Exodus I

I've mentioned it in a few places; I got kicked out of the marines for smoking pot. I put off canceling my contract in such a manner for a very, very long time, considering the measure as a drastic, last of last resorts. I kept hoping that another opportunity would present itself, and it never did. I wanted out the day I found out I wouldn't learn the language of my choice. I had entertained notions at first that I had a sort of dual intention of serving the country and of learning Japanese, but the disappointment revealed to me, quite clearly, that I had never had an interest in being a marine for its own sake or in fulfilling any perceived duty. For me, the marine corps was a means to an end.

I think, perhaps, that in studying another foreign language I was trying to increase my options for successfully leaving the country and starting a life somewhere new after an honest go at the rock star dream. I entertained notions of returning to Germany but my language and education had atrophied (plus I was broke). I always find myself thinking of my disillusionment with the U.S. as a new phenomenon, brought about by new facts or situations, but no matter how far back I remember, the disillusionment remains. Perhaps I was also giving the marine corps a chance to prove my perceptions wrong.

I also never quite understood college in America; it's financial and scholastic requisites were unavailable to me, and I could never figure out how a person could be expected to work full time while going to school full time -- especially when jobs for high school graduates scarcely paid for housing and food. Presumably I would have had to work several jobs while going to school. I was already drowning in lethargy, existential crises, cruel depression and suicidal urge as a high school student; I honestly thought college might kill me.

While most consider the marine corps to be a tough gig, it's actually pretty simple, and my expectations in day-to-day living were accurate. The rules are easy; you don't have to worry about money or paperwork, and the American school system teaches the basics exhaustively: 1) pretend you are stupid, 2) do what you are told, whether it makes sense or not, 3) observe others and do not stand out, 4) appeal to the perceptions of those in authority, and 5) demonstrate physical prowess (a basic physical regimen will assure you do not make a fool of yourself).

While the prospect of subjecting myself to those rules for another five years was not particularly appealing (the length of the language school required an extra year of service), the disciplinary lifestyle appealed to me somewhat, and I liked the idea of leaving the marines in shape, debt free, and tri-lingual in English, German and Japanese. I knew adults who had gone to college to study Germany who were not a match for my childhood vocabulary so I figured that by the time I was finished, my experience would speak for itself and I wouldn't need a degree.

As for wanting to be a rock star, you don't need a degree for that either (and Weezer isn't a good band).

So those are a few more of my motivations for joining. At times a reader may find herself asking, "why did he join, again?" Or himself wondering, "what was he thinking?" Well, there you go. I was 17 when I pledged to join. What sort of life-altering decisions did you make in high school?

But I'm glad they kicked me out for pot. I feared I might have had to find something more dangerous, like coke or heroin. I took a gamble on pot and it paid off. I don't know why service members can't just cancel their enlistments at will. Presumably the logistical challenges of treating service members fairly, honestly, and with dignity is insurmountable, and the risk of losing our armed forces in the face of an unwise or unpopular attack would be pretty high. But is that so horrible? Isn't that exactly the way it should be in a free society?

I felt at the end of my rope. I had orders to Iraq. My ex-fiancee had left me. I was losing my mind and had been demonizing my peers and superiors for years. I didn't like where my mind was going. I have dozens of anecdotal military stories which document a steady decline in my fitness to serve. I was not the only one. There are countless anti-hero circles in the armed services. Their members are ticking time bombs. They have temporarily forgotten who they are, what they want in life, how to get it; what right and wrong even mean to them; and I was stuck right there with them.

I suppose I'm giving mixed reviews of my military experience. When I say that the "gig" of being a marine was easy, I mean that ironing, shaving, cleanliness, fitness, drill, uniform maintenance and marksmanship are all easy enough to maintain to a point, even if I don't prefer much of that in my personal life. I might have even toughed-out my contract if it weren't for the invasion of Iraq. When the U.S. went ahead without support from France, or more importantly to me, Germany, my heart told me that something was drastically wrong. I trusted Germany, having spent my entire childhood there. I felt despicably dirty; morally compelled not to participate the day the first invasion began. I started working up the courage to do something about my supposed involvement, although I wasn't sure what.

A comical role-reversal provided my key to escape while assigned to Hawaii.

I had been on a personal mission all afternoon. It isn't easy for an obvious square, out of his element, to find drugs; of any variety, but I thought I knew the sort of person I was looking for. In high school, everyone I knew smoked pot. Some even did LSD, mushrooms, ecstasy, cocaine, and amphetamines. I was at a local mall, stalking the halls, keeping an eye out for the oft-parodied, proverbial, cool kid.

