K story: Your Ass Is Mine
Oct. 22nd, 2011 11:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7They call, both of them on speakerphone, K and his wife S. Both of them randomly keep yelling “No!” at their puppy, and I keep thinking they’re reacting to something I’m saying. It adds a surreal dimension to the conversation. We’re talking about dogs.
“When my parents babysat my sister’s dog for her while she was in Iraq,” I say, “they were worried that since it was a whole year, and she was so young, she might forget about her ‘real’ parents. But one day Dad came down dressed in his BDUs for National Guard, and Scout got extremely excited and confused.”
Neither K nor S seem to know what BDUs are and I remember belatedly that the Army and Navy aren’t the same thing. “The Battle Dress Uniform– the camoflage dealie they wear most of the time? Dad’s uniform was identical to my sister’s, and brother-in-law’s. Actually when she got married she gave Dad some of her shirts and all her old name tapes with her maiden name on them, since she changed to her husband’s name.”
K laughs suddenly. “So one day I was walking down the streets of [city], and this guy goes by me, wearing Navy dungarees– they’re pretty distinctive, the trousers that go with the work uniform– and the dungarees have my last name written on the ass."
"Written… on the ass…” I’m trying to picture this. I’m thinking like the Juicy Couture logo velour pants that are so disturbingly ubiquitous.
“Just above the left pocket,” he says. “He’s this hippie lookin’ dude, all shaggy and unkempt, and he’s got flowers embroidered on the dungarees. So I say, 'hey, man, where’d you get those pants?’ and he’s all defensive about it. Finally he says they were a gift, someone had given them to him. I managed to pry out who had given them to him, and it was a coworker of mine at the lab in college, a few years back; I’d given her two pairs of mine. So they were my pants after all.”
I’m still a few minutes back. “Wait, the Navy writes your name on your ass?”
“It’s pretty small,” he says. “Just above the left pocket. So you get your clothes back from the ship laundry. Everything’s labeled.” He thinks about that. “Wait, the Army doesn’t write your name on all the pieces of your uniform?”
“No,” I say. “At least, not anywhere visible."
"So you just get whoever’s underwear back from the laundry, huh?"
I hadn’t ever thought about it. "I don’t actually know how it works,” I confess. My dad was National Guard the whole time I was growing up so he just always did his own laundry.
K laughs again. “One time I was changing at the gym, a little while after I got out of the service, and these old guys were staring at me, and after getting really creeped out I realized they were discussing whether my underwear was Navy-issue or not. Which it was. But I still was a little creeped out."
This one isn’t as interesting as the others, I think, but I want to stay in the habit, and all the really cool stories, he won’t let me share– the Special Forces ones with burnt bodies and sniper rifles and so on– so I’m filling space while I work on the Sea World series. Oh yes. Sea World. Brace yourselves.
“When my parents babysat my sister’s dog for her while she was in Iraq,” I say, “they were worried that since it was a whole year, and she was so young, she might forget about her ‘real’ parents. But one day Dad came down dressed in his BDUs for National Guard, and Scout got extremely excited and confused.”
Neither K nor S seem to know what BDUs are and I remember belatedly that the Army and Navy aren’t the same thing. “The Battle Dress Uniform– the camoflage dealie they wear most of the time? Dad’s uniform was identical to my sister’s, and brother-in-law’s. Actually when she got married she gave Dad some of her shirts and all her old name tapes with her maiden name on them, since she changed to her husband’s name.”
K laughs suddenly. “So one day I was walking down the streets of [city], and this guy goes by me, wearing Navy dungarees– they’re pretty distinctive, the trousers that go with the work uniform– and the dungarees have my last name written on the ass."
"Written… on the ass…” I’m trying to picture this. I’m thinking like the Juicy Couture logo velour pants that are so disturbingly ubiquitous.
“Just above the left pocket,” he says. “He’s this hippie lookin’ dude, all shaggy and unkempt, and he’s got flowers embroidered on the dungarees. So I say, 'hey, man, where’d you get those pants?’ and he’s all defensive about it. Finally he says they were a gift, someone had given them to him. I managed to pry out who had given them to him, and it was a coworker of mine at the lab in college, a few years back; I’d given her two pairs of mine. So they were my pants after all.”
I’m still a few minutes back. “Wait, the Navy writes your name on your ass?”
“It’s pretty small,” he says. “Just above the left pocket. So you get your clothes back from the ship laundry. Everything’s labeled.” He thinks about that. “Wait, the Army doesn’t write your name on all the pieces of your uniform?”
“No,” I say. “At least, not anywhere visible."
"So you just get whoever’s underwear back from the laundry, huh?"
I hadn’t ever thought about it. "I don’t actually know how it works,” I confess. My dad was National Guard the whole time I was growing up so he just always did his own laundry.
K laughs again. “One time I was changing at the gym, a little while after I got out of the service, and these old guys were staring at me, and after getting really creeped out I realized they were discussing whether my underwear was Navy-issue or not. Which it was. But I still was a little creeped out."
This one isn’t as interesting as the others, I think, but I want to stay in the habit, and all the really cool stories, he won’t let me share– the Special Forces ones with burnt bodies and sniper rifles and so on– so I’m filling space while I work on the Sea World series. Oh yes. Sea World. Brace yourselves.
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Date: 2018-12-16 12:53 pm (UTC)