Her name was Sergeant Darling, and when she laid eyes on my unlocked wall locker, I could tell it was love at first sight. With a squeal of glee, she tosses my stuff. Me, flinching as each item bounces off the perfectly polished squad room floor, leaving marks and the promise of another late night of stripping it and laying a shiny coat of don’t-trod-on-me wax.
When finished dismantling all my hard work of organizing and folding and being diligent, she says, “now private, gather it all in your duffle, and since you’re too dumb to secure your belongings, we’ll need you to carry it all with you wherever you go.”
I nod because what else can I do, plus I have shin-splints and a profile that says I can’t lift anything over twenty-five pounds.
I tell her this, and she responds, “Shit someone’s battle-buddy ain’t gonna be happy, are they?
Mine didn’t care. His name was Brock Lesner, and four years after being forced to carry all my shit on his back, he won the NCAA heavyweight wrestling championship, and then a few years after that, a bunch of world-titles in the UFC.
Getting fucked by a drill sergeant was nothing to that dude.
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