Master of the Moon

by Dale Gustafson

            I flipped on the TV and popped open a can of beer.  It was a few minutes past the hour and I was in a hurry to catch the headlines before dinner.  It must have been a slow news day, lots of human interest stuff in the lead.  I was just about to change the channel when...

             "Tourists in New York City saw more than they bargained for at the top of the World Trade Center today," said the commentator.  "According to witnesses, a middle aged man broke away from the tour group, climbed to a high point on the observation deck, pulled his pants down to his ankles, and burst into a chorus of 'If they could see me now!' Stunned on-lookers summoned the police who were able to subdue the man before an encore performance."

            "My god" I mumbled to myself, "Could it be him?"  My mind was taken back twenty years and I was in the army again...

             Not many people can ever claim that they are the best at something.  World champions are far and few between.  There is only one Green Jacket in the Grand Master's Golf Tournament, only a few Super Bowl Rings passed out, and only a few people take home a Gold Medal from the Olympics. 

             I once had the great pleasure of working with a World Champion.  His sport was not mainstream, but his attitude and outlook had a profound impact on my life. 

             It was the Spring of 1976 and I was an Army Infantry Corporal assigned to Fort Lewis near Tacoma, Washington.  Like other infantry companies at the post, we were assigned to the "North Fort" where the barracks were all vintage World War II temporary bungalows.  They were white with green trim, two stories high and aligned in uniform rows of ten or twelve.  Situated between each of these rows were smaller buildings used as company headquarters and supply rooms.  Even though the buildings were old, they were freshly painted, clean and neat.

             "Captain Trinkle wants to see you Gus," sang Sergeant Sanders with a "You're in trouble now..." type of tone to his voice.

             Sanders was our platoon Sergeant.  Not many of the men liked him:  he talked with a slight lisp and walked with a strange gate to his step.  Most of the men thought he was either a homo or just a wimp that couldn't be trusted in a tight spot.  On the other hand, I'd known Sanders for more than a year, and I knew his secret.  I requested to be put in his platoon when I was forced back to a line company.  Although he never talked about it, his lisp and walk were the result of wounds he received at the hands of his Viet Cong captors during interrogation.  I found this out by accident when I was working with the DD 214 personnel files.  You don't see Congressional Citations very often, but it was his secret and I felt it was only right to respect it.

             "Do you know what it's about," I sang, mimicking the tone he had used.

             "He asked for you in person, and we all know how much he loves you Gus," said Sanders.  Then the gay tone left his voice and he became a real Platoon Sergeant, "Go see what that worthless little prick wants and let me know if you need any help."

             Sanders and I shared a dislike for Captain Trinkle.  Trinkle was a short man, about 5'4".  He had a "short man complex" and was constantly trying to show his authority by bossing everyone around.  As a leader, he was worthless.  As an administrator, he was the king of bureaucrats. 

             Captain Trinkle didn't like me for two reasons.  The first, because I was taller than him, but so was everyone else in the company.  The second, because of an incident in the field where I embarrassed him in front of the whole Battalion and our General.  He had given me the "shit job" of digging a parapet (fox hole) for a training demonstration.  I assumed that I would be the one jumping in and out of the hole so I dug it for my height.  When it was time for the demonstration we were surprised that the Commanding General of the 6th Army and his staff would be attending.  Immediately Trinkle pulled me off the detail so that he could replace me.  He never missed a chance to "brown nose" the brass.  The demonstration started and he jumped into the hole before I could tell him my mistake... (Ok, maybe I did have time to tell him...) To make a long story short, he couldn't get out of the hole without some help.  Everyone, except Trinkle, found this to be exceptionally funny. 

             I figured I was about to get another "shit job" from Trinkle.  I took off my hat as I entered the Headquarters building and let Bill Rampp, our Company Clerk, know I was here to see the Captain.  Before the clerk could inform him, Trinkle burst out of his office and summoned me in.  It was obvious he had been watching for me.

