The Trials of Little John

            John McCauley was one of the more interesting characters I met in the dorms of Simpson Hall at Langley and certainly the most memorable. As I’m sure you have surmised from the clever little title of this piece, probably rivaling the creativity of a Marlow, Dostoyevsky, or King, that the lead character is in fact very large; almost freakishly so. The brother from ‘Raymond’ is an apt comparison that struck me the first time I saw him. This accident of birth is not what makes him an interesting character to write about, but the continuous stream of events purportedly beyond his control that he managed to get himself into. In this way he reminded me of Dan.

            While I arrived at the dorms and began my reign of irritation against poor Jim, Bryan found John already occupying the room before him. He not having my bitter hatred of sharing space, and perhaps a touch of wisdom when dealing with those a good head taller, decided to forego my path and choose one of harmony instead. Since I didn’t have to live with either of them, it was a good arrangement and someone else cool to hang out with and invite into the room and annoy Jim with his very loud and boisterous manners.

            John was the first of us to actually obtain a vehicle of his own aside from Bell and it greatly facilitated our roamings about the local area during those frequent spells when Bell took a disinterest in our doings, which was often. I don’t remember the make or model, but it uncomfortably held 4 of us and had a sun roof. Not only was he generous with the rides, but he also was so kind as to toss the keys to friends with nary a care when asked. This was a condition that suited me very well and facilitated the Virginia chapter of my phone dating until I bought old Jim’s Camero in an unlikely transaction, each of us walking away with full confidence we had fleeced the other.

            The problem with having a car with a sun roof is that you have to close the damn thing each and every time, especially in inclement weather. The saga of his vehicle thus came to a close one weekend when a Nor’easter blew in and flooded the base but good. John was gone on leave at the time and had left the car sitting mid parking lot with the sun roof open full capacity. The volume of water was such that it left the car most of the way filled with rain, where after it sat for a solid week before John came home to discover it. I don’t believe it ever ran again after that; the water having invaded the dash and apparently causing all sorts of issues. As I recall, John’s plan of action was to simply let it sit, and sat it did until well after we all left the dorms. I last saw it still in place in the parking lot sometime before I left for good. Knowing John it’s probably still there, insured and registered, and home to several new species of aquatic life.

            He was also the near victim of an attempted hold up right there in the dorms. One would think that military barracks, what with restricted access, poorly paid personnel, and trained combatants, would be one of the most unlikely targets for a stick up man, but John managed to encounter the one fool who thought he would try it. It was late one evening and John exited his room (all room doors were on the outside of the building much like a motel) and walked down the balcony walkway to hit the vending machines. Going out he notices a shadowy figure lurking at the far end, seemingly doing nothing. On his way back he noted the same figure still there and turned to walk to his room. Hearing fast footsteps behind him and sensing danger, he bolted for his room, flung open the door and struggled to close it as the assailant fought to pull it back open.

            This interesting thing about this is who attempts to mug a 6’4” 250 lb behemoth? We know it was an attempted mugging due to the fact that someone in the dorm next door actually was victimized and had to give up their wallet. We of course rode him for months on the fact that he ran away rather than engage the hooded pipsqueak, pantomiming the events with a mincing little run and girlish screams. Fortunately, he was a gentle giant for the most part.

            Like Dan, he also managed to attract all manner of interesting people about him; the type you would never so much as talk to or share an evening with. John knew plenty of these and I came to find that those classified as “people Dan might bring over” actually do enter military service. The majority of these were benign, but others were dangerous, deranged, or disgusting.

            The one I consider dangerous, and not necessarily a friend of John but on the fringes of his world of associates was Mickey; also known as Mickey VD. You might surmise from the name that Mickey was a man, but you would be wrong as you often are. She worked on the flight line, was somewhat squat and dirty with grease encrusted nails and stringy unkempt hair, and according to legend walked into her shop on her very first day and declared that she was going to sleep with every male there. Rumor also held that she accomplished her goal to the shame and regret of almost all, and was the dedicated to working her way though the entire squadron. John of course clued me in to none of this before showing up with a bottle of Absolute one evening and leading me over to a party at her dorm’s courtyard.

