Chapter Eleven

Shirley was in ROTC, and so was Frank. Shirley joined for love of country, and camaraderie. Frank was enrolled to punish him for totaling a six month old Buick convertible.

The drill instructor had chosen Shirley to be responsible for distributing the wooden practice rifles, and Frank cornered her in the equipment room.

“Jake says you were helping that jackass that assaulted Bitumen. What's the matter with you?” Frank accused.

“Is it a felony to be poor now, or is it still only a misdemeanor?” Shirley retaliated. “Maybe if you rich boys explained yourselves, Laurence would respond in language you could understand.”

“Oh yeah? He's going to ruin it for everybody!” Frank charged.

Shirley knew an old trick, and used it. “What's the oldest profession, Frank?” she asked.

Frank transfixed her with a direct stare, and said, “Whores,” matter-of-factly.

“And what's the oldest way to get rich?” Shirley pursued.

“Hard work and a good head for investments,” Frank replied, almost by rote. “...and street smarts,” he added, as an afterthought. He suspected he might be called upon to demonstrate.

“More people get rich by inheritance, than any other way!” Shirley evinced. “Frank, you've inherited your money and your influence. Use it to prove you can do something GOOD!” Shirley adjured. “If Laurence was from money, you wouldn't be so prejudiced!”

The barb bit.

“If Laurence was from money, then he wouldn't be such an ass!” Frank retorted, with sincerity. The fact that Shirley might be equally prepared to see him, Frank, as an ass, goaded him to keep this nymph on the defensive. 

It was not in Shirley's nature to pull her punches, but she computed that the battle over how much of an ass Frank might be, was detrimental to her overall strategy. 

“Maybe he's an ass Frank,” Shirley ground out, “but he doesn't command a monopoly position on the ass market.”

She paused, and then concluded with, “Now if you don't mind, I've got work to do.”

Shirley laid the verbal emphasis on the word “I've.” Frank contemplated what advantage might devolve from claiming that he controlled the ass market himself, but concluded that this would inevitably lead to the admission that Laurence was not the relevant kind of ass. Since the drill instructor was known to commandeer “volunteers,” to move gravel, shovel sand, dig ditches, or clean latrines, without the slightest justification or warning, Frank proceeded to himself scarce.