Groom Winston. Gump & Company

   While little Forrest waited by the door, I gone over an introduced mysef, an tole her why I was there.
   “Fine,” Elaine says, “but you come a little early. Most folks don’t start showin up here for another four or five hours.”
   “What? They eat someplace else an come in here later?” last.
   “No, you dummy. They are all at cocktail parties or plays or openings or somethin. This is a late-night place.”
   “Well, you mind if we set down an have our food?”
   “Go right ahead.”
   “Any idea which famous people will be showin up later?” I ast.
   “It’ll be the usual suspects, I guess. Barbra Streisand, Woody Allen, Kurt Vonnegut, George Plimpton, Lauren Bacall—who knows, maybe Paul Newman or Jack Nicholson’s in town.”
   “They all come here?”
   “Sometimes—but listen, there is one rule, and you can’t violate it. There will be no goin over to these famous people’s tables and disturbin them. No picture taking, no tape recording, no nothin. Now, you just sit right at that big round table. That’s the ‘family table,’ an if any famous people come in that don’t have other arrangements, I will put them there, an you can talk to them.”
   So that’s what we did, little Forrest an me. We ate our supper an dessert an then a second dessert, but ain’t but a handful of people have arrived at Elaine’s. I could tell little Forrest was bored, but I figger this is my last chance to impress him with New York, an just about the time I see him squirmin to leave, the door opens an who should be comin in but Elizabeth Taylor.
   After that, the place begun to fill up very fast. Bruce Willis an Donald Trump an Cher, the movie star. Sure enough, in comes George Plimpton with his friend, a Mister Spinelli, an the writer William Styron. Woody Allen arrives with a whole entourage, as does the writers Kurt Vonnegut an Norman Mailer an Robert Ludlum. They was all sorts of beautiful people, wearin expensive clothes an furs. I had read about some of them in the papers, an was tryin to explain who they was to little Forrest.
   Unfortunately, all of them seem to have other plans, an are sittin with each other, an not with us. After a while, Elaine comes over an sets down, I guess so we do not feel too lonely.
   “I guess it’s a light night for bachelors,” she says.
   “Yup,” I says. “But even if we can’t talk to them, maybe you could tell us what they is talkin about with each other—just to give little Forrest an idea of what famous people talk about.”
   “Talk about?” says Elaine. “Well, the movie stars, they are talkin about themselves, I imagine.”
   “What about the writers?” I ast.
   “Writers?” she says. “Huh. They are talkin about what they always talk about—baseball, money, and pieces of ass.”
   About this time the door open an a feller come in, an Elaine motions him over to the table to sit down.
   “Mr. Gump, I want you to meet Tom Hanks,” she says.
   “Pleased to meet you,” I say, an introduce him to little Forrest.
   “I’ve seen you,” little Forrest says, “on television.”
   “You an actor?” I ast.
   “Sure am,” Tom Hanks says. “What about you?”
   So I tole him a little bit about my checkered career, an after he listened for a while, Tom Hanks says, “Well, Mr. Gump, you are sure a curious feller. Sounds like somebody ought to make a movie of your life’s story.”
   “Nah,” I says, “ain’t nobody be interested in somethin stupid like that.”
   “You never know,” says Tom Hanks. “ ‘Life is like a box of chocolates.’ By the way, I just happen to have a box of chocolates right here—You wanna buy some?”
   “Nah, I don’t think so, I ain’t big on chocolates—but thanks, anyhow.”
   Tom Hanks looks at me kinda funny. “Well, ‘stupid is as stupid looks,’ I always say.” An at that, he gets up an goes to another table.
 
   Next mornin, there is a serious disturbance at Ivan Bozosky’s offices.
   “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” shouts Miss Hudgins. “They have arrested Mr. Bozosky!”
   “Who have?” I ast.
   “The police,” she hollered. “Who else arrests people! They have taken him to jail!”
   “What’d he do?”
   “Insider trading!” she yelled. “They have accused him of insider trading!”
   “But I am the president of the insider trading division,” I says. “How come they didn’t arrest me?”
   “It ain’t too late for that, bigshot.” The voice belonged to a big ole ugly-lookin detective who was standin in the doorway. Behind him was two cops in uniforms.
   “You just come along peaceful, now, an there won’t be any trouble.”
   I done what he tole me, but his last line was pure bullshit.
 
   So I am thowed in jail again. I might of known all this couldn’t last forever, but I didn’t expect there would be such a big deal about it all. Not only have they arrested Ivan Bozosky, but they have thowed Mike Mulligan in jail, too, an various other folks in the bidness. Miss Hudgins is also locked up as a “material witness.” They give me one phone call to make, so I phoned little Forrest at the Helmsley an tole him I would not be home for supper. I just could not bring mysef to say his daddy was in the jug again.
   Anyhow, Ivan, he is in the ajoinin cell to mine, an to my surprise, he is lookin rather chipper.
   “Well, Gump, I believe the time has come for you to do your trained bear act,” he says.
   “Yeah, what is that?”
   “Just what you did for Colonel North—lie, cover up, take the blame.”
   “For who?”
   “For me, you stupo! Why in hell do you think I made you president of my insider trading division? Because of your brains and good looks? To take the heat, in case of something like this, is why I hired you.”
   “Oh,” I says. I might of knowed there was a catch.
 
