Short
“He’s short,” my sergeant said. “Let him play.”
(“Short” as in “short-timer”—less than a month
before my discharge.) Day by crossed out day,
I invented new ways to goof off—
sanded and spray painted my footlocker,
linked thirty paper clips into a chain,
unhooking one per day, and watched the clock
in HQ spin, while my replacement, trained
by me to do my job, did my job.
Doing nothing useful isn’t easy.
I sharpened pencils, oiled a squeaky doorknob.
Killing time drove me nearly crazy.
What a relief, after my release,
to go all out at my civilian work,
pulling double shifts at the P.O.,
reorganizing all files as a file clerk,
teaching composition to the slow,
unwilling students at a junior college—
five classes, five days a week,
wracking up a huge amount of mileage
driving back and forth to school. At my peak
I labored uncomplainingly all day
at jobs with no advancement, no career,
and no prestige for very meagre pay—
just enough to fill my fridge with beer.
And then I lucked into this teaching job
with decent wages, bright students, small classes.
Twice a week, after lunch, I plod
six blocks to campus, while hustling masses
of texting undergraduates breeze by me.
I used to be a passer. Now I’m passed.
I used to be industrious. Now I’m lazy.
I used to be poor. Now I’ve amassed
enough to live on as long as I die
when I turn ninety five. I’m short! That’s why
I’m desperately reluctant to retire.
I’ll soldier on till Death tells me: “You’re fired!”
Richard Cecil served in the Army from October 1966-October 1968. After discharge he attended the University of Iowa on the GI Bill. He currently teaches in the Honors College of Indiana University, Bloomington.
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