People dress differently in Hawaii than they do in Colorado, so I had to rely on more subtle clues, such as age, level of hygiene, a certain kind of confidence, and a bravado that personally irritated me but seemed par for coolness. What I found were doughy, middle-aged, depressed white tourists and tired, defeated-looking Hawaiians (snapshots of America can be quite revealing), peppered with Chinese and Japanese retirees. I walked in circles for close to an hour and a half, even stopped by the guitar shop (there's always a pot-head -- although of a different variety than the cool kid -- at a guitar shop), with no luck. I became depressed, which prompted a retreat to one of my favorite creature comforts at the time; my ritual cigarette break.

Soon I was standing mere paces away from a bench outside, staring into the distance, gently rolling my lit cigarette in my right hand. The weather in Hawaii is really something. The wind is just right, there are never any bugs or mosquitoes hitting you, and two-to-three minute rain showers arrive like clockwork every 25 minutes or so. The tap water is the best in the nation. It's becoming a big, sprawling suburb, though. Sad, really.

I pondered giving up my search, or at least waiting til the following Friday to try again. I knew pot was everywhere; that was the frustrating part. Chances were all those fat, middle-aged people I'd been overlooking were higher than I'd ever been or would ever be. Pot is everyone's secret. Children smoke it behind their parent's backs and parents do it behind their childrens'. I pondered that, too. Maybe I could ask another marine, I thought. I decided I would keep looking until the mall closed.

Before I finished my break and began my resolve anew, a small voice encroached upon mine ears. A young girl, who had been sitting at the bench, watching me, asked if I would bum her a smoke. She spoke in that pigeon-y Hawaiian accent. I can't do it justice in writing so I must ask you to use your imagination. She was obviously too young to be smoking, looking anywhere between 12 and 15 years old, but as I'd just been looking to score all afternoon I figured I shouldn't play morality police. I gave her a cigarette and walked away without saying much. Teenage girls put me off somewhat; they're adult enough to flirt at me sometimes and for a weird tension to permeate the air, but too childish all the same. I'm beginning to feel the same way about women in their early twenties. I suppose there could be exceptions but in the former case they're illegal and in the latter, well, they seem to prefer men who are richer than me, older than me, or parodies of masculinity. It drives me nuts sometimes.

As I walked away, an even smaller voice spoke to me. It was my conscience, my spirit guide, Belfast, fate -- something; that part of me that is more fleeting than the rest -- that told me that she could be the person I'd been looking for all afternoon. I had been flipping coins since the breakup with my fiancee to help combat indecisiveness, and I consulted one then. It bolstered my decision, and I turned to re-approach the girl, at which point she asked if she could borrow my lighter.

That made me feel even less comfortable -- smokers generally carry their own lighting utensils, and a suspicion that she had only bummed the smoke as a pretense for talking to me began to boil in my mind. Then again, she might have taken me for some sort of teen-chasing creep -- an easy target for a young girl bent on finding cigarettes, alcohol, whatever. Or she might have just wanted a cigarette and needed a lighter. My mind often races with plots and suspicions, much less so these days, but especially when under stress. I inherited that from my dad's side of the family. A frustrating thing about my father was that his suspicions were always startlingly accurate without the slightest bit of proof to back them up. My difficulty lies in discerning between dozens of contradictory suspicions, a decidedly less useful skill.

But I pushed all that aside. I had more pressing issues -- my life, sanity, and livelihood were in serious danger. The pulse of the nation was becoming very weird and disturbing to me. I felt it was making me weird and disturbing. I swallowed my neurosis and asked, calmly, as she lit the cigarette I'd given her, whether she knew where I could find some pot.

Her reaction was endearing; she almost, *almost* looked like she might choke as she inhaled the first drag. My question had caught her off guard. Then she looked right-to-left, as if to check for eavesdroppers, leaned toward me, and whispered, "follow me."

She let me to some of her friends, and they sold me pot. They were all 14 years old; I don't remember asking their ages, I was so happy I gave them a hundred dollars. This role reversal of children selling pot to an adult (a marine, no less) is really an indicator for the parody the was on drugs has become. America is the poster child for aspiring laughing stocks the world over. Waste of time and money.

But it worked. By goodness, it worked. Those kids may have saved my life. They were greater heroes and national treasures to me than my own peers. I hope their futures are bright.