   Over the next few days, I am interrogated by about a hundrit cops an lawyers an investigators for all sorts of financial agencies. But I don’t tell em nothin. I just kep my big mouth shut, which pissed em off royally, but ain’t nothin they can do. They is so many of them, I can’t tell which is representin me an Mr. Bozosky an Mike Mulligan, an who is against us. Don’t matter. I am quiet as a clam.
   One day the jail guard come by, say I got a visitor. When I gone into the visitors room, sure enough, it was little Forrest.
   “How’d you find out?” I ast.
   “How could I not find out? It’s been all over the papers and television. Folks are sayin it’s the biggest scandal since Teapot Dome.”
   “Since who?”
   “Never mind,” he says. “Anyway, I finally got to meet Mrs. Helmsley, who you said was sposed to be so nice.”
   “Oh, yeah? She takin good care of you?”
   “Sure—she thowed me out.”
   “Did what?”
   “Thowed us out, bag and baggage, on the street. Said she don’t feature no crook livin in her hotel.”
   “So how you gettin by?”
   “I got a job washin dishes.”
   “Well, I got some money in the bank. There’s a checkbook someplace in my stuff. You can use it to get a place to stay till you gotta go home. Might even be enough to make my bail outta here.”
   “Yeah, all right,” he says. “Looks like you really done it this time, though.”
   In this, little Forrest seems correct.
 
   After the bail was paid, I was free to go for the time bein. But not far. Me an little Forrest rented a walk-up flat in a neighborhood filled with criminals an beggars an ladies of the night.
   Little Forrest was interested to know what I’m gonna do when the trial is helt an, to tell the truth, I dunno mysef. I mean, I was hired to take the fall, an there is a certain amount of honor in doin what you is sposed to do. On the other hand, it kinda don’t seem fair for me to spend the rest of my life in the slammer just so’s Ivan Bozosky an Mike Mulligan can go on livin the high life. One day, little Forrest pipes up with a request.
   “You know, I wouldn’t mind goin out to the Statue of Liberty again,” he says. “I sort of enjoyed that trip.”
   So that’s what we did.
   We took the excursion boat out to the statue, an it was all pretty an gleamin in the afternoon sunshine. We stopped an read the inscription about the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” an then we gone on up to the top of the torch, an looked out across the harbor at New York, with all the tall buildins that seemed like they go right on up into the clouds.
   “You gonna rat them out, or what?” little Forrest ast.
   “Rat who out?”
   “Ivan Bozosky an Mike Mulligan.”
   “I dunno—Why?”
   “Cause you better be thinkin about it an make a decision,” he says.
   “I been thinkin about it—I just don’t know what to do.”
   “Rattin’s not very nice,” he says. “You didn’t rat out Colonel North…”
   “Yeah, an look where it got me—thowed in the can.”
   “Well, I took a lot of guff about that at school, but I’d of probably taken more if you’d finked on him.”
   In this, little Forrest is probly correct. I just stood there on top of the Statue of Liberty, wonderin an thinkin—which is not my specialty—an worryin, which is—an finally I shook my head.
   “Sometimes,” I says, “a man’s got to do the right thing.”
 
