Against advice, I'm posting what I'm writing for #NaNoWriMo
Here is my first two days of output (907 words):
You, In The Navy
You arrive at the Transit Barracks, find a rack, introduce yourself to a fellow scared kid, he tells you to put your sea bag in the floor locker box at the head of the bunk bed, you lock it.
You both find the Mess Hall on the map, plan a route and walk to it. As in basic training, you get a tray, flatware go in line along the steam table accepting whatever bland food is served up. You and your new buddy sit across from each other at a long table in the loud room filled with chattering eating dungareed sailors.
Looking around snatching bits of conversation you don’t see any one you really need to know or watch out for, you plan to avoid them all, if you can. Your new buddy talks, you talk back, trying not to say too much. Hurry up and wait, that was what you do at this base. A Petty Officer tells you to move fast to another location, when you get there, another Petty Officer there tells you to get in line. The days pass this way. Lining up for medical checks, shots, various affronts and assaults - work assignments. One bit of work is tearing apart cardboard boxes with another random guy, stacking them flat. Another assignment is standing by a mess cook who is deep frying frozen breaded cubed steaks until they show a little color and dumping them out on a sheet pan that is slid into a cabinet. You are there in case the cook needs something. "Stay back," he says. "Take a smoke break," he gesturs to a side room. You join a few others there and lite up. Tarringtons with a recessed tip. Fruity cigs. You decide to make your next pack Marlboros, you're not in the Drama department anymore. You like the stevedore work when you get assigned, accepting a box from the guy on one side, passing it to the guy on the other side, over and over. Scores of guys to unload trucks, stack boxes in a warehouse. "Why do you use all these men to move this stuff?"
A sailor asks the Chief.
"Why don't you get some conveyor belts and a forklift?" the guy continues.
"We've got the guys." the Chief answers good naturedly. You get the assignment to carry groceries from check stand to commissary customers' cars.
"I like this duty." Someone else says. "All those fine ladies." he adds.
"Ah, man, you’re going try to score with some other Navyman's wife?"
"Hey! Who's talking about scoring? I'm just putting some groceries in their trunk."
"I'd like to put something else in them!" a third guy yucks.
"You guys got no morals." the second guy says. "how would like some salt cappin' on your lady while you're overseas?". "Don't worry about it, farmboy. I ain't married and I'm not overseas" the first guy's illogic ends it.
You figure the first guy's bigger, you don't turn to see him. All you're thinking how did you ever got in this company and what kind of lady you'll be carrying groceries for. It's your turn to help, she's pretty and dark, has bright eyes. After you loaded the last bag into her car. She hands you a dollar, "Get yourself a beer tonight," she smiles. You don’t tell her that it will be three years until you're legal to drink, you say thanks. In the barracks, you're laying on your rack reading Bertrand Russell. Your buddy from the first day notices, says he prefers Whitehead and you wonder why you can't be the only one who reads English philosophers. You have a rival and you don't like it. After a painful discussion where you try to honor dear ol Bert, but mostly get slaughtered by your former buddy who has read all the Russel you have and all the Whitehead you haven't. You think Tom was right, you should just get all your philosophy from fiction. As he put it, "if guy can't put together a story to demonstrate his philosophic insights, he doesn't understand them." You get an evening off-base and go with your comrade to the Long Beach Pike. The Pike is your home, your parents have been taking you there since you were little. You used to ride that rickety old wooden roller coaster in the front seat after the time you and your Dad rode it in a middle seat and some "teenage donkey" riding ahead of us threw a bottle into the forest of supports at bottom of the first hill, sprinkling your Dad with bits of glass smelling like booze. Walking through the Pike is different now. The whole place seems ready to rip you off like an out of town sailor, even if you’re local. Some smeary-faced harpy asks if you want a date, you say no thanks. You hear a couple of carney call out from a baseball throwing concession, “take two throws for free.” You take the throws and the Carny demanded payment, some argument, a witness collaborating their side and you pay. Your comrade mutters about beating the shit out of those guys and you suggest a return to base, read some English philosophers, stop walking around in this world in sucker suits.
