The driver eased the bus through a gate, drove a few blocks and pulled to a stop in front of a low wooden building. Some of us were asleep--it was three in the morning--but most of us were looking out the window.
The single light bulb over the door to the building showed a guy in dark clothing, his hair shaved to the scalp. He was holding the door open for two other bald guys who were carrying boxes inside. A man in some sort of suit--a guard?--walked behind them and yelled at the guy holding the door.
"Damn," said someone behind me. "It must be a jail or something."
Another bald internee came out the door and walked toward the bus. The driver pulled a handle and the door wheezed open.
"Jeez, what the hell these guys do wrong?" said the guy next to me.
I wondered, too. The poor slobs had prison haircuts and were being forced to work through the night. The bald guy climbing into the bus didn't look happy at all. "I don't know," I whispered. "But whatever they did wrong, I'm never gonna do it."
It was too late, of course. I'd already done it.
The bald guy stood in the front of the bus and hollered, "Good morning, you poor bastards. Welcome to Recruit Training Center Great Lakes."
Frank Mullen's very unofficial source of poop, skinny and bitching for present and former U.S. Navy Musicians.