   Anyways, the time for our trial has finally arrived. We is herded into a big federal courtroom where the prosecutor is a Mr. Guguglianti, who looks like he oughta be mayor or somethin. He is all surly an unpleasant an address us like we is axe murders, or worse.
   “Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Mr. Guguglianti says, “these three men is the worst kinds of criminals there is! They are guilty of stealing your money—your money—personally…!”
   An it goes on downhill from there.
   He proceeds to call us crooks, thieves, liars, frauds, an I expect he would of called us assholes, too, if we had not been in a courtroom.
   Finally, when Mr. Guguglianti gets finished tar-an-featherin us, it becomes our turn to defend ourselfs. First witness to take the stand is Ivan Bozosky.
   “Mr. Bozosky,” our lawyer asts, “are you guilty of insider trading?”
   We are bein represented, incidentally, by the big ole New York law firm of Dewey, Screwum & Howe.
   “I am absolutely, positively, one-hundrit-percent innocent,” Mr. Bozosky says.
   “Then if you did not do it, who did?” the lawyer asts.
   “Mr. Gump over there,” Ivan says. “I hired him on as chief of the insider trading division with instructions to put an end to any insider trading, so as to improve my company’s reputation, an what does he do? He immediately proceeds to be a crook…”
   Ivan Bozosky goes on like this for a while, an paints a pitcher of me, black as a beaver’s butt. I am “totally responsible” for all the deals, he says, an in fact, I have totally kept them secret from him, so as to enrich mysef. His line is that he knows nothin about anythin illegal.
   “May God have mercy on his guilty soul” is the way Ivan Bozosky puts it.
   Next, Mike Mulligan gets his turn. He testifies I phoned him up with stock tips, but he has no idea that I am in the know about insider tradin an so forth. By the time they are finished, I figger my goose is cooked, an Mr. Guguglianti be scowlin at me from his table.
   At last it is my time to take the stand.
   “Mr. Gump,” says Mr. Guguglianti, “just what was your line of work before you became president of the insider trading division of Mr. Bozosky’s company?”
   “I was Goliath,” I answers.
   “You was what?”
   “Goliath—you know, the giant man from the Bible.”
   “You stand reminded, Mr. Gump, that this is a court of law. Do not fool with the law, Mr. Gump, or the law will fool with you back—and that is a promise.”
   “I ain’t kiddin,” I says. “It was at Holy Land.”
   “Mr. Gump, are you some kind of a nut?”
   At this, our lawyer jumps up. “Objection, Your Honor, counsel is badgering the witness!”
   “Well,” says the judge, “he does sound sort of nutty—claimin to be Goliath an all. I think I am gonna order a psychiatric examination of Mr. Gump, here.”
   So that’s what they did.
   They took me away to a insane asylum or someplace, where the doctors come in an begun bongin me on the knees with little rubber hammers, which, of course, is an experience I have had before. Next they give me some puzzles to work an ast me a lot of questions an give me a test an, to end it off, they bonged me on the knees some more with their hammers. After that, I am taken back to the witness stand.
   “Mr. Gump,” the judge say, “the psychiatrists’ report on you was just what I expected. It says here that you are a ‘certifiable idiot.’ I overrule the objection! Counsel, you may proceed!”
   Anyhow, they gone on to ast me a bunch of questions about what my role was in the insider tradin scam. Over at our table, Ivan Bozosky an Mike Mulligan are grinnin like Cheshire cats.
   I admitted to signin all the papers an to callin Mike Mulligan from time to time, an that when I did, I did not tell him it was an insider tradin deal, but just a tip. Finally, Mr. Guguglianti says, “Well, Mr. Gump, it appears now that you are just gonna confess that you, an you alone, are guilty as sin in this matter, an save the court all the trouble of provin it—ain’t that so?”
   I just sat there for a minute or two, lookin around the courtroom. Judge is waitin with a expectant look on his face; Mr. Bozosky an Mr. Mulligan is leanin back with they arms folded across they chests, smirkin; an our lawyers be noddin they heads for me to go ahead an get it over with. Out in the gallery, I seen little Forrest lookin at me with a kinda pained expression on his face. I figger he knows what I’m gonna do, an that I gotta do it.
   An so I sighs, an says, “Yup, I reckon you’re right—I am guilty. I am guilty of signin papers—but that’s all.”
   “Objection!” shouts our lawyer.
   “What grounds?” ast the judge.
   “Well, er, we’ve just established that this man is a certified idiot. So how can he testify to what he was or was not guilty of?”
   “Overruled,” says the judge. “I want to hear what he’s got to say.”
   An so I tole them.
   I tole them the whole story—about how I was Goliath an about the riot at Holy Land, an about Mr. Bozosky gettin me out of havin to go back to jail an all his instructions about signin the papers an not to look at them, an how, after all, I am just a poor ole idiot that didn’t know shit about what was goin on.
   What it amounted to was, I ratted out on Mr. Bozosky an Mr. Mulligan.
   When I done finished, pandemonium broke out in the courtroom. All the lawyers are on they feet hollerin objections. Newspaper reporters rushed out to the telephones. Ivan Bozosky an Mike Mulligan are jumpin up an down shoutin at the top of they lungs that I am a no good, dirty, double-crossin, ingrateful, lyin, squeeler. The judge be bangin his gavel for order, but ain’t none to be found. I looked over at little Forrest an knowed right then an there I made the right decision. An I also decided that whatever else happens, I am not gonna take the fall for nobody, noplace, nomore—an that’s that.
   Like I said, sometimes a man’s just gotta do the right thing.

