And I love it when the guys on the team call me the Shark! Let’s face it, when it comes to men’s freestyle, I AM the team. Six three in my dripping feet, 210 pounds of spring steel, and shaped like a humanoid manta ray, only I’m faster, much faster. I’m the monster of the freestyle. Fast enough that I actually have time to look sideways and lay dead eyes on anyone who can keep up with me. It’s so cooclass="underline" I give him the Look, show those teeth, watch him stub his stroke for a second or two, or screw up his breathing when he realizes I’m not breathing and I’m still staring right at him. And then I’m gone, accelerating without seeming to change anything. I’ve heard the norms talking, in the locker room head afterward. “Fucker just stopped taking air, man. Looked at me like I was meat, like he was gonna slip under the lane divider and, like, fucking bite, man. Freaked my ass out.”
It’s my teeth. I can’t help it. I have really big teeth. One time before a meet, I borrowed some black nail polish from one of my Goth moths and painted my teeth to look like points. Final heat, there was this guy, thought he was pretty good, grinned at me when he realized he could stay with Navy’s monster right through the final turn. Then I gave him the Look, and a second later, exactly one stroke later, I showed the teeth. Poor baby did a guppy mouth. Tried to swallow the pool. Made him heavy, I suppose. Shit happens. He was lucky his timer saw him go down. I never saw him, of course. I was too busy winning. I did see the bubble, now that I think of it. Big one, too.
The best part of formation time is when the plebes, all finished with their chow calls, come chopping down the center of the passageway, hands rigid at their sides, eyes in the boat, yes, sir, knowing within a few seconds what time it is, but having to give way to the upperclassmen, because that’s how it works here at Canoe U. They had sixty, now fifty seconds to get down the stairwell-that’s ladder to you, plebe-dweeb-and into ranks. We don’t obstruct them on purpose, although it does happen. And, of course, you bump into me and you get an automatic come-around. On the other hand, if they aren’t in formation by the time the formation bell rings, they’re down on the demerit pad anyway. Can’t win, if you’re a plebe, can you? No, you can’t. That’s the beauty of the system. Make it hopeless, see what they do, see who gives up, who doesn’t, and then help the strong ones figure it out. To recognize the system, and, better yet, how to beat the system.
That’s how I’ve done it, only I was doing it long before I got to this place. Beating the system. Every place I’ve been, since I was a little kid, there’s always been a system. Whether in Juvie Hall, the foster homes, the parochial school, there’s always been a system. If you truly want to rule, all you have to do is first recognize the system, then beat it by appearing to play by its rules while taking what you want. And you know what? The people who run the system are usually so damned dumb, they can’t see you doing it. This place is no different in that regard. They’ve got all these chickenshit rules, so you focus on those rules. Shine your shoes, polish your brass, keep your room sharp, bounce that dime off the bedspread, man. Study what they tell you to study, excel at all things athletic, stand tall, speak loud, keep your hair short, your body pumped, your abs ripped, and, man, you will be a star. Just like me. Oh, you might not have many friends, but, hell, I didn’t come here for friends. I came here to get those wings of gold and that great big Mameluke sword.
See, you don’t need friends to select Marine aviation; you only need a certain percentage of your class to stand lower than you do. It’s like if you and I were being chased by a big bad bear-I don’t have to outrun the bear. I only have to outrun you. So my classmates don’t like me. Big deal. But they sure as hell know who I am. And the Dark Side, especially the Marines? Hell, they love me. Set me up at attention in a set of tropical whites, take my picture while I’m bellowing out an order, I’m Poster Boy.
Well, it’s going on class time. Just a couple more weeks and we get to flee this place. I finally get to join my mighty Corps, and, of course, learn all about a new system. They’ll have one. And being Marines, it’ll be a pretty simple system. Not simple as in dumb, but simple as in clear, pure, strong. But I’ll play it and beat it, too. Piece of cake. Easy as slurping down the weekly shit-on-a-shingle breakfast in King Hall. Hope they hose off the plaza over there before noon meal. I saw a fire truck, but there’s been no fire that I know about. Something messy on the plaza, I hear. Or was it someone? A plebe, maybe? Hope so-there’re too many of them.
Just before noon, Ev Markham stood on the front steps outside Sampson Hall, wishing he could have a cigarette. He’d quit smoking when he’d left carrier aviation, but the desire for just one had never been truly extinguished. It was a perfect spring day in Annapolis, with clear blue skies and a vigorous sea breeze coming in off the bay. The trees were in bloom, the lawns were coming green again after the wintry depredations of dark ages, and the Severn River was positively sparkling. The wedge of Chesapeake Bay he could see from Sampson was a vast sheet of silver punctuated by fishing boats and the seemingly motionless silhouette of a black-hulled tanker pushing its way up to Baltimore. It was no wonder the visiting West Point cadets, whose fortresslike academy up on the Hudson was still ice-bound in the early spring, called their rivals’ school in Annapolis “the Country Club.”
The last midshipmen were exiting the granite-covered academic building, hustling back to Bancroft for noon meal formation, throwing a chorus of obligatory “Morning, sir” at him as they trotted by. He was a popular-enough professor, and it didn’t hurt that he taught a subject that was considered non-life-threatening, as compared to, say, advanced organic chemistry. He was finishing his imaginary cigarette and admiring the big houses on the cliffs across the Severn River when Dolly Benson, the Political Science Department’s secretary, stuck her head out one of the massive bronze doors and called him in for an urgent phone call from his daughter. Surprised, he followed her back to the departmental offices. A call from his daughter at this time of day, with noon meal formation bells about to ring, was unusual. The Naval Academy was a place of rigid routines. Any break in that routine usually meant trouble.
“Yeah, Julie. What’s up?”
“Dad, I think I’ve got a problem. My company officer came to our room and told me to get into Class-A’s and report to the commandant’s office.”
“Whoa. Why?”
“I have no idea. I don’t think Lieutenant Tarrens does, either. He just said to get up there ASAP. What should I do?”
“Get up there ASAP. And you have no idea of what this is about? Academic? Conduct?”
“No, Dad,” Julie said in a mildly exasperated voice. Rightfully so, too. Julie stood in the top 20 percent of her class academically and had never had a significant conduct demerits problem.
“Well, then, go find out. If you haven’t done anything wrong, just go see the Man. He doesn’t bite.”
“That something you know, Dad?” she asked, but her normal bantering tone wasn’t there. He realized Julie was scared. He also knew that Captain Robbins, the commandant of midshipmen and a recent flag officer selectee, was not exactly a warm and fuzzy kind of guy.
“Listen, Jules: The commandant is all about business. Whatever it is, he’ll be professional about it. However, if you think you’re being accused of something, stop talking and call me right away. On my cell number. And before thirteen hundred, okay? I’ve got a department staff meeting then. Now hustle your bustle.”