             "I've got a little assignment for you Gus," said Trinkle with a cheerful tone to his voice, "come on in and I'll tell you all about it."

             My first instinct was to turn and run.  I looked over at Bill the Company Clerk and could see he was as shocked as I was.  It seemed that Trinkle was actually trying to be nice to me.  Like a deer frozen in the headlights of an oncoming truck, I was dumbfounded and couldn't run.  I went into his office.

             "Meet Corporal Copeland," Trinkle said as he pointed across the room to a short (but still taller than Trinkle), thin man with a heavy black mustache, army issue black glasses and neatly starched uniform.  "Copeland is your new room mate and is a REAL Mortar Platoon Squad Leader I'm sure he will be able to teach you a lot."

             Trinkle used to try an play up the fact that I had no mortar experience.  He was right, I didn't know anything about mortars.  Before coming to this unit all my assignments were either infantry or Supply and Logistic jobs.

             "I want you to help Copeland settle in," said Trinkle, "I've cleared you from the duty rooster for today, show him around the base."

             "Yes Sir," I responded.  I looked over at Copeland who was standing at a Parade Rest position, breaking the stance every minute or so to shove his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.  In the back of my mind I was thinking, "I'd rather dig another parapet than play tour guide to some nerdish looking lifer."  Trinkle had struck a nerve, and he knew it.

             Copeland struggled to pick up his duffel bag and a suit case while I watched, waiting to see if he would fall flat on his face.  Every few steps, he would pause to push his glasses up to their proper position.  We were half way across the compound to the barracks before I took the duffel bag away from him.

             "This is your new home," I said as we entered the barracks, "Our room is on the second floor."

             Copeland followed me up the stairs to the room and dropped his bag just outside the door.

             "Do you have a car?" he asked

             "Sure," I replied, a bit stunned that Copeland could actually talk.

             "Great, let's get out of here!"  Copeland was a different person now.  Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the spit-and-polish trooper that I had picked up form the office was now a party animal looking for action.

             "Whoa, wait a minute here," I said with a confused look on my face.  "I'm usually a good judge of characters like you.  Wouldn't you rather buff the floor or shine your boots, or some­thing like that?"

             "You actually bought that act?" Said Copeland with a laugh.  "How long have you been in the army?  Don't you know how to play the game?"

             "The game?" I replied.

             "Yeah, the game." Said Copeland.  "The game where you keep guys like Trinkle happy by letting them think that they are very important.  We know what the reality is; how stupid and insignificant he really is, but when you let him think he is important, you can get away with just about anything."

             For the second time in the same day, I was dumbfounded.  It was all an act.  Copeland wasn't a spit-and-polish trooper, he was just a regular guy who had found a way to survive the army until his tour of duty was up.  He had also made a point, he had fooled Trinkle completely.  But get away with anything?

             "What do you mean, get away with anything?" I inquired, expecting some type of verbal example.

             "Watch this," Copeland said as he opened my window facing the compound and Trinkle's Office.  "Hey Trinkle," he yelled out the window, "Hey Trinkle you short little shit, I hear short people have penis envy, come out here I've got something for you to be envious about."

             I was now frozen with fear.  I could see Trinkle hanging out of his office window scanning the compound for the source of the obscenity directed at him.  I thought this was the end of the assault, but I was wrong.

             "I'm up here you little shit head," yelled Copeland.  Cope­land had dropped his pants to his ankles, hung his bare ass out the window and was wiggling it back and forth in full view of the Captain.

             Trinkle was absolutely livid.  He banged the back of his head on the window ledge as he jumped back into his office.  Obviously he was rushing to our barracks to see who the ass belonged to.

             "I suggest we head for the latrine," said Copeland as he dashed by me still pulling his pants up.

             I was right behind him as we dashed to the far side of the barracks, flew down the stars and into the downstairs latrine.  We had a noisy old Maytag washer and dryer there, Copeland turned them both on and stood there next to the washer very nonchalant­ly, I took a somewhat less dignified position on the first commode.

