One of my fondest memories while
trying to fit in with the veterans as I arrived at my unit was a house party in
Seattle. I bought a case of Coors
Light and showed up to a bunch of “boo’s.”
“Coors
Light? What the fuck is that shit?” Angel joked.
“I’m
guessing this is a Bud Light kinda crowd?” I asked.
“Yeah,
leave that shit outside. We got a
keg in the kitchen.”
I
left my silver bullet babies on the deck and ventured in to a world of drunken
brotherhood. I got nothing but
head nods on the deck and felt awkward.
The first thing I saw as I passed thru the doorway was a guy carrying
what looked to be a beer bong, but the funnel at the top was unfamiliar.
“How
do you like that, Vance,” asked Angel.
“What’s with the deformed metal
funnel?”
“That came off an RPG that got
stuck in the side of one of our Strykers.
Great souvenir, bro.”
“That’s awesome.”
My eyes were wide open and I was
sporting a big smile. I couldn’t
wait to be able to tell random stories like that. I kept pushing thru the crowded house that would eventually
attract the local college crowd as well.
I wandered into an open area where some new guys were hanging out with
vets so I jumped in to hang out.
“Yo, Vance, sit down,” said a
veteran named G as he stood up to give me his seat.
“Me? No way man, I can’t do
that. That’s your seat!” I
pleaded.
“Why aint you takin’ that seat?”
“I haven’t done anything to earn a
seat!”
G laughed, “Yo, we all the same
here!”
It wasn’t much, but it was the
nicest offer I’d gotten in a while.
G had E-3 rank, making him lower ranking than me. I came in as an E-4 simply because I
had a college degree, which I believe to be the army’s greatest tragedy along
with certain lieutenants. G was a
veteran and I was fresh out of basic training and this man was supposed to be a
subordinate to me? Fuck that. I looked up to G and whenever he said
something, I listened. G was
Hispanic with a thick accent, shaved head, stood about 5’5,” lifted a lot of
weights enabling him to keep up with anybody and kinda looked like a mini Vin
Diesel. He was also a guy I chose
to punch me in the jaw during one of our crazy barracks nights. Poor decision. He even warned me. I swear to this day he was holding back
though. If he really wanted to, he
could’ve caved my face in with ease.
Across the room I saw some girls
pouring beer into a softball cleat.
Where there are girls doing silly things with alcohol, there will be
curious guys.
“What’s with the ‘shoe-o-beer’?” I
asked
“We’re all on a softball team and
these new bitches have to drink from it for initiation,” one of them proclaimed
while two younger girls grimaced.
“Oh damn, that cleat looks used and
abused.”
“A whole season’s worth of use and
abuse.”
As the cleat was held up for
freshman humiliation and people chanting “drink,” I ventured into the
kitchen. That’s where I met up
with Yancey Baker. He was sitting
on a stool at the kitchen bar with a fifth of Wild Turkey; a substance I hadn’t
tried before. Yancey was of
average height, brown haired, thin, white, proud Alabamian from the mortar
platoon who could throw down ‘til the sun came up.
“Vance! Come here and have a drink of whiskey with me,” he ordered
from across the kitchen as I passed the line to the keg stand.
“I don’t know man,” I said.
Yancey then proceeded to take out
his left eye and hold it on the tip of his left index finger. He then gave me a big grin.
“You mean to tell me you can’t sit
down and have one fuckin’ drink with me at this party?”
“Baker, I’ll drink as much as you
want me to.”
“Aight then.”
Yancey then told me the story of
how he lost his eye when a car bomb exploded right next to his Stryker as he
was standing out of one of the hatches.
I got to know Yancey real good that night as I learned of the sacrifices
some of us would have to make without having a choice. I was impressed with how real the fake
eye looked. Yancey was happy with
it, tossed it in his mouth as if to clean it and then put it back in his socket
while we both laughed over a bottle of Wild Turkey.
From the conversation with Yancey
and my first encounter with Wild Turkey things got a little crazy. After doing a couple rounds of keg
stands I was feeling great. All of
a sudden I hear one of the vets screaming at a local guy about messing with his
girl. Clark was the vet and he was
no bigger than I was, but a lot more jumpy. Something about him liking “snow,” but it was too warm outside
for that. He did have an
attractive girl and with this much alcohol and people, I’m sure someone made a
pass at her and Clark wasn’t in the right mindset to keep calm about it. Before I knew it, a circle had formed
in the kitchen and Clark was threatening a guy twice his size when things took
a turn for the worse. The guy
pulled out a knife.
I’m not a rocket scientist, but
there’s not a whole lot your army training can do for you when you’re drunk and
stuck in a small space with a guy twice your size holding a knife. You’re going to get shanked. So what does my dumb ass do? I jump right in front of Clark and
start screaming at the guy to make a move. Luckily for both Clark and I, this local was smart enough to
realize there were a lot more of us and just a few of his friends. He backed down and left. Clark was impressed I had the balls to
try to help and that was enough for me to be happy. Wild end to a great night.
Even the next day had an extra
surprise.
“Where’s Rojas?” I asked.
“I’m
right here, dude. I just got
back,” Rojas said as he walked up to the third floor of the barracks.
“Shit
man, what happened to you last night?”
“I
wandered off, so I guess my ride left me.
I woke up on a stranger’s recliner a couple houses down from the party.”
“That’s
awesome.”
The day after a crazy night we all
thought we would chill out and relax.
Nope, not anymore. It was
taught to us from the beginning that it was a life style to work hard all day
and party your ass off all night.
It was frowned upon to show up to morning PT without a funny story to
tell or reek of booze. As long as
we could hold ourselves up, keep our mouth shut and do the exercises, superiors
would put up with how the smell of alcohol was seeping from our pores. The weekends weren’t even a time to
rest the liver. They just allowed
more time to booze. Six years
later I’m sure my liver was making a big sigh of relief.
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