks. And then he did it once more.
    “ First off, boy, this ain’t your locker, heah?”
    He snarled the words and then banged the door with the billy club.
    “This heah locker is the property of the Yew-Nited States Navy .”He banged it again. “Second of all, you aint s’posed even be near this lockuh ’thout my p’mission. You unna stand me?”
    He slammed the door again. His mouth was quivering but the glossy skin on his face didn’t move. Then he looked inside. He reached to the back of one shelf and pulled out everything: work shirts, dress whites, skivvies, socks. He cleaned out the second shelf. Then he dropped my pea coat on top of the pile on the floor.
    “Now, heah this, boy. I am the M A A on this base. The Master at Arms, case you don’t know what I’m saying to you. I assign the racks in these barracks. Me! Nobody else. You got that? Me! First-class gunner’s mate Wendell Cannon, U.S.N.”
    “Sir, I was told—”
    “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you was told, boy. I’m tellin you now. You don’t pick a locker, you don’t pick a rack, you don’t pick your goddamn nose, less I give you p’mission. You got me?”
    His eyes fell to the clothes, then wandered back to the locker.
    “What in the fuck ?”
    He lifted out the oversized art book with the long-haired Botticelli blonde on the cover. He blinked as he read the title. Then he turned to me.
    “ A Treasury of Art Masterpieces? ”
    “Yes, sir. I—”
    “ A Treasury of Art Masterpieces? ” he screamed. He shook the book in my face. “What are you, some kind of gahdam faggot ?” His voice rose another decibel. “What in the fuck is this doing in a locker in this man’s Navy ?”
    He whirled and heaved the book the length of the barracks. I saw it bounce off an empty rack and skid across the floor. The Blue Notebook fell out, but Cannon didn’t seem to notice. He was looking at me. Waiting. I stepped forward. A red film fell over everything. My body was bursting. I wanted to swing out and destroy him, but when my hands came up, the towel fell. I was naked before him. He had his jaw clamped shut, breathing hard through his nose. His eyes widened. I stepped forward. An inch from his face. The blue eyes didn’t blink.
    “You thinkin of doing somethin, boy?” he said quietly. “Standing there with yo’ pecker hangin out? Huh? You want to do something?”
    I didn’t say anything.
    “Well, I’ll tell you what you bettah do, boy,” Cannon said. Hesmiled thinly. I stepped back, still looking at him. His face didn’t move, didn’t sweat. I picked up the towel and covered myself. “You better get all your gear together and go down there to locker 211. Y’heah me? And then move your fartsack and your ass down to that rack there. You see the one I mean? Yeah, that one. Next to the head. Be perfect for you, boy. There’s lots of light all night long, f’ you to read about your art masterpieces. Easy for you too, ef you hafta shit your pants. Like you’re doin now. Save a lot of wear and tear on this good U.S. Navy beddin.”
    He seemed cooler then, almost cold.
    “And tonight,” he said, “I think you oughtta go out and stand watch at post three. At midnight. A good midnight to four, that’ll give you lots of time to think about your art masterpieces, boy.”
    With that, Cannon turned abruptly and walked the length of the barracks to the far door, his polished shoes clacking on the hardwood floor. The screen door slammed loudly behind him.
    I stood there for a long moment. On the Outside (as we called civilian life), I would have beaten his brains out. Or gone down trying. On the Outside, I would have made him eat the book. For sure, I’d have put some damage on his plastic face and made the son of a bitch sweat. But there in the Navy, if I did any of those things, I’d be sent to the brig. “Shit,” I said out loud.