Misery loves company
Sunday, Apr. 15, 2007, 12:54 p.m.
I got set free from work early this morning, and I had a difficult decision to make: should I update my diary? Or should I watch Blazing Saddles?
Sorry, Mel Brooks. You're still one of my favorite Jews, right up there with Jesus and Bob Dylan.
The building I work in is relatively small, and although my battalion is made up of several hundred people, I tend to see the same fifty or sixty of them on a regular basis. Some of them I met during the last deployment, which means that the Bond of Common Misery requires us to be friends; some are fellow smokers whose faces are only recognizable to me in the designated Smoking Area while holding a lit cigarette; some are fellow night-shift workers whose faces are pale from a lack of sun, yet filled with the kind of energy that only comes from utter despair; some are co-workers whose images I couldn't burn out of my brain with a blow-torch; many are my superiors, a few of whom still, incredibly, think I believe them to actually be superior to me; still others are casual acquaintances who get a nod 'n' smile in the halls but who I would really not rather talk to for more than ten minutes or so, and the list goes on until the paragraph is officially the longest one written since the Book of Leviticus was first put to paper.
No matter how they entered my life, though, the majority of these people have respectively carved out a little place of special acknowledgement in my already-overstuffed mind, and they have also played no small part in keeping me from going completely bonkers -- for that, they deserve some recognition.
The Wop Club
These are the fellow second- and third-generation Italians who throw up their arms and shout, "'Eeeyyy!" whenever they see me walking toward them. Rank, or lack thereof, does not stand in their way -- they are going to give me the guido-est welcome they possibly can. We have all determined that we will get together for meatballs and wine upon our return to the States.
The Gate Guards
They are all members of the band and the honor guard, and while they are not playing music or marching in ceremonies, their job is to guard the front gate. They hate this, primarily because they did not realize they were enlisting in the Army to check security badges, but most of them grin and bear it. They make me happy, if only because many of them are so obviously more miserable than I could ever be.
The General's Driver
More like the general's bitch, really. But he's always friendly and smiley, and he let me use his cap when I thought I had lost mine in Ramadi (it was actually on the flight line, but that's neither here nor there), and then found it for me a few days later. This was an invaluable favor -- especially considering that a soldier must never walk around outside in a combat uniform without a hat on, for fear of certain Death By Verbal Attack of Noncommissioned Officer -- and it has earned him an indefinite number of IOUs, as well as a special handshake every time I see him.
They Who Know Me Only Because of My Neck-Tattoo
I love these people for several reasons, but foremost because I realize that I may never have had a single conversation with them, had I not put a tattoo around my neck. Most of them are higher-ranking than I, and many of them refer to me as "Tattoo Girl" or "Tattoos" or "'Art Is Useless,' Huh?" or, in one major's case, "Ms. Wilde." You never realize how many of your peers have degrees in English Literature (or how many of them are uncultured twats, come to think of it) until you have an indelible Oscar Wilde quote stretching toward your throat.
The Night Owls
My fellow night-shift workers are scattered all around the headquarters building at any point during the night, but there are a few who I'll willingly go out of my way to pay a visit to during my twelve-hour shift. They are the ones whose jobs require little to no time, effort and/or attention, but they still have to be at the office "just in case" they are needed. They are always ready for a smoke break, barely care if they are seen "slacking off," and know more ways to cheat the system than there are rules to be broken. Their brains are far too big for the rank they wear. They are my heroes, but they will probably all end up criminally insane eventually. It's a shame, really.
The Slap Hands Nation
Once upon a time, a few junior-enlisted soldiers working in our company's administrative section created a sign that read "SLAP HANDS!!!" They framed it, put it up in an unobtrusive place on their office wall, and waited. Whenever anyone walked into the company, saw the sign and asked, "What's 'SLAP HANDS!!!'?" the soldiers would -- guess what? -- slap hands with each other and the inquirer. Eventually, it got to the point where frequent visitors would walk in and purposefully announce "Slap hands!" because, come on, who doesn't like to slap hands every now and then? Soon, more soldiers adopted the habit, and most didn't even wait to walk into the company -- they just offered a "Slap hands!" every time they saw each other in passing. Thus, the Slap Hands Revolution was born. Its founders have now created special "SLAP HANDS!!!" badges, designated a "SLAP HANDS!!!" Council, and written a "SLAP HANDS!!!" regulation ("If a Slap Hands is offered to you, you must slap hands, or be excommunicated from the Slap Hands Nation ... Slap Hands is NOT 'high-five' and should never be introduced as such ... Slap Hands is NOT disrespectful or unprofessional -- it is morale-building and motivating, and must be acknowledged as such ..." etc.), which is held up as law by individuals as high on the chain as our company's commander and first sergeant. I am a fervent Hand-Slapper, as you may imagine, and should I happen upon the founders of the Slap Hands Nation when I am old and feeble, I will still offer my wrinkled old Hand to be Slapped, for this is the level of my devotion.
My Co-Workers
Let's make a list, shall we?
Head Boss: Unfortunately, nobody really likes him. We all tolerate him because he outranks us, but I am usually either laughing at him (on the inside) or beating him mercilessly (also on the inside). He is either oblivious to this or is just trying to ignore it, and I am happy with both options. Before we deployed, he asked me to recommend some music for him, and said he was a fan of hard rock. I asked him, "Sir, have you ever heard of Rage Against the Machine?" He told me he hadn't, but that he would check them out. I have heard nary a peep from him since.
Deputy Boss: She is one of the best officers I have ever worked for. She's focused, levelheaded, smart and fair, while also managing to have a sense of humor. Hooray for her, as she is a rare breed of officer.
Head Sergeant: She is new to our office, and has never participated in a deployment like this with a division like ours, despite being in the Army for something like fourteen years. She's still learning the ropes, but I have hope for her, as she's shown very few signs of abnormally hopeless fuckedupitude.
Sergeant Insane-o: He is an enigma. He can go from content to incensed in four and a half seconds. His laugh is maniacal. He used to be in the infantry. He has been in this division slightly longer than I have, and has known me (and all my weaknesses) since the first day I arrived at Fort Stewpid. He doesn't necessarily like me. He's fucking goddamned insane.
Sergeant Jew: He is, as one might assume, of Jewish origins, and he is also an atheist -- so, if you will, a Jewtheist. (Shut up. I have been awake for many hours.) He is a liberal Democrat from New England, and is also one of the most pretentious fucks I've ever met. He's also one of the most entertaining people I've ever met, and I would gladly work with him all the time if I could guarantee that I would be able to keep from being bothered by his condescending snorts without the use of a metal bat.
Babymomma: She is called that because when I first met her, she was pregnant, and she stayed pregnant for eight additional months. Then she gave birth, and a nickname was also born on that day. She would be relentlessly cheerful, except for two things -- a) she is on the Special K Cereal Diet, which means she is hungry and bitchy at many times throughout the day due to a lack of anything that could be considered real food (i.e., free Girl Scout cookies and Peeps), and b) she was just told today that her six-month-old baby now has teeth, which made her sad enough to stray from her diet and eat a Mini Oreo. So please send a group hug to her, and also, for the love of all that is holy, do not ever tell her that I write about her so freely on the internet. Thanks.
And there you have it, three hours later -- the people who are in My World for the next fourteen or so months (speaking of which -- thanks, Mr. Gates! Rock on, assbag!), whether I like it or not. Am I crazy? Possibly. But so are they. I'm sure that many of you can identify with the bond that crazy people have, so I'll ask you to do that in this situation.
And hey, while you're at it -- SLAP HANDS!!!