Chapter 9

   For a while, it looked like I was off the hook, but of course it turned out that was wrong.
   Not long after my testimony they carted Ivan Bozosky an Mike Mulligan off to prison. The judge, he thowed the book at them—literally—big ole law book, hit Bozosky square in the head. Next day, a knock come at my door. Standin there was two military police in shiny black helmets with billy clubs an armbands.
   “You PFC Gump?” one says.
   “That’s my name.”
   “Well, you gotta come along with us, account of you is AWOL from the United States Army.”
   “AWOL,” I says. “How can that be? I was in jail!”
   “Yeah,” he says, “we know all about that. But your hitch runs two more years—that’s what you signed up for with Colonel North. We been lookin for you everplace until we seen you in the newspapers in this Bozosky trial.”
   The MP hands me a copy of the New York Post, which reads:
 

Dullard Rats out on High-Rolling Financial Men

 

 

   A man with an IQ described as “in the low 70s” yesterday finked on two of this newspaper’s most popular subjects, resulting in their sentencing to lengthy prison terms.
   Forrest Gump, who sources close to the Post described as being “dumber than a rock,” testified before a federal judge in Manhattan that in his capacity as president of the insider trading division of Bozosky Enterprises, he had absolutely no knowledge of any insider trading at the company.
   Gump, who has had an apparently checkered career as an encyclopedia salesman, inventor, animal refuse engineer, and sometime spy for the U.S. government, was not immediately available for comment. He was not convicted in the trial, which lasted several weeks.

 
   “So what you gonna do with me?” I ast.
   “They probly gonna put you in the stockade till they figger out somethin,” the MP says. About this time, little Forrest come up behin me, tryin to see what’s goin on.
   “Who’s this?” the MP ast. “This your boy?”
   I didn’t say nothin, an neither did little Forrest. He just glared at the MPs.
   “You give me a minute with him?” I says. “I ain’t gonna run off or nothin.”
   “Yeah, I reckon that’d be okay. We’ll be outside here—Just don’t do nothin funny.”
   Fact was, funny was not on my mind at this moment. I shut the door an set little Forrest down on the sofa.
   “Look,” I says, “them fellers come to take me back to the army, an I gotta go with em, you know? So’s I want you to get a bus back home an be ready to start school when it opens. Okay?”
   The little guy was statin at his shoes an not lookin at me, but he nodded his head.
   “I’m sorry about this,” I says, “but that’s just the way things go sometimes.”
   He nodded again.
   “Look,” I tole him, “I’m gonna try to work somethin out. I’ll talk to Colonel North. They ain’t gonna keep me in the stockade forever. I’ll get this straightened out, an then we’ll make a plan.”
   “Yeah, right,” he says. “You got a lot of great plans, don’t you?”
   “Well, I made my mistakes. But somethin’s gotta work out. I figger I’ve had my share of bad luck. It’s about time things start to break good.”
   He gets up an goes back to his room to start packin. At the door, he turn aroun an looks at me for the first time.
   “Okay,” he says. “You ever get out of the slammer, you look me up. An don’t worry about it, hear? I’ll be all right.”
   An so I gone on with the MPs, feelin pretty low an pretty alone. Little Forrest is a good-lookin, smart young man by now, an I done let him down again.
 
   Well, just like the MPs said, when we got back to Washington, they put me in the stockade—thowed in jail again. But ain’t long afore they come an turn me loose.
   When I got there, I done sent a note to Colonel North, say I think I’m gettin a raw deal here. Couple of months later, he stops by the stockade.
   “Sorry about that, Gump, but there ain’t much I can do,” he says. “I am no longer in the Marine Corps, an I’m pretty busy these days watchin out for some of the Ayatolja’s friends who say they want to kill me. Besides, I’m thinkin about runnin for the U.S. Senate. I’ll show them bastids what contempt really is.”
   “Well, Colonel,” I says, “that is all very nice, but what about me?”
   “It’s what you get for makin fools of Congress,” he says. “See you aroun the stockade.” An then he bust out laughin. “You know what I mean?”
   Anyhow, after a few more months on bread an water, I am summoned to the post commander’s office.
   “Gump,” he says, “you just stand at attention while I look over your files.” After about half an hour, he says, “At ease,” an leans back in his chair. “Well, Gump, I see you have a very mixed record in this man’s army. Win the Congressional Medal of Honor, and then you go over the hill. Just what kind of crapola is that?”
   “Sir, I didn’t go over the hill. I was in jail.”
   “Yeah, well that’s just as bad. If it was up to me, I’d have you cashiered today with a bad-conduct discharge. But it seems some of the brass don’t cotton much to havin Medal of Honor winners booted out of the service. Looks bad, I guess. So we got to figger out what to do with you. Got any suggestions?”
   “Sir, if you let me out of the stockade, maybe I can go on KP or somethin,” I says.
   “Not on your life, Gump. I read all about your KP escapades right here in these files. Says here that one time you blew up a steam boiler tryin to make a stew or somethin. Wrecked the mess hall. Cost the army an arm and a leg. Nosiree—you ain’t going anywhere near a mess hall on my post.”
   Then he scratch his chin for a minute. “I think I got a solution, Gump. I ain’t got use for any troublemakers around here, so what I’m gonna do is, I’m gonna transfer your big ass as far away as I possibly can, an the sooner the better. That is all.”
 