             We had barely taken our positions when we heard Captain Trinkle storm into the barracks and run up the stairs.  He was closely followed by the Duty Officer and the Company Clerk.

             "Where's that son of a bitch at," screamed Trinkle, his high pitched voice cracking with anger, "where is Gus."

             "Sir," yelled Copeland in his professional tone of voice, "Sir, Gus and I are in the downstairs latrine."

             The foot shuffling upstairs changed direction and headed back towards the stairs.

             "Let me do the talking," said Copeland, "you just agree with what I say and play dumb."

             "I think I can play that part," I replied.

             The lynch mob stormed into the latrine and Trinkle was on the attack immediately.

             "I'm going to nail your ass this time Gus," Trinkle yelled.  He was obviously mad and was actually frothing at the mouth. "Did you really think you could get away with sticking your ass out your window at me."

             I played my part well.  Still seated on the toilet, with the Captain yelling at me and all these people standing around, the only thing I could do was make a dumb face and utter "huh?"

             "Sir," interrupted Copeland, "I've been with Corporal Gus since we left your office a few minutes ago.  I'm certain I would have noticed if he had stuck his ass out of any windows."

             Now it was Trinkle's turn to make a dumb face and utter "huh?."

             "Could you identify the buttocks if you saw it again sir?" asked Lieutenant White, the Duty Officer.  White wanted to be an MP, and a crime like this offered him the opportunity to show his investigative skills.

 "A few people, including myself, saw this gyrating buttocks Sir," explained White, "I'm sure I could identify it if I saw it again."

             "You must have a trained eye," complemented Copeland.

             "That's right," boosted Lieutenant White.

             "I guess I could identify it, if I saw it again," said Trinkle

             "This is a simple matter than," said Copeland.  "All you have to do is look at everyone's buttocks until you find the guilty party."

             At this point, Bill Ramp the Clerk, excused himself.  As soon as the latrine door shut behind him, we could hear him laughing hysterically until he left the barracks.

             "Let's see your buttocks Corporal Gus," ordered Lieutenant White.

             I glanced over at Copeland.  Standing behind the two Offi­cers, he was grinning from ear to ear and nodding his head up and down for me to comply with the order.

             I stood up, did an about face and bent over.

             "Does that look like the one to you sir?" asked Lieutenant White.

             "I'm not sure," replied Trinkle.

             "Maybe you should gyrate for them Corporal Gus," injected Copeland.

             I started to swung my ass back and forth a bit when the latrine door opened and Sergeant Sanders walked in.

             "My God," screamed Sanders, "What the hell is going on in here!  What the hell are you doing in my latrine?"

             Before anyone else had a chance to speak, Copeland offered his helpful explanation.  "Captain Trinkle and Lieutenant White will be looking at everyone's buttocks until they find the right one Sergeant."

             "Bullshit," snapped Sanders, "The Officers have seen enough enlisted man ass for today, and they will now get the hell out of my latrine!

             "This is definitely the wrong buttocks," commented Lieutenant White.  "The one we're looking for is much smaller and much hairier."

             "Shut up White," snapped Trinkle over his shoulder as he lead Lieutenant White out of the latrine.

             "I'm reporting this incident to the Post Inspector General sir," said Sanders to Trinkle.  (Within two weeks, both Captain Trinkle and Lieutenant White were quietly transferred to other units.)

             "My name is Brian," said Copeland, "but my friends call me 'Moon' because I'm the best 'mooner' in the world.  I'll do it anywhere, anyplace, anytime."

             Copeland was "Master of the Moon" all right.  The little adventure during the first few minutes we met was just an opener for his talent.  Later that same day, while stopped at a traffic light next to two of Tacoma's finest in a patrol unit.  I decided to test Copeland's word.

            "Do it now," I said.  The words had barley gotten out of my mouth when he was leaning out the passenger window and tapping on the officers window next to us.