            I have always eschewed vodka ever since the incident wherein I found myself stuffed in the Irish club float during the St Paddy’s day parade, having consumed too many screwdrivers. The problem with it is that it goes down smooth and uneventful until it hits you like a ton of bricks. Though much more careful than the incident 5 years prior, I still found myself three sheets to the wind after a while. I don’t recall what chain of events led up to it, but I somehow found myself alone with Mickey in her room discussing the merits of a good massage. Although I didn’t find her particularly appealing, even in my state at the time, she was using her best power of seduction which it was said she truly mastered. Her shirt was coming off and I felt trapped into taking action when suddenly John burst though the door, announced an emergency and pulled me out of the room.

            I was half way between annoyed and grateful. On one hand she was not my cup of tea and obviously not taking no for an answer, but on the other it is somewhat emasculating to be ripped away from a sure thing. This is when John chose to clue me in to her character along with detailed information on the delightful presents one gained from slipping it to Mickey. Her nickname was not without cause as it seemed.

            The number of deranged people he knew was considerable, but my favorite was always Ford. I never knew if that was his first name or last, but in any case he was a basket case when drinking. He held a particular hatred for science for some reason and often took to denouncing Einstein when in his cups. On one occasion I couldn’t help but to engage him.

            The conversation, one that drew in many observers but few participants, began with his usual tirade about Einstein and how moronically stupid he was. Being the sanctimonious smug bastard that I am, I set about deconstructing his argument, challenged the fact that he even knew a thing about Einstein, special relativity, Brownian motion, or any of his theories. This all really seemed to upset him greatly and he made more and more outlandish statements, grandstanding loudly atop the stone table. All I could really gather was that he seemed to be a biblical literalist, but without the religion, so I chose this as the path of my next wave of reasoning. This proved too much to bear and he finally leapt down off the table, began kicking the holly bushes (absolutely painful to fall into by the way) with great fervor, screaming, “Science! Science! SCIENCE!! SCIENCE!!!” in high falsetto until John actually picked him up in a bear hug and carried him away where he was told to go to bed and did.

            We didn’t party a whole lot with Ford after that, and as these things usually go, he disavowed the whole event from the next day forward. Though he was present from time to time at drinking events, I never again heard the anti-Einstein tirade issue from his lips. I take no credit for changing a drunken fools mind, but you never know.

            The disgusting I saved for last in this list of august personages as true to expectations it leaves the greatest impact. I would encourage you to put the Baby Ruth down as you read this, or not if such is your fancy. True to form I don’t recall this fellow’s real name having encountered him only once, but in our collective memory he will always live on as Airman Poopy.

            It was a typical Sat night a week before payday which meant dorm party as opposed to going out on the town. Beer and liquor on base was always available at a deep discount rate at the Class VI (the mandatory liquor store on every base), which made for a cheap party when we collected everyone’s remaining funds. Occasionally, individuals who already moved off base would come back and enjoy these events before being nailed for DWI when trying to drive off in the wee hours of the morning. It was a ludicrous tradition that insisted on persisting even four orders of magnitude removed from conventional wisdom. In any case, we tried to prevent it whenever necessary.

            By the date of this party, I already had my own room having hounded poor Jim to another floor, and Bryan and John also went though mitosis with Bryan leaving for a few doors down. John, generous to a fault decided to look after one of the off base shlubs who partied with us and managed to get the fellows keys away from him before the snookered idiot got into his car. As the traditional crashing place, the pool parlor, was currently occupied, John was so magnanimous to bring the guy up to his room and set in up on a mattress on the floor. Ensuring his guest was comfortable, John returned to the party as he was far too large to become inebriated anytime before dawn.

            Dawn finally came and drove the remaining partiers (I having left a solid 6 hours earlier) back to their rooms like punch drunk vampires fleeing the sun. John opened his door and reported that the smell hit him like a room full of gamer geeks after four dozen bean burritos. His guest was no where to be seen and in his place was the smashed up remains of a reportedly huge BM. Sight gathered forensic evidence suggested that the missing Airman had removed his pants, defecated on the mattress, fell down into it, smeared it all over John’s bed trying to regain his feet, smeared more of it on the wall staggering about and then left. Horrified and doing his best to suppress the understandable urge to lose his cookies and add to the mess, John gathered all be-pooped material he could find and took it down to the dumpster.

            When he returned to the room to finish cleaning up, he noticed something he hadn’t before in miasma of sewer stench. The door to his bathroom was closed with the light on and unlocked. The set up was identical to Goodyear by which two suites shared a common bathroom between them. For the sake of security it was customary to keep the door into your room locked from the room side to prevent any chance of intrusion. All were religiously fastidious about this, including even John, giving him every cause to believe the perpetrator of this act of ass destruction lurked at the scene of the crime. John called to him and assuredly the douche answered.