   An so I am transferred. The commander, he was not kiddin about transferrin me to the fartherest place away he could find. Next thing I know, I am assigned to a army weather station in Alaska—in January, no less. But at least they begun payin me again, so’s I can send home some allotment money for little Forrest. Matter of fact, I done sent nearly all my pay home, account of what in hell I’m gonna spend it on up in Alaska? In January.
   “I see by your files, Gump, that you have had a somewhat checkered past in the service,” says the lieutenant in charge of the weather station. “Just keep your nose clean, an they won’t be any trouble.”
   In this, of course, he was wrong.
   It was so cold in Alaska that if you went outside an said somethin, your words would freeze themsefs in the air—an if you took a pee, it would wind up as a icicle.
   My job was sposed to be readin weather maps an stuff, but after a few weeks, they figgered out I am a numbnuts, an give me the job of moppin the place clean an spit-shinin the toilets an so on. On my day off I’d go out ice-fishin, an one time I got chased by a polar bear an another time by a big ole walrus that ate up all the fish I’d caught.
   We was in a little ole town there by the ocean where all the people spent most of they time gettin drunk—Exkimos included. The Exkimos was very nice people, except when they got drunk an had harpoon-thowin contests in the street. Then, it could be dangerous to be out an about.
   One time after a couple of months, I went with some of the other fellers into town on a Saturday night. I really didn’t much want to go, but in fact I had not been anyplace much, an so I gone along, for the ride, so to speak.
   We got to a place called the Gold Rush Saloon an went inside. They was all sorts of activity there—folks be drinkin an fightin an gamblin, an a striptease artist was doin her thing on the bar. Sorta made me think of Wanda’s strip joint, down in New Orleans, an I figgered I probly should drop her a postcard sometime. Also got me to thinkin about ole Wanda the pig, little Forrest’s pet, an how she was doin, an then, of course, I got to thinkin about little Forrest hissef. But since thinkin ain’t exactly my strong point, I decided to take action. I gone out into the street to buy little Forrest a present.
   It is about seven P.M. but the sun is shinin bright as can be up here near the North Pole, an all the stores is open. Most of em, however, is saloons. There wadn’t no department store around, so’s I gone on into a novelty shop where they is peddlin everthin from gold nuggets to eagle feathers, but finally I seen what I wanted to get for little Forrest. A genuine Alaska Indian totem pole!
   It was not one of them big ole ten-feet-tall totem poles, but it was about three feet, anyway, an was carved with eagle’s beaks an faces of stern-lookin Indians an bear’s paws an all, an painted pretty bright colors. I ast the feller at the counter how much, an he says, “For you army grunts I make a special price—one thousan, two hundrit, and six dollars.”
   “Damn,” I says. “What’d it cost before the discount?”
   “For me to know an you to find out” was his reply.
   Well, anyhow, I stood there figgerin that it is gettin late an I don’t know when I’m gonna get back into town an little Forrest probly need to hear from me, so I dug down deep into my pocket for what was left of my paychedcs an bought the totem pole.
   “Could you ship it down to Mobile, Alabama?” I ast.
   “Sure, for another four hundrit dollars,” he says. Well, who was I to argue? After all, we are within spittin distance of the top of the world, so’s I dug down again an coughed up the money, figgerin wouldn’t have nothin much to spend it on up here anyhow.
   I ast him if I could send a note with it, an he says, “Sure, but notes are another fifty bucks.”
   But I thought, what the hell, this is a genuine antique Alaska Indian totem pole, an I am already gettin a bargin. So’s I wrote the note, which said this:
   Dear little Forrest,
   I spose you been wonderin what has become of me up here in Alaska. Well, I have been workin very hard at a very important job with the United States Army an have not had much time to write. I am sendin you a totem pole to fool with. The Indians here say they is very sacred objects, so you should put it someplace important to you. I hope you is doin well in school an mindin your grandma.
   Love…
   Well, I started to put “Love, Dad,” but he ain’t never called me that, so I just put my name. I figgered he just have to figger out the rest.
 
   Anyhow, time I got back to the bar my guys had proceeded to get drunk. I was just settin at the bar nursin a beer when I noticed a feller in a chair all slumped over a table. I could only see half his face, but somehow he looked familiar, an I gone on over an walked aroun him a couple of times, an lo an behole, if it ain’t Mister McGivver from the pig-shit farm!
   I raised up his head an sort of shook him awake. At first he don’t recognize me, which is understandable, account of there is a mostly empty quart of gin on the table. But then a light sort of come on in his eyes an he jumps up an give me a big hug. I figger he is gonna be real mad at me for lettin the pig shit blow up, but in fact, he ain’t.
   “Don’t worry yourself, my boy,” Mister McGivver says. “It was all probably a blessing in disguise anyway. I never dreamed the pig-shit operation would get that big, but once it did, I was under such pressure to keep up with things, it probably was taking years off my life. Maybe you even did me a favor.”
   As it turns out, of course, Mister McGivver has lost everthin. When the pig-shit farm blowed up, the townspeople an the environmental people shut him down an ran him out of town. Next, because he had borrowed so much money to build the pig-shit-fueled ships, the banks foreclosed on him an thew him out of bidness entirely.
   “But that’s all right, Forrest,” he says. “The sea was my first love anyway. I didn’t have any business being an executive or a magnate. Why, hell, right now I’m doing exactly what I want to.”
   When I ast him what was that, he tole me.
   “I am a ship’s captain,” he says proudly. “Got me a big ole ship out in the harbor right now. You want to see it?”
   “Well, I gotta get back to the weather station in a while; is it gonna take long?”
   “No time at all, my boy, no time at all.”
   In this, Mister McGivver was never more wrong in his life.
 