            "Excuse me officer," said Copeland, "have you seen the slapping salami?

            "The what?" replied the unsuspecting officer driving the patrol car.

            "Let me show you," said Copeland.  Quick as a flash, he had his butt out the window and was twisting it back and forth so fast that his penis made a slapping sound each time it hit his thigh.

            The light turned green and I drove off trying to ignore the demented guy in the passenger seat.  I was certain we would be headed for jail, but when I looked in the rear view mirror, the patrol car had not moved.  He was still at the light, the driver had a stunned look on his face and his partner was laughing hysterically.  I made a couple of quick right turns and got on the freeway.

            One day Copeland mooned a car full of college students.  By the time we reached the next block, they were mooning us back.  "More converts," said Copeland.

            For that whole summer, no one from Seattle to Olympia was safe from the "slapping salami", "meat loaf" or the "pressed ham."  A day didn't go by when the local papers didn't report the brutal "mooning" of a group of old ladies on their way home from church, or the arrest of some radical college student with his pants down to his ankles.

            Copeland's time in service ended in early October of 1977.  I remember the day he left as if it was yesterday.  It was a crisp, fall morning and we had a few minutes before a battalion muster.  That's where every company in the battalion gather on the parade grounds in front of the battalion headquarters.  Bill Rampp and I helped him take his luggage to the parking lot.  I shook his hand and took his picture by an old 56 Chevy Impala he had fixed up for the drive back to Rochester, New York.

            "Drop us a letter to let us know you made it OK," I said.

            "What the hell do you have an old broom handle in the front seat for?" asked Bill Rampp.

            "It's a surprise," said Copeland, "you'll see."

            The First Sergeant blew his whistle, the signal for us to form up for the short march to the Battalion muster.  We hurriedly wished him luck and trotted back to the company assembly area.

            A few minutes later, we stood in formation with about 1,200 others on the battalion parade grounds.  Addressing us from a small raised platform was our Battalion Commander, Colonel Issaco.  He never really had anything important to say, I think he just liked to look at his troops;  the same way a stamp collector likes to look at his stamps, he was proud of us and liked to show us off every time someone came to visit.

            The Colonel was about five minutes into his speech when a car appeared on the road that ran adjacent to the parade field.  At first, no one paid any attention.  But as the car got closer, it blasted its horn and revved its engine.  The Colonel stopped talking and turned to see this distraction.

            It was Copeland, and the secret of the broom handle was now apparent.  He used it to work the gas pedal, giving him the ability to "moon" and drive at the same time.

            "Moon!  Moon!  Moon!" was yelled by virtually everyone in the assembly as Copeland made his triumphant pass.  Copeland waved to the battalion in his own special way, and we all waved back, even the Colonel.

            My wife tells me that Copeland's accomplishments don't rank with the likes of Arnold Palmer or Magic Johnson.  I suppose she's right, but Brian had a love for his sport, just as much as any professional athlete.  More importantly, he had the attitude of a champion.  He always maintained a positive outlook, and could be trusted with your wallet or your life. 

            "God made everyone a world champion," Copeland once explained to me. "The trick is to find out what you're the world champion of..."

***

"You're lucky, things could be worse."

by Dale Gustafson 

            I have a deep disdain for morons who insist on saying, "You're lucky, things could be worse."  These are the people who greet you at the emergency room where you've gone to have stitches or a broken arm set, or the people who stand on the shore next to you as you watch the ocean sweep your house out to sea.  In fact, even someone in your own family is probably one of these idiots.  They masquerade as someone concerned for your welfare, but they are actually there to twist the knife in your wound. 

            It was about twenty years ago when my entire life was at its lowest ebb.  My father died, he had been retired for about a year and we were just getting to know each other again.  I had just gone through a divorce that had virtually bankrupt me, both financially and emotionally.  My employer decided to cut his expenses by laying me off, and greeted me with the news the day I returned from a successful business trip.   When I arrived home, after being away for three weeks, I discover that my house had been burglarized and vandalized. 

