Outside the Lines

Outside the Lines

by Harry Buschman

Floyd lay on his back on his narrow bunk. He put his hands behind his head and interlaced his fingers. He wanted a cigarette very bad but the cook wouldn’t let him smoke in their room, not since he burned his blanket. He had a lot to think about, and it was hard to think without a cigarette.

It hurt his head to think in the first place, it always did, right from the start. In his small bedroom back home, he’d stare at the ceiling and wag his head from side to side, trying to pull his thoughts together. “Floyd is not capable of thinking things through. I’m not a psychiatrtist, ma’am but I’m afraid he may need ‘special’ teaching.” his teacher told his mother. Floyd knew differently though and so did his mother. “You’re smarter than all those other children,” she said to him. She told all her friends, “Floyd’s a genius, just like his father was. You watch, some day Floyd’s going to do great things, just like his father did.”

Floyd couldn’t remember his father. His father left home before he ever saw any of the ‘great things’ his father did, but from what his mother said he must have been special – just like him. Too bad they broke up. “Your father was a free spirit,” his mother would cry a bit and say, “He couldn’t stand being tied down.”

His mother told all her friends that Floyd was an officer in the army, “He’s in the Intelligence, you know. He can’t talk about it.” Then she’d go on to say what a true patriot he was. “Floyd loves his country – I’m so proud when I think of him defending our flag.”

But, for the moment, he was lying on his back in his underwear, wishing the cook would let him light up in the cook’s room. There was nothing to do now that he cleaned the latrine and shook down the furnace. Well ... he could have scrubbed the porch and raked the leaves out of the scrubby grass between the barracks, but it was too late for that. “B” company would be coming back from rifle practice soon and he’d only be in their way – and they’d laugh at him too. “What’cha doing Floydi-Toidy – why ain’t’cha scrubbin’ the latrine? Scrub them bowls clean now Floydi-Toidy!” He didn’t like it when they talked like that. He wondered what his mother would say about that. She thought the one stripe on his sleeve meant he was a major. She thought the Good Conduct Medal on his jacket was awarded to him for bravery on the field of battle.

All those guys in “B” company, they’d move on, they’d be transferred overseas where they’d get extra pay, new uniforms, and the pick of the broads. But Floidi-Toidy would have to stay behind. He was cadre – fit only for limited duty stateside – KP, tending the furnace and cleaning the latrine.

When “B” company left for rifle practice this morning they left the rifle rack unlocked. They always did that because everybody went and took their rifle with them – but Sergeant Majewski had a week’s leave, and one empty rifle, a Garand semi-automatic was left in the rack. It was Floyd’s gun now to play with, he was never issued a gun of his own. The cook said they’d never issue a rifle like that to a nut like you, Floyd.

He saw it standing in the rack after the company marched off. He walked up to the rack and ran his fingers over the walnut stock – felt the heft of it. He took it out of the rack and brought it up to his shoulder and aimed it down the length of the squad room. It was heavier than it looked, not like the toys he played with when he was a kid. He took it outside and walked around to the rear of the barracks, holding it in front of him at port arms, like a soldier on patrol. He was out of sight here and he suddenly knew exactly what he was going to do.

He walked to the eight foot high chain link fence with the razor wire on top that marked the border of the camp and he stood there trembling. He would throw the rifle over the fence. Then he would steal a shipping carton from supply and get himself a weekend pass. Then he’d dress up real sharp-like, as though he was headed into town. Just outside the gate he would double back outside the fence and get the gun. His hands were sweaty and he wiped them on the legs of his fatigue pants. Then, just as he was about to throw it over the fence, he stopped and shook his head, turned around and carried the rifle back to the barracks again.

Now he lay here on his bunk refining his plans ... he wanted to make sure. Once he got to town he’d head for the post office before it closed and mail the gun back home to his mother. He’d tell her not to open the package – it was a secret.

Who said he couldn't make plans? Who said he couldn’t do great things!

Floyd’s hitch was up in three months. He wanted to re-enlist but the cook said they’d never let him. “You’re a fuck-up, Floyd. The army needs brains these days – you ain’t got any. Why should they pay you good money when they can get somebody with brains to clean toilets better than you do?”

He’d show the cook who had brains! It was a shame he had to keep this plan a secret. The cook would change his mind about whether he had brains or not. He stretched out flat on his back and grinned smugly. The only thing left to do would be to get the ammo – half a dozen clips or so. He would have to get the supply sergeant drunk to do that.

He thought about what he could do with that gun when he got home, An armed man is always in charge. When he says, “Do this!” by God you better hop to it. He wanted a cigarette so bad he could taste it – damn cook!

