the time i joined the army

The bus stopped. It was raining hard, and the ground was muddy. There were no paved roads anywhere in sight. Outside was a low, ranch-style building, the front door flanked by a pair of tiki torches. The driver opened the door, but did not utter a word. The boys and I looked at each other. One asked, “This our stop?” The bus driver stayed silent. “Do we get out here?” Again, nothing. Then a sharp-featured Anglican, name of Boswell, stood up, grabbed his suitcase, and shuffled toward the door. The rest of us followed.

We walked up to the door of the building we now took to be the barracks. There was a note pinned to it that read “UNPACK. SHAVE. WAIT.” Lorenzo, a chatty latino from upstate New York, joked, “What, no flowers?” We all laughed.

Inside the barracks were two rows of bunk beds with two large trunks at the foot of each bed. Our names were spray-painted on top of each trunk marking where we were supposed to sleep. On top of each pillow sat an electric razor already plugged into the wall. We unpacked, per instructions, and humbly shaved each others heads. Milty and I partnered up for the shave. Milty was small, maybe 115 pounds, very pale, with long, straw colored hair. Before I cut off his locks, he could have easily been mistaken for a woman. Afterwards, even though he was still small, I could see that this was no woman. Milty’s stone colored eyes told me that this was a soldier I could count on. Might even save my life one day.

“Haven’t had my hair cut in over a year. Feels like I lost a friend,” Milty lamented.

“You ain’t lost a friend,” I said, and squeezed his shoulder. He furrow his brow and looked at me like I was crazy.

I heard the last electric shaver get turned off. Everyone’s head was shaved. The only thing left to do was wait. Tufts of hair swirled across the floor.

We heard a crash. The front door of our barracks flew open, kicked in hard by a man in a Mountie hat. He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the thunder and lightning. He took two steps in, looked at Lorenzo, who was standing to his right, and punched him square in the face, knocking him out instantly. Then he said:

“ALL RIGHT FAGGLERS, YOU DONE SHAVING EACH OTHERS’ PUSSIES YET?”

Silence.

“MY OH MY, YOU MUST BE DEAF IF YOU CAN’T HEAR A SINGLE FUCKING THING I JUST SAID. YOU GOT DICKS IN YOUR EARS?!”

“No sir!”

“WHAT WAS THAT?! SOUNDED LIKE A GAY, SHIT-COVERED CHIPMUNK JUST FARTED! I SAID, ARE YOU ASS-CHEESERS DEAF?”

“NO SIR!” we shouted.

“GOOD. NOW DROP AND GIVE ME A THOUSAND PUSH-UPS.”

We dropped to the floor and got to it. I could see fear on everyone’s face, and heck, I could feel it on my own face, too. I looked over to Milty. He was counting “36…37…38…” and sweat was dripping off his nose. He didn’t look scared. He was just staring right at the ground, right through the ground, hard enough it made me think that maybe he could see straight through to the other side of the world. I stared at the ground, too, and started counting. I remember thinking to myself when I reached push-up number 200, “This is already hell and its not even half as bad as its going to get.” But something inside told me that there was no way I would ever quit. I was a soldier.