            During the divorce, it had taken every cent I had to hold on to the small old house and a few sticks of furniture.  It was all I had, and now it was gone.

            After the police reports and an examination of how extensive the damage was, I sat down on what was once a sofa and now only a pile of wood, torn leather and yellow stuffing.  I used a cheap plastic phone I had borrowed from a neighbor's teen-ager to call my Friend Dan, who had been taking care of my dog.  At least the dog would be glad to see me and be some comfort.  I told Dan of the home destruction, he already knew my other problems.  He said he'd be right over.

            The home was now a collection of graffiti painted walls and destroyed furniture.  What the punks couldn't steal or didn't want, they destroyed.  There was a dead cat in the refrigerator and human feces spread throughout every room in the place.  There were holes in the plaster, burns in the carpet and every personal valuable I had collected in the military and as a civilian was either destroyed or stolen.  Apparently this had gone on for a number of days, and my wonderful neighbors never noticed a thing.

            I was devastated.  I sat there for more than an hour with a variety of emotions running through me.  I was mad; angry enough to kill the punks who did this.  I was deeply hurt and wanted comfort, but I had no one, and that made the sadness that much deeper.  I was even confused, wondering what I would do next and how I would put the pieces of my life back into some semblance of order.  I had no clothes other than what I had carried with me on the business trip, no money, and no job.

            A car pulled up and I heard the familiar bark of my old dog.  He was nothing more than a mutt I had gotten from the pound, but he had been a good companion over the years.  He was old, but he still waged his tail and loved to be at my side.  His name was Roman because when he was a puppy, he had a tendency to roam around the neighborhood and visit everyone.  He was a big dog, a mix of Doberman and Black Lab, but he was gentile enough to play with small children and old people.  He had only one fault, he would eat until he exploded if you let him.

            Old Roman trotted in the open side door of the house and came to an immediate halt.  His eyes got big as he looked around the room in doggy disbelief.  I'm sure he was thinking that someone was in real trouble, he probably had vivid memories of how he was punished for chewing on a leg for the coffee table and couldn't imagine what the punishment for this type of damage would be.  After the momentary shock, he realized that I had returned and he rushed over to greet me.

            Roman loved to be hugged and at that moment in time, I needed to hug him more than anything else in the world.  Regardless of everything that had happened to me in my life, Roman was there to be my friend. 

            Dan walked into the house and was shocked at the damage. 

            "I've never seen anything like it," he exclaimed. 

            In his vain effort to console me, he made that stupid remark that so many unthinking morons have a tendency to say in such a situation.

            "You're lucky," said Dan, "it could have been worse."

            "I'm lucky?"  I replied with a sarcastic tone, "Things could be worse?" 

            Dan just stood there with a dumbfounded look on his face.

            "Tell me Dan," I snapped, "tell me how things could be any worse?"

            At that very moment, Roman gave out a strange sounding yelp, fell to his side and went into convulsions.  Dan and I rushed him to the Veterinary Hospital where he died about an hour later. 

            I consider myself an emotionally strong person.  During the past few months my father had died, I had gone through a terrible divorce,  lost my job, and the house had been ransacked.  Through it all I never shed a tear, not until the vet told me that Roman was dead.  It was the final blow to my wall against emotions and everything came out.  I started crying and couldn't stop, I was so full of rage and pain that I had to strike out against something...  I put my fist through the wall of the Vet's office.

            It was now my turn to be rushed to the hospital, my right hand was badly cut and some minor bones were broken.  I was set in a small cubical where an overworked intern treated my wound and sent me on my way.  Dan had made the unfortunate decision to wait for me. 

            Dan and I were in the hospital parking lot heading for the car when Dan made another vain attempt to make me feel better.

            "You know," he stammered, "you're lucky, it could have been worse."

            I dropped Dan with a left hook to the jaw.