Floyd rarely had an idea of his own, and those he did have were aimed at getting even for all the injustices, real and imagined, that life heaped on him. His mother expected great things of him, she was his champion – “Oh Floyd, look how you’ve colored in that elephant, and the pretty pink clouds behind him. You’re a great little artist, Floyd.” He soaked up her praise and in time he believed he really was better at coloring elephants than anybody else. But his teacher had different ideas, “Floyd! Don’t you see the lines? You’re supposed to stay inside the lines.” She would hold up David’s picture. “See how nicely David stays inside the lines? Try and do it the way David does.”

Floyd seethed inside and made plans to hurt David – some way of hurting him without being caught. He pushed David downstairs when they were on their way to the cafeteria, and the teacher said she saw him do it too. Floyd remembered all of that now, and he remembered the justification he felt in proving to himself that his elephant was better than David’s. With this gun in his hands he would show everybody what he could do.

He lay on his back with the gun cradled in his arms as though it were a lover. But, now he had second thoughts about mailing the gun home. If he could only think of a way to get it out of here, some way to get it home. Maybe he could hide it in the coal bin until he could think of a better idea.

As soon as one idea came to him, a dozen reasons why it wouldn’t work followed close behind. In this foggy state of mind he dozed off and dreamed of David and the neat, orderly way he stayed inside the lines when he colored his elephant. When he woke he was aiming the rifle at the ceiling with his finger on the trigger.

Suddenly, outside, he heard the trucks coming back from rifle practice and he panicked! He would never have time to get the rifle back in the rack before the company trooped in. All he could think of was hiding it under his mattress. He quickly lifted the foot of the mattress and stuffed the rifle under it. It left a lump but it was between his feet and it didn’t bother him.

But what else could he do? Why couldn’t he think of something he should do? He could hear their voices from the latrine, “Where’s Floydie-Toidy! There’s no paper in the john! The soap dispenser’s empty! Toidy! Get’cha ass in here Toidy!” Then the cook barged in. “C’mon Floyd! Where d’ya think you are – some kinda hotel or sumpthin’? I need’ja over in the kitchen. I gotta crate of carrots need peelin’ f’supper! You been smokin’ in here, boy? I can smell smoke in here.” The cook pulled him out of his bunk and Floyd staggered to keep his balance.

Something snapped inside Floyd, how could he think about the gun if they wouldn’t let him alone? How could he do the great things he knew he could do if they’d only let him alone? He ran to the foot of his bunk, grabbed the mattress with both hands and almost disappeared beneath it. The cook had no idea what he was up to until Floyd emerged from under the mattress with the rifle in his hand.

“Get back Cookie. I swear I’ll kill you. I swear I will.” The cook froze in his tracks, thinking the gun might be loaded.

“Where did you get that, Floyd? You ain’t supposed t’have no gun.” The cook was terrified at the thought of Floyd armed with a loaded weapon. He backed out of the room and slammed the door. “Everybody outta the barracks! Everybody outside! That nut Floyd’s in there with a loaded rifle!”

Floyd could hear them out there – a wild scuffling of feet as everyone made for the door. Then suddenly there was absolute silence. His own breathing and the thudding of his heart pounding in his ears were the only sounds in the room. Just like he always said! The man with the gun calls the shots. Everybody backs off from the man with the gun.

He stepped out into the squad room, holding the gun before him protectively and stood between the rows of double decked bunks. There were signs of hasty retreat. A hat. A pair of shoes. A cigarette burning in an ashtray. Scared shitless, all of them, scared of the man with the gun. He opened the front door and walked outside. He knew they were all out there looking at him but hiding well back in the shadows. He felt like a great actor on the stage putting on a show for a spellbound audience.

He’d show them! He turned the gun around and put the muzzle in his mouth. He could almost hear a collective intake of breath from his cowardly buddies in Company “B.”

He took the gun out of his mouth and laughed at them, then he held it high and pulled the trigger. It fired! And as it fired it bucked in his hand like a wild animal. Floyd threw it to the ground and stood looking at it as though it was alive.

Faces began to appear in the dark and finally someone rushed in, grabbed the rifle and ran back around the corner of the barracks. Floyd hardly noticed, he stood at the front door wondering how it was possible for an empty gun to do such a thing. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees, his hands still trembled from the recoil. He looked down and saw the empty shell casings in the grass. It was somebody else’s fault, not his. How could that happen? He knew he’d get the blame now, just like he always did. How can a man stay inside the lines when somebody pushes him over the edge?