You both find the Mess Hall on the map, plan a route and walk to it. As in basic training, you get a tray, flatware go in line along the steam table accepting whatever bland food is served up. You and your new buddy sit across from each other at a long table in the loud room filled with chattering eating dungareed sailors.
Looking around snatching bits of conversation you don’t see any one you really need to know or watch out for, you plan to avoid them all, if you can. Your new buddy talks, you talk back, trying not to say too much. Hurry up and wait, that was what you do at this base. A Petty Officer tells you to move fast to another location, when you get there, another Petty Officer there tells you to get in line. The days pass this way. Lining up for medical checks, shots, various affronts and assaults - work assignments. One bit of work is tearing apart cardboard boxes with another random guy, stacking them flat. Another assignment is standing by a mess cook who is deep frying frozen breaded cubed steaks until they show a little color and dumping them out on a sheet pan that is slid into a cabinet. You are there in case the cook needs something. "Stay back," he says. "Take a smoke break," he gesturs to a side room. You join a few others there and lite up. Tarringtons with a recessed tip. Fruity cigs. You decide to make your next pack Marlboros, you're not in the Drama department anymore. You like the stevedore work when you get assigned, accepting a box from the guy on one side, passing it to the guy on the other side, over and over. Scores of guys to unload trucks, stack boxes in a warehouse. "Why do you use all these men to move this stuff?"
A sailor asks the Chief.
"Why don't you get some conveyor belts and a forklift?" the guy continues.
"We've got the guys." the Chief answers good naturedly. You get the assignment to carry groceries from check stand to commissary customers' cars.
"I like this duty." Someone else says. "All those fine ladies." he adds.
"Ah, man, you’re going try to score with some other Navyman's wife?"
"Hey! Who's talking about scoring? I'm just putting some groceries in their trunk."
"I'd like to put something else in them!" a third guy yucks.
"You guys got no morals." the second guy says. "how would like some salt cappin' on your lady while you're overseas?". "Don't worry about it, farmboy. I ain't married and I'm not overseas" the first guy's illogic ends it.
You figure the first guy's bigger, you don't turn to see him. All you're thinking how did you ever got in this company and what kind of lady you'll be carrying groceries for. It's your turn to help, she's pretty and dark, has bright eyes. After you loaded the last bag into her car. She hands you a dollar, "Get yourself a beer tonight," she smiles. You don’t tell her that it will be three years until you're legal to drink, you say thanks. In the barracks, you're laying on your rack reading Bertrand Russell. Your buddy from the first day notices, says he prefers Whitehead and you wonder why you can't be the only one who reads English philosophers. You have a rival and you don't like it. After a painful discussion where you try to honor dear ol Bert, but mostly get slaughtered by your former buddy who has read all the Russel you have and all the Whitehead you haven't. You think Tom was right, you should just get all your philosophy from fiction. As he put it, "if guy can't put together a story to demonstrate his philosophic insights, he doesn't understand them." You get an evening off-base and go with your comrade to the Long Beach Pike. The Pike is your home, your parents have been taking you there since you were little. You used to ride that rickety old wooden roller coaster in the front seat after the time you and your Dad rode it in a middle seat and some "teenage donkey" riding ahead of us threw a bottle into the forest of supports at bottom of the first hill, sprinkling your Dad with bits of glass smelling like booze. Walking through the Pike is different now. The whole place seems ready to rip you off like an out of town sailor, even if you’re local. Some smeary-faced harpy asks if you want a date, you say no thanks. You hear a couple of carney call out from a baseball throwing concession, “take two throws for free.” You take the throws and the Carny demanded payment, some argument, a witness collaborating their side and you pay. Your comrade mutters about beating the shit out of those guys and you suggest a return to base, read some English philosophers, stop walking around in this world in sucker suits.