            I give John much credit for the restraint he showed in the situation even if he later chalked it up to a suspicion that the guy was covered in the smeared remains of his magnum poopus. He locked the door from the room side trapping the degenerate inside the bathroom much like we had done to Aaron years before. John then admitted completely losing his cool and screaming obscenities through the door as he pounded his fists against it. Had the cowering slob any material left in him, we can only assume it exploded forth in abject terror at the giant who smashed at the door so hard as to splinter it and was hurling all manner of threats. Finally when his energy waned, he called the base security force and waited on the balcony to escape the lingering stench.

            Security arrived in good time and as John was held at a safe distance away, they unlocked the door and led a dazed and frightened Airman Poopy away covered in a towel. John remarked that all of them looked thoroughly nauseous, making every attempt to avoid touching him unless absolutely necessary. Where John then attempted to resume his cleaning as quite a mess was left in the bathroom as well, he was surprised to also be led away by newly arrived security forces. As it was clear Poopy had been drinking and John as well, it was classified as an alcohol related incident, subject to mandatory investigation.

            John received further surprise when the line of questioning moved away from the details of the party, the possible presence of underage drinkers (assuredly) and more toward the possibility of intimate contact between John and Poopy. It was the suspicion of the guards that the massive tide of excrement was possibly the result of consensual or aggravated roughhouse buggery. These were the early days of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ whereby it was permissible for homosexuals to enter military service so long as they kept their mouths shut about it and refrained from any homosexual activity whatsoever. Violations meant instant discharge and the security team was looking to put another notch in the bed post, perhaps in retaliation for having to deal with the shit covered perpetrator.

            Many were called down to the station to testify to John’s straight character, interest in women, and presence at the party until slightly before they were called. I apparently was meant to be one of them, but as per my usual custom neglected to answer my door when they came and was left alone thereafter. Despite the testimonials in his favor, a medic was brought in to physically and uncomfortably examine Poopy on the possibility that he was anally violated. Fortunate for John, any endowment he may have had coincidental with his size worked in his favor and he was vindicated. Poopy was sternly reprimanded and his license to live off base revoked. According to John, work on Monday was tensely awkward as the defecating creature happened to be in the same shop and shift. He transferred less than a month later in record time for base bureaucracy.

            While future tales will include John, understandably none of them take place in his room. Given the notoriety of the event and the lingering odor that got him demerits on each subsequent room inspection, guests were disinclined to enter.

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6 Responses

  1. Dan did not so much get himself into situations as strove to construct them.

    What was the car deal?

    Boy, you are not good on completion today. What was the result of the mugger and John’s door struggle?

    What the hell is “in his cups”? I used context clues (HA! Who else remembers that one!) to deduce it means he is drunk.

    Whoa! That one takes the cake. A really foul incident. It reads like some bogus internet story. If Airman Poopy ever reads this, please don’t touch the screen, left my own become infected with your brown.

  2. Are you sure that is not an urban legend … Larry had a similar story, that of the “Mad Shitter”. Also, slipping it to Mickey? Bad, bad pun.

  3. It does sound like an urban legend and I have encountered ‘mad shitter’ stories quite a few times, including a verified one (saw the evidence) in the dorms at Sheppard. The reason the story is so ubiquitus is that it’s a real thing and a subdisorder of coprophilia. Basically the fetish of having someone else having to smell, view, clean or otherwise interact with your shit. It’s really surprisingly common. I’m not sure if Poopy was someone with this disorder or was just so inebriated as to not know where he was (and hence hid in the bathroom when he sobored up enough to realize).

    The completion of the door struggle was just that. It ended with John not getting mugged. In retrospect, probably not terribly interesting, but I included it as an example of things that typically happened to this guy.

    Come on! “In his cups” is not that obscure a phrase! Ah, perhaps one day you will meet your goal and read a book. A real one; nothing with elves in it.

    And thanks Louis for giving credit to my aweful phrasing and punnmanship.

  4. Who else here ever heard of “in his cups”? Sounds like a dumb ass trying to sound British. You’re from Buffalo man!

    Speaking of “shitter” stories, I am nearly complete with my latest post, which includes such a story.

  5. Excellent! I was worried of becoming the only poster. And you are in luck as I often have an already written post waiting to bump anyone once the 24 hours is up and don’t this time.

  6. I have heard the phrase “in his cups” but agree that it is for homosexual British wannabes, or perhaps Ben Pierce. You know, English major types. Hmm.

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