I had grown accustomed to CRS Supply. I loved the engine shop. I had begun dating one of the mechanics, a sweet guy named Rob who treated me better than the other guys on the base who had used me like so much facial tissue. One afternoon I was plugging away at an order for one of the backshops when the section SMSgt came into the office. His name escapes me. He was a thin Italian guy, kinda loud with the air of a person you just couldn’t trust. He shared an office in the back of RAMS, the repair cycle shop, with MSgt Ivory (help me out here Spang friends.) He told me he wanted me to come to talk to him in his office. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted to talk to me about, I thought I had answered to my executioners. I walked with him the hundred yards it took to travel to the RAMS area, which was in a nearby hanger, and through the front office of the repair cycle work area. RAMS had a reputation in Supply as the place no one wanted to work. It was like the Hades of Logistics, headed by Nosferatu himself, MSgt Jim Torbert, a micromanaging pentacostal who spoke in tongues in the workplace. It was a highly stressful area to work in and this was apparent in the faces of the people present at the desks and standing at workstations throughout the area. I was led to the back office and seated in front of the SMSgt’s desk. He took his seat and faced me, a grin across his long, thin face. “So, how would you like to come to work at RAMS, Rhonda?” I told him that I wouldn’t like to. He told me I didn’t have a choice. My face began to swell as fat tears ran down my cheeks. He explained that he was the boss and that I had no choice in the matter. I was given the remainder of the day off and told to report to him in the morning. I would rather have lost my career.