Free Birdy by William Wharton

First, he asks me my name. He types it out, four fingers hunt and peck,then he looks at it and spits! Spits right at my name on the paper! Jesus! I figure maybe something got caught on his lip; try to ignore it. Then he asks me my serial number and outfit. He types this out, stares at it, and spits again! Maybe he’s a loon, slipped in here while the doctor’s out. Maybe it isn’t happening at all and I’m nuts myself. I try to get a look at the T-4 without his noticing. He grins back at me, a bit of spit still hanging on his fat lip. Maybe it’s some kind of a new psychological test, the spit test. Who knows?
    He starts asking more questions. Same thing every time. Not big goobers or anything gross, just a fine spray kind of spit. The whole typewriter must be rusty inside. He asks another question, types it out, looks and spits. I check the door and distances. This light blue form he’s typing on is turning dark blue. He’s almost finished when the doctor-major passes through to his office. He gives me his psychiatrist smile; holding out on the military this morning.
    We finish. The T-4 gently pulls the form out of his typewriter. He knows what he’s doing; he’s pulled wet forms out of that machine before. He holds it by the corner and carries it into the doctor’s office. Then he comes out, thin grins at me, rubs his hands together, probably wiping off the spit; and tells me to go in. The doctor-major is staring at the wet paper and reading it. He motions me to sit down. The paper is flat on his desk; he’s not touching it.
    I’m waiting for him to comment on the spit. Maybe congratulate me for passing the spit test or blaming me, or something. Nothing! He’s used to spitty papers. He might just be the nut himself, won’t read anything that doesn’t have spit on it; hires this T-4 especially to spit on his papers. Could be anything. He looks up; very serious, very dignified for a fat man. His eyes are glinting behind his glasses; very much the working psychiatrist this morning.
    ‘You say here you were court-martialed?’
    ‘That’s right, sir.’
    Give him the old ‘sir’ bit; get no doctor-ing from me. Got toget out of here with my skin. Should’ve lied about the fucking court-martial.
    ‘What type of court-martial was it, Sergeant?’
    There it is; Sergeant; now we know.
    ‘Summary, sir.’
    ‘And what was the offense?’
    ‘Attacking non-commissioned officer, sir.’
    He gives the old hmmmm and two ahhhaas . Then he looks to see if the door to the office is closed. It is. Almost expect him to get up and open it. Here he is locked in with the mad officer killer. I give him my killer stare from under one eyebrow; Sicilian, Mafia, contract-killer look; all rolled in one. I used to practice it in front of the mirror; have to get some advantage out of being Italian.
    I’m not giving an inch. I’m thinking of getting up from the chair slowly and moving in for a pin. He clears his throat and folds his hands just behind the spit pile.
    ‘Do you get these violent impulses of ten, Alfonso?’
    The psychiatrist is back in the office. He’s got the Santa Claus grin on and all. Hell, I’d be a better psychiatrist than this moron. He doesn’t quite know what to do. I don’t know which way to play it myself. I’m wishing this had happened in the middle of the war instead of after it’s all over. Maybe I could’ve gotten myself a big pension as a homicidal maniac. That’s right; they turned this little neighborhood boy into a raving maniac by horrible war experiences. I’d live the rest of my life in gravy, just growl every now and then or beat up some old man.
    He’s still grinning at me; not a single flinch in that grin; he’s got the psychiatrist grin down to the nickel. He’s trying to shake me up. I’m tempted to tell him how much I enjoyed pushing that hunky’s face in with the shovel. Niggers in the coal truck sure were scared shitless, too.
    ‘No, sir. Not of ten, sir.’
    ‘Would you