Confessions of a Fuck-Up Artist!

Orlando, Fl: 1991: Navy RTC (Recruit Training Command)

Seaman Recruit Hutchinson could fuck up a wet dream. In the last two weeks alone he's almost drowned to death in the swimming pool during a basic swimming test. He lost his grip on a live hose during a fire fighting lesson, which sent said hose whipping around a small room with the strength of several hundred PSI, effectively scattering the entire company for cover. He's also failed each and every inspection spectacularly, so much so that he has made #1 on our CC (Company Commanders) shit list. Seaman Recruit Hutchinson in other words would make a fine ensign one day but for now is a walking catastrophe to us enlisted recruits.

Today we're all marshalled for a surprise inspection and Hutchinson is standing across from me at attention. He's almost squared away. He's got his bunk made up right, he's got his uniform perfectly ironed, his gig line is fine and his boondockers are polished. But as the CC has just discovered, Hutchinson has made one minor, little mistake...
"Seaman Recruit Hutchinson can I ask you just one question?"

"Aye sir"

"How did you manage to get your shoes on the wrong feet?"

And yep, there it was, old Hutchinson had managed somehow, inexplicably, to put his right foot in his left boondocker and his left foot in his right,(this is quite an extraordinary feat when you think about it. Try putting your left foot through your right shoe sometime and you'll see what I mean). We all managed not to snicker, laugh or guffaw. Almost.

One of us muttered "Fuckin' retard" under their breath. This sent our CC's head spinning around like the little girl in the 'Exorcist'.

"Who said that?" He screamed.

I should mention here that by 'one of us' I mean it was me. Our CC is this big hispanic guy who looks like someone got Eric Estrada to mate with a gorilla and got the lovechild of that paticular little union to put on a uniform and join the Navy. His eyes are bulging out of his skull, he's got the veins popping out of his tree trunk neck and his fists are balled up in to two tiny sledgehammers. I know he knows it's me. I know the rest of my company knows it's me. I'm sure every single swinging dick on the base knows it was me. The only one who doesn't know it's me is Hutchinson who is looking down at his mismatched feet dumbfoundedly. Well, there's nothing else for me to do but piss in my drawers and take the blame.

I step forward.
"It was me, sir!" I say with the proper tone of stoicism to mask my trepadation. My CC teleports, I shit you not, one second he's half way down our berthing, the next he's 'up in my grill' as the kids say nowadays.

"Mosca!" I winced at the spit firing off the '-ca' in my name" I should have known it was you Mad-man. Drop!"

He stepped back and I dropped to the push up position. Back straight, arms bent at 90 degrees, chest hovering two inches from the deck, feet together. A good little robot, an obedient dog willing to wag it's tail as it got slapped on the snout!

"Push-Ups Mosca... for-fucking-ever!" He snapped.

I don't know how to explain what happened next. It was like I was possessed by someone that was both me and not-me at the same time. I didn't think about it. I didn't even want to do it. I just did!

On my first push up I yelled out-
"One-fucking-ever!"
Followed quickly by
"Two-fucking-ever!"
"Three-fucking-ever!"
"Four fucking ever!" and with that I popped back up to attention and added with a shout "SIR!"

My CC, for the first time I could ever recall, stared at me wide eyed and mouth opened. My entire company as well were left mouth breathing and sending ripples down the line of nervous glances and quick looks of 'Are-you-fucking-insane-Mosca?' at me. Only Hutchinson remained calm and at perfect attention. The 'Me-that-is-not-me' stood rigid at attention waiting for the sky to fall and the hammer to drop on my sorry ass. I felt ready though. For the first time in a long time I felt in control. I was ready to take my punishment like a man and with any luck get my ass kicked out of this Mickey Mouse bullshit called the NAV. My CC had something better in mind though...

"Alright Mosca." he said clapping his hands together "Everyone give Mosca a big old hand." And everyone started clapping slowly.

"We got ourselves a comedian..." he stopped clapping suddenly and got back in my face. "Ain't that right Mosca?" I stood there trying to be all hard and stoic but I could feel him sucking the fear out of my eyes with that look he had: One part crazy, one part angry and three parts sadistic!

"We must bore you don't we Mosca?"

"No sir"

"We must be one monumental waste of your precious time Mosca!"

"No sir"

He spins away from me.

"Well don't just stand there with your thumb in your asses ladies!" He was bellowing now "Everyone drop and give Mosca a hundred push-ups!".

There was this sickening thump as the whole company dropped to the deck simultaneously. I heard them all count out in unison each push-up they did. Whenever they got to twenty or thirty our CC would stop them and make them start over. He walked over to the biggest guy in our company, a brick shit house from the midwest and he bent down and told him...
"Mosca's not impressed. In fact he thinks your one big pussy...ain't that right Mosca."

"No sir" I whimpered.


"Mosca's not laughing. You all must be one big disappointment! Everyone up...." and the company lept up to attention, the sound of a hundred feet slapping together at once echoed down the barracks. "And push up position..." they all fell back down again. "drop and give Mosca a hundred."