   We gone on out to his ship in a launch. At first I thought the launch was the ship, but when we finally got there, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The ship is so big that from a distance it looks like a mountain range! It is about half a mile long an twenty stories high.
   Exxon-Valdez is the ship’s name.
   “Climb aboard,” Mister McGivver shouts. It is cold as a well digger’s ass, but we climbed up the ladder an gone onto the ship’s bridge. Mister McGivver pulls out a big bottle of scotch an offers me a drink, but since I gotta get back to the weather station, I turn it down. He proceeds to drink it hissef, no ice, no water, just straight in the glass, an we talked over ole times for a while.
   “Ya know, Forrest, there’s one thing I’d have given a lot of money to see,” he says, “that is, if I’d had any.”
   “What’s that?”
   “The expressions on those bozos’ faces when the pig shit blew up.”
   “Yessir,” I says, “it was kinda a sight.”
   “By the way,” Mister McGivver says, “what ever happened to that sow I gave little Forrest—what’d you call her?”
   “Wanda.”
   “Yeah, she was a nice pig. Smart pig.”
   “She’s at the National Zoo in Washington.”
   “Really? Doing what?”
   “In a cage. They are showin her off.”
   “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “A monument to all our folly.”
   After a little while, it become apparent to me that Mister McGivver is drunk again. In fact, he is not only drunk, he is reelin. At one point he reeled over to the ship control panels an begun turnin on switches an pullin levers an knobs. Suddenly, the Exxon-Valdez begun to shudder an tremble. Somehow, Mister McGivver had turned on the engine.
   “Wanna go for a little spin?” he ast.
   “Well, ah, thanks,” I says, “but I gotta get back to the weather station. I’m on duty in a hour or so.”
   “Nonsense!” says Mister McGivver. “This won’t take but a few minutes. We’ll just go out in the sound for a little spin.”
   By now, he is lurchin an stumblin an tryin to put the Exxon-Valdez in gear. He grapped hold of the wheel an when it begin to turn he follered with it—right down onto the floor. Then he begun to jabber.
   “Hoot, mon!” Mister McGivver shouts. “I think I’m about four sheets to the wind! Arrr, me buckoes, we be forty leagues from Portobello! Run out the guns! You’ve a bit of the animal in you, young Jim—Long John Silver’s my name—What’s yours…?”
   Shit like that. Anyhow, I got ole Mister McGivver up off the floor, an about that time a sailor come onto the bridge, must of heard the commotion.
   “I think Mister McGivver’s had one too many,” I says. “Maybe we oughta take him to his cabin.”
   “Yeah,” say the sailor, “but I seen him a lot drunker.”
   “It’s the Black Spot for you, laddie buck!” shouts Mister McGivver. “Old Blind Pew knows the score. Hoist up the Jolly Roger! You’ll all walk the plank!”
   Me an the sailor carried Mister McGivver to his bunk an laid him down. “I’ll keelhaul the lot of you” is the last thing Mister McGivver says.
   “Say,” the sailor ast, “you know why Captain McGivver turned on the engines?”
   “Nope—I don’t know nothin. I’m with the weather station.”
   “What!” says the sailor. “Hell, I thought you were the bar pilot!”
   “Me, no. I am a private in the army.”
   “Greatgodamighty!” he says. “We got ten million gallons of crude oil on board!” An he runs out the door.
   It was apparent I could not do nothin for Mister McGivver, account of he is asleep—if that’s what you want to call it. So I gone on back to the bridge. Nobody is there an the ship seems to be sailin along, buoy markers an things be passin us at top speed. I didn’t know what else to do, so I grapped the ship’s wheel an tried to steer us at least in a straight direction. We had not gone too far when suddenly there is a great big bump. I am figgerin this is good, since the Exxon-Valdez has finally stopped. Turns out, though, it is not.
   All of a sudden, it seems like there is about a hundrit people runnin around on the bridge, everbody hollerin an screamin an givin each other orders, an some of them even be givin each other the finger. Not long afterward, some fellers from the Coast Guard come aboard, complainin we has just dumped ten million gallons of crude awl into Prince William Sound. Birds, seals, fish, polar bears, whales, an Exkimos—all will be destroyed by what we has now done. An there is gonna be hell to pay.
   “Who was in charge on this bridge?” says a Coast Guard officer.
   “He was!” everbody on the bridge shouted at once, all pointin they fingers right at me.
   I knowed right then that I am in the doghouse for sure.
 
