Free Dragon Lady by Gary Alexander Page A

else had so much as cracked a smile. We had no reason to.
    Then they lined us in a row, fifteen at a time. The medic told us to drop our drawers, bend over, and spread our cheeks. The doctor came along, looking for whatever he was looking for. I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was not young. He had acne scarring at his collar and a wispy pompadour. He didn’t seem any happier to be here than we were. I felt halfway sorry for the poor bastard. This had to be the Siberia of medicine. Somewhere in his past was a clamp sewn inside a patient.
    Doug was next to me. Redheaded and freckled, he was the spitting image of Howdy Doody. That is, if you twisted Howdy’s mouth into an evil smirk and threw in a giggle or three. I shushed him, but he continued snickering.
    The doctor came to a dead halt behind Doug and his pink silk panties. They were awfully baggy. He’d swiped them from his mom, who was a big lady. He hadn’t dropped them all the way down. He was holding them at knee level to make sure they weren’t missed. Doug would do almost anything on a dare, but he’d dreamt this up on his own.
    The doctor said, “Nice try, son. Ever read Catch-22 ?”
    I had. I loved Catch-22 . I guessed what was coming, but Doug didn’t. He wasn’t a recreational reader.
    He answered, “Who?”
    The doctor explained, “ Catch-22 is a famous novel. Its primary protagonist, Captain Yossarian, was a bombardier in World War II Europe, an extremely hazardous vocation. He attempted to get out of combat duty by claiming he was crazy. Captain Yossarian fell victim to a catch in the regulations known as Catch-22. Catch-22 said that if you tried to get out of combat duty by claiming you were crazy, it proved that you were perfectly sane. Are you getting my point, young man?”
    Doug was getting his point. He muttered “shit” and allowed his mom’s pink silk panties to fall to his ankles.
    “You have balls to pull this stunt,” the doctor said as he moved along, examining whatever he was examining. “Your country needs you.”
    We waited out front till they called us to the counter one by one and said yea or nay. By then everybody’d heard about Doug. The enlistees were disgusted and gave us plenty of room. The draft bait hung close, acting as if Doug was John Wayne who’d taken out a Nazi pillbox.
    All anyone could talk about was what they hoped was wrong with them. No one was anxious for syphilis or cancer, mind you, but we were yearning for nearsightedness or farsightedness, trick knees, high or low blood pressure, flat feet, slipped disks, neuritis, neuralgia, post nasal drip, the heartbreak of psoriasis. We were praying for a backassward Lourdes , where 4-F was the miracle. I had no illusions. If you could fog a mirror, you were probably in.
    I told them of a friend of a friend of mine who’d been rejected last year because of a dropped testicle. Three guys asked at once how far it had to drop. I didn’t know. There were limits how far you’d tolerate your testicle dropping, army or no army.
    Doug and I passed with flying colors. We went to a tavern down the street. I didn’t know what you called the opposite of celebrating, but that’s what we were doing. Doug didn’t even bother calling in sick at the Lazy B, even though he was supposed to clock in at 3:30. Other future GIs tagged along with us and we ordered pitchers.
    “Maybe I should’ve―what’s my mom call it ?― accessorized,” Doug said. “You know, nylons and earrings and perfume and lipstick, too, if it wasn’t too slutty.”
    That brought down the house. He was dead serious, and they thought he was being funny. We toasted him. We drank to his pink silk panties and his accessorizing. Doug’s money was no good at this table.
    I went to a pay phone to call Judy. She wanted to know as soon as I knew. My coin jammed in the slot. It was either a Canadian nickel or an omen. I’d been debating whether breaking up now would be easier than getting Dear