And as my CC marched up and down the aisle I took note of each look of hate I was shot from my company when the CC wasn't looking. Each look of anger, each look of disgust, each look of raw contempt for me was soaking down through my cold flesh and soaking deep into the bones now. The brick from the midwest was mouthing silent death threats at me. Tonight I would have to forego what little sleep I usually got as I was now the number one candidate for a bunk party. I looked over and there was Hutchinson, smiling like a kid on Christmas that he had at long last finally found someone who fucked up bigger than he ever could.

Everyone can forgive a retard. But no one likes a smart ass!

My CC was back in my face. He leaned over and whispered tenderly in my ear...
"Are you having fun yet Mosca?"

I wake up to the Norteño being pumped out of a hand me down barrio-blaster at 8 something this morning.

Imagine popping out of sleep to what sounds like two pit bulls high on crack, playing tug of war with an accordian while accompanied by a string section. Now add one long operatic plea for mercy sung in the key of 'No Habla Espanol' to the mix and you have the morning FM at Jack Babalon's!

Finally imagine all of the above with a red wine hang over the size of downtown while you realize that you have just under 20 minutes to get dressed and catch the bus!
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Czech Mike had snuck off to fix up on the tracks. He would scurry out of Hell through the loading dock, cut down through the music park and disappear somewhere in the forest of Port-A-Pottys at the edge of the property. You might see him again in three or four hours but for now I had to clean Purgatory by myself.

Perfect.

First the Opening Ritual: I walk behind the bar and fire up the sound system, slap on MEAT BEAT MANIFESTO's Subliminal Sandwich, pour myself some orange juice from the mixer nozzle and light myself up a Camel. I pull up a stool and let the brain shift gears as I lubricate it in nicotine and vitamin C.

Purgatory sits across from Hell and it is the smallest 'level' of The Masquerade. Located where the old CSX rail line slashes through North Avenue like a scar and built in the exoskeleton of an old turn-of-the-century cotton mill, The Masquerade nightclub sits with the defiance of an old castle. When you walk into Hell or Purgatory it's like walking into a cave that has been gutted by a european Disco. Between these two dungeons is an aged staircase, climb it and you will arrive in Heaven. This was where you caught the live bands and so far I had seen Peter Murphy, The Specials, The Misfits (when they first got back together and toured with Anthrax), Christain Death, Electric Hellfire Club and Pigface play. And keep in mind those are just the ones i'm sober enough to remember! It was basically a Rock n'Roll Fortress, an outpost on the edge of the hood and it had a reputation that stretched out across the Southeast like a highschool rumor.

Sitting there alone at the bar. I soak it all in: The stone walls. The cobwebbing of joists above me resembling the intricate patterns of a gothic cathedral. The beer stained pool tables by the entrance with the abandoned cue sticks sitting dead in the water. The dusty video game machines playing animated introductions on a loop. The little nook by the fire exit, where they stash the bondage racks, the Saint Andrews Cross, a giant Wheel of Fortune along with other sordid pieces of old bondage equipment all tucked away like some closeted inquisitor. The beaten up old love seat that was always good for producing a fistful of spare change and other goodys between it's cushions. The DJ tables in the back where someone left the light system on, absently splashing the walls with a psychedelic meltdown. And spread all across this wasteland is an army of dead soliders, empty drinks and beer bottles everywhere the eye landed.

I stab my smoke into a butt stuffed ashtray, take the broom handle like a swords hilt and get to work. It was Friday and I had a paycheck to look forward to. Not much in the way of money, but that check paid me something else, something even better than money: Peace of mind.


Purgatory as seen when you enter

Santa's overslept and he's missed his stop by a few stations. When a little girl with pigtails starts screaming in the seat next to him he wakes up with a loud "Sonuvabitch" and takes a swing at the open air in front of him. Then he remembers he's on MARTA and not the North Pole. He attempts to get up but he lacks the momentum. Finally exhausted he decideds to remain seated and turn his attention to the screaming girl with the pigtails.

"You're not him. You're NOT! YOU'RE NOT!" She starts screaming.

"Melissa you hush now" Mom says rising from the depths of her I pod revery.

"It's not HIM! IT'S NOT HIM!" she keeps screaming and poor Santa has a headache I feel three rows away.

"Kid, c'mon please..." Santa mutters but to no avail. The little girl has decided to just shriek her horror at this intruder while Mom trys to pacify her daughter in a series of failed hostage negiotations. Finally Santa starts rummaging through his pockets and finally produces a crumb infested beard that he manages to get wrapped around his chin on the third try. He readjusts his red hat with the white ball of puff on the end, clears his throat and bellows
"Merry Christmas Little Girl"

The little girl stops screaming. She narrows her eyes on Santa gunfighter style. The Mom says nothing. In fact the whole train says nothing. Everybody is watching the little girl watch Santa. Finally the little girl sits back down in her seat and goes back to her coloring book. The issue has been settled and nothing more needs to be said. The doors open on North Avenue and Santa and I make our way up the escalator to the buses.

"Fuckin' kids, huh?" Santa asks me.