   Maniac Army Man at Helm of Disaster Ship, says one of the headlines. Certified Nut Driving Oil Spill Boat, says another. Cataclysm Caused by Dangerous Fool; this is typical of the kind of shit I got to endure.
   In any case, they sent up a three-star general from Washington to deal with me an my problems. In a way this is sort of lucky, since the army does not wish to get involved in any sense with the blame for the Exxon-Valdez mess, an the best thing they can do is get me the hell out of there—quick.
   “Gump,” the general says, “if it was up to me, I would have you before a firing squad for this, but since it isn’t, I am gonna do the next best thing, which is to have your big stupid ass transferred as far away from here as possible, which, in this case, is to Berlin, Germany. Maybe, if we are lucky, nobody is gonna be able to find you there, and so they’ll have to put all the blame on old Captain McGivver for this disaster. Do you read me?”
   “Yessir,” I says, “but how I’m gonna get there?”
   “The plane, Gump, is on the runway. Its motors are running. You got five minutes.”

Chapter 10

   Goin to Germany was not all it was cracked up to be. This was account of I was escorted there in handcuffs an leg irons by four MPs who kept remindin me that their orders was, if I done anythin funny, they was to immediately crack me over the head with their nightsticks.
   Somebody high up in command had apparently give the order that I was to be assigned the dirtiest job in the entire army, an the order was faithfully carried out. I was sent to a tank company, where my duty was to clean all the mud off the tank treads—an let me say this: There is plenty of mud on the tank tracks in Germany in the winter.
   Also, word had apparently got out that I am a Jonah or somethin, cause ain’t nobody wants to speak to me except the sergeants, an all they do is holler at me. The days are cold an wet, an the nights are miserable, an I ain’t never felt so lonely. I wrote some letters to little Forrest, but his answers are kind of short an I get the impression maybe he is sort of forgettin me. Sometimes at night, I tried to dream about Jenny but it ain’t no use. Looks like she done forgot about me, too.
   One day somebody tole me I am getting a helper to clean the tank treads an I gotta show him the ropes. I gone on out to the motor pool an they is a feller standin there starin down at a tread got about a hundrit pounds of mud on it.
   “Say, you the new guy?” I ast.
   When he turn around, I almost fainted dead away! It is ole Sergeant Kranz from Vietnam an the army base where me an Mister McGivver collected the garbage for our pigs! Cept I noticed right away, Sergeant Kranz, he ain’t a sergeant major no more—he is only a buck private.
   “Oh, no” is the first thing out of his mouth when he sees me.
   It seems that Sergeant Kranz blames me for the misfortune of being busted from sergeant-major to private, though even a moron like me can see he is stretchin things a bit.
   What had happened was this: After me an Mister McGivver got out of the pig bidness, Sergeant Kranz decided that the army could actually sell their garbage to pig farmers all over the area, an after a while they had so much money they didn’t know what to do with it. So he suggested they use it to build a new officers’ club, an the general was so pleased with this he put Sergeant Kranz in charge of buildin the new club.
   On the day of the grand openin, they had a big celebration, with bands an free drinks an all, an to cap it off at the end of the evenin, they had hired a striptease dancer all the way from Australia to do her thing on the stage. Said she was not only the best stripper in Australia, she was the best stripper in the world.
   Anyhow, the officers’ club was mobbed so’s you could barely see the stripper, an at some point the general hissef got up on a table in the back of the room to get a better look. However, it seems Sergeant Kranz has installed the ceilin fans about a foot lower than normal, an when the general stands up on the table, it got him in the head. Scalped him, just like a Indian might do.
   The general was furious, hollerin an yellin about “How am I gonna explain this to my wife?” An, of course, he blames Sergeant Kranz an has him busted on the spot an sent here, to the dirtiest job in the army.
   “I was one of the first black soldiers to make it to the top of the enlisted ranks in this man’s army,” he says, “but it seems like ever time I get around you, Gump, there is some kind of shit fixin to go on.”
   I tell him I’m sorry, but that it don’t exactly seem fair to blame me for what happened.
   “Yeah, probly you’re right, Gump. It’s just that I put in twenty-eight years of a thirty-year hitch, only to find mysef spendin my final time as a buck private,” he says. “Somebody got to be responsible—that’s the way it is in the army. Couldn’t of been me, else how do you explain that I worked my way up to the highest enlisted rank in the army?”
   “Maybe you was just lucky,” I says. “I mean, at least you got to be a sergeant for a long time. Me, I have always been at the bottom of the shit heap.”
   “Yeah,” he says, “maybe so. Anyway, it don’t matter anymore, I guess. An besides, it was almost worth it.”
   “What was?” I ast.
   “Seein the fan give that old bastid a flattop,” he says.
 
