Dragoness boss breathes Spam-scented flames in cellblock C

Cell C-32.

That’s where I spent a year and a half. Well, most people would call it a… Cell C-32.

That’s where I spent a year and a half. Well, most people would call it a cubicle. But considering I liken my time there to time spent in minimum-security prison, I prefer to call it a cell. I was sent to my cell at Defense Finance and Accounting Service in March 1998.

DFAS sits on the eastern side of Ford Island, at the center of Pearl Harbor. It was there that I was an elite member of an extremely disgruntled and depressed United States Marine Corps accounting unit.

Outside the building it was bright and warm and happy. The sun shone, palm trees swayed in a warm gentle breeze and the famous Hawaiian surf pounded the shore. But inside, oh inside, it was dark and cold and very sad. The only light was that of the flickering fluorescent bulbs; the only breeze, a freezing, artificial blast from the germ-carrying air conditioning system; and the only surf, the flush of a toilet.

Upon my arrival I was unlucky enough to be given the data entry position, which meant I’d be residing downstairs in cellblock C. It was a single man position. But there were some civilian ladies and I’m certain they were pretty in 1929.

They were all 65 and older, and most were sweet, bake-you-some-cookies types. But I was only concerned with one, The Demon of Data Entry, my boss, Pam. Rhymes with Spam, which is what she ate everyday for breakfast and lunch. She was about 3-foot-7 but she ruled our cellblock with an iron troll fist.

So, forced to suffer under Pam’s dictatorship, The Sultana of Suck, I began to do what any lifelong knucklehead would: invent games.

Now, this was tricky. Pam sat directly across from me. She had a sixth sense for knowing when someone wasn’t up to par on his or her data entry.

So, the games had to begin as a covert operation. Though I didn’t feel like it, I was a Marine. Thus I figured I better give my operation a name and make it official. I dubbed it “Operation Have Fun Annoy Pam.” OK, so that doesn’t sound too official. What can I say, all my military motivation had already been sucked out.

So, “Have Fun Annoy Pam,” crappy name and all, commenced. The plan went like this: The more Pam was away from her desk, the more fun I could have.

I resolved to practice the old adage, keep your friends close and enemies closer.

So, much to the dismay of my little tyrant I decided to make Her Majesty my new best friend.

“Pam, how was your weekend? Hey Pam, tell me about your hobbies! So, Pam, what’s your favorite color? Ya know Pam, I use a Mach Three razor. You might want to try one on your back before you wear that dress again. So, how about this weather we’re having?”

There was just an ungodly amount of small talk. I walked with her to the mini-mart. I wished her well at the end of the day. I acted happy to see her and happy to be there. And nothing pisses off a nasty person more than happiness.

After a few weeks she began taking longer breaks. That’s when I broke out the letter opener and began to throw it into the side of my cell. After a bit of practice I had enough accuracy that I would have confidently placed an apple atop my mother’s head and had a go at it from 10 feet away.

Then came the catch-the-rubber-band-in-chopsticks game. OK, it was a spin off of Daniel-san’s legendary feat, but it passed the time. I’d have Wally, a 61-year-old colleague of mine who I had converted to misfitism, shoot a rubber band across the room and I’d attempt to snatch it from the air with my chopsticks. Then came the catch-the-raisins-in-the-mouth game. I once caught 29 straight at a distance of 15 feet. Contact Cpl. Branz of Odell, Ill., for verification. There was stapler juggling, tack throwing and tape ball.

All these games served to break the monotony and pass the time. Weeks turned into months and months turned into years. Eventually Pam left and I was moved upstairs, only to be cracked by the whip of another thief of dreams.

I was released from my prison (honorably discharged from the Marine Corps) in May 2001. On occasion I have frightening flashbacks of my cell and the hairy back and Spam sandwiches of my warden, Pam. But then I think of the unique expertise I acquired and swell with pride.

After all, how many people can stick a letter opener through an orange in mid-flight at distance of 7 feet? Contact Cpl. Jason Roberts of Jacksonville, Fla., for verification.

Ben Magid can be reached at bmagid@pittnews.com.