   Anyhow, me an Sergeant Kranz have got our work cut out for us. Seems like the division is always on maneuvers, an the mud is two feet deep. We are scrapin an hoein an shovelin an hosin mud from daylight to dark. When we get back to the barracks, we is too dirty to let inside, an they make us hose off in the cold.
   Sergeant Kranz, when he talks at all, mostly talks about Vietnam, which, for some reason, he remembers fondly.
   “Yeah, Gump, them was the good old days,” he says. “A real war—not this police-action crap they got goin for us now. Man, we had tanks and howitzers and bombers could sure bring down a load of pee on the enemy.”
   “Seems like they brought down a load of pee on us, too, sometimes,” I say.
   “Yeah, well, that the way it is. In war, people are gonna get killed. That’s why it’s called a war.”
   “I never kilt nobody,” I says.
   “What! How you know that?”
   “Well, I don’t think I did. I never done fired my weapon but once or twice, an then it was just at bushes or somethin.”
   “That ain’t nothin to be proud of, Gump. In fact, you oughta be ashamed of yoursef.”
   “Well, what about Bubba?” I ast.
   “What about him? Who was that?”
   “My friend. He got kilt.”
   “Oh, yeah, I remember now—the one you went out after. Well, he probably done somethin stupid.”
   “Yeah,” I says, “like joinin the army.”
   It went on like that day after day. Sergeant Kranz was not the most interestin person to talk to, but at least he was somebody. Anyway, I was beginnin to believe I would never get off the mud detail, when one day somebody come up an say the post commander wants to see me. They hosed me down an I went up to headquarters.
   “Gump, I understand you played a little football at one time. That so?” the commander asts.
   “Yeah, a little,” I says.
   “Tell me about it.”
   An so I did. An when I get finished, the commander says, “Greatgodamighty!”
 
   At least, I ain’t got to clean tanks all day no more. Unfortunately, I have now got to clean them all night. But durin the day, I play football for the post team, Swagmien Sour Krauts, we is called.
   The Sour Krauts is not a very good football team, to say the least. We was 0 for 11 last year, an 0 for 3 so far this season. Kinda remind me of the old Ain’ts, back in New Orleans. Anyhow, the quarterback is a little wiry guy called Pete, played a little ball in high school. He is fast an slippery an thows the ball okay, but he ain’t no Snake, that is for sure. The post commander is of course unhappy about our record, an makes sure we get in a lot of practice. Like about twelve hours a day. An after that, I gotta go back an clean tanks till about three A.M., but it’s all right by me—at least it keeps my mind off other things. Also, they has made Sergeant Kranz—oops, Private Kranz—the team manager.
   Our first football game is against the steam heat company of the post in Hamburg. They are a dirty, filthy lot, an bite an scratch an cuss the whole game, but I runned over most of them, an at the end it is 45 to 0, our way. It was like that the next three games, too, an so we are now ahead of ourselfs for the first time in memory. The commander is beside hissef an to everbody’s amazement, he give us a Sunday off, so’s we can go into town.
   It is a nice little ole town, with ole buildins an little cobblestone streets an gargoyles on the winder sills. Everbody in town be speakin German, about which none of us understands nothin. The extent of my German is “ja.”
   Immediately, of course, the guys found a beer hall, an before long is swillin down huge glasses of beer, served by waitresses wearin German smocks. It is so good to be off post an around civilians that I even had a beer mysef—even if I couldn’t understand a word anybody around us had to say.
   We was in the beer hall a number of hours, an I think we are startin to get rowdy, account of there is a bunch of German guys sort of glarin at us from the other end of the room. They is mutterin stuff at us, such as affenarschs an scheissbolles, but we do not understand them, an so go on about our bidness. After a while, one of our fellers puts his hand on the ass of one of the waitresses. It is not that she minded it so much, but it seems the German guys did. Couple of em come over to our table an begun to say a bunch of stuff real loud.
   “Du kannst mir mal en den Sac fassen!” says one of the German fellers.
   “Huh?” says our right tackle, whose name is Mongo.
   The German guy repeated hissef, an Mongo, who is about ten feet tall, just set there lookin puzzled. Finally, one of our guys who understood a little German says to Mongo, “Whatever it was, I don’t think it was very nice.”
   Mongo stood up an face the German. “Whatever you want, pal, we ain’t buyin it—so why don’t you shove off.”
   German ain’t buyin it neither. “Scheiss,” he says.
   “What’s that?” ast Mongo.
   “It is somethin to do with shit,” our feller says.
   Well, that was it. Mongo grapped up the German feller an thowed him through a winder. All the other Germans come racin over, an a big ole brawl commenced. People be pokin an gougin an bitin an shoutin. Waitress be screamin an chairs be flyin. It was just like the good ole times back at Wanda’s strip joint in New Orleans.