Exodus II

My non-judicial hearing occurred September 11, 2003; no mere coincidence. The acting CO for the 1st Radio Battalion made every effort he could to insinuate that the money I'd spent acquiring marijuana had fallen directly into terrorist hands. I didn't feel the need to point out how stupid that sounded considering the facts; after all, I had heard dumber things fall out of the mouths of officers (as they tend to), and I wanted to play up the perception of my captors. I thought it would increase my likelihood for a successful expulsion.

I had turned myself in for drug abuse two months prior. After a weekend pot-binge, I asked to speak privately with my platoon Sergeant. We went outside to a stairwell which served a dual purpose as a smoking area. I lit a cigarette and pondered how I should begin to unravel my career as a Marine linguist. I still had a chance to take the easy way out. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut and nothing would happen; I was certain of that -- in two and a half years I had only been drug tested once. A knot of anticipation grew in my stomach. I had to say something. Why was I so afraid of freedom? Was it because I couldn't believe it was actually within my grasp?

Fortunately, he broke the silence first. That made it easier.

"So, Day. What's up?"

I'd actually known the guy for a long time. He learned Persian-Farsi at the same language school I learned Arabic, the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California. He was in charge of my platoon then, as well. We'd seen each other drunk, played guitar together. He organized a few parties that would have gotten a lot of people in trouble if it weren't for "unit cohesion." I'd been drinking at his house only weeks prior, met his wife, played The Rain Song for the two of them on his guitar. That made it easier, too. Coincidences, right?

"I've been smoking pot." I told him. I said it. Now, things could never be the same, or so I thought.

"Oh," he said. Or would they? "What do you want me to do about it?" The lines between coworker, boss, and friend are confusing at times. I must have thought; god damn it, I have the only cool Sergeant in the whole damn battalion.

I answered with a question of my own. "Well, what are you supposed to do about it?"

He replied with a grin, "tell someone, I guess."

"Do that. Please."

There was an awkward period of silence. It wasn't painfully awkward; maybe a few seconds passed while he processed what I was asking him to do. "You're serious? You're really doing this?" I think I smiled. He and I had had many heated debates over my growing inability to perform military duties, my disenfranchisement, my disbelief in the war, the disgust I felt towards some of my peers' vehement enthusiasm for "killing ragheads," not to mention my growing belief in Pacifism, which he insisted was only an act due to my lack of religious conviction.

Suddenly he said, "well, I'll miss 'ya." Then we shook hands. "This is going to cause a shitstorm. You're serious about this?"

"Yes," I told him. It was nice having someone who understood me nearby, then. I think I thanked him. I can't remember.

He walked down the stairwell and I watched as he crossed a large, grassy field, then disappeared into a building 200 yards away. I lazily finished my cigarette. Afterwards, I sat in his office, waiting for the phone call I knew would arrive at any minute. When it did, I was calm, ready, collected. I stayed that way till I left.

The hearing really was a strange affair. Without intending to, I had picked the perfect time to turn myself in, as my battalion was in the midst of a change of command. In the interim period, my platoon Sergeant was the acting platoon commander, the platoon commander was the acting company 1st Sergeant, and the company 1st Sergeant was the acting Battalion Sergeant Major. To the layperson: my immediate supervisors were filling in for their bosses' jobs in the short period that existed between the old bosses leaving and the new bosses arriving. I don't think it's usually done that way but it worked to my advantage.

Here's how: marijuana use isn't considered as serious a deal as it used to be, mainly because too many people are caught using it -- it would affect troop strength too significantly to kick out everyone who used it. In my case, my supervisors all knew, more or less tacitly, my situation and why I wanted out of the military. I believe they did everything in their ability to help me get out (either that or they really thought I was bad for the Corps; in either case I agree with their judgment). This suspicion of mine is due, in part to the fact that the base drug and alcohol counselors had never heard of me and hinted at an "under-the-table" process when I talked to them (whatever that could mean), and because, compared to other drug offenders, my status remained relatively high among staff until I was discharged. While never publicly acknowledged, I detected an air of respect from my supervisors. (It's mutual.) I even stole a portrait of my company 1st Sergeant (and named a song after him) in order to remember my gratitude.

The hearing was strange because the new command was all in place by the time it occurred. The Sergeant Major that presided was a gigantic black man with arms the size of thighs. He was a whole head shorter than me but could have probably thrown me twenty feet if he felt so inclined. The commanding officer who acted as a judge-of-sorts, was old, grey, and inexplicably snakelike. There were six or seven others in the room; four I had never seen before, all high ranking, and 2 or 3 from my own command. I don't remember many details. Long paragraphs were read aloud, and I felt simultaneously eager and bored. I also remember having to fart, a most untimely predicament for such environments. That made me seem impatient when I really wasn't.

The new guard seemed to have the impression that I had smoked the pot for its own sake, so they made a big deal about lost futures and missed opportunities, all for the sake of a moment's high. It suddenly dawned on me that this may have been an image concocted by my superiors in order to facilitate a speedier discharge. They remained silent throughout the proceeding. Finally the officer/judge-faker asked me if the pot had been any good.

I thought; what a weird question to ask. Inappropriate, even.

I had smoked it at a beach on base. MCBH (Marine Corps Base Hawaii) has a host of wonderful beaches that I used to explore. If you stand still for a few minutes, huge crabs emerge from nooks and crannies in rock formations. I would swim for hours, gloomily, chasing my own fear and pushing myself further and further out to sea. I had once found a Connecticut coin from the 18th century hidden in a crevasse of lava-rock, only to lose it when I slipped on another formation on the beach. Coral structures have claimed small pieces of my thumb and back. I chased fish, and found myself surrounded by schools of them at times. The waters have both coddled me and dragged me over rocks. The ocean seems to have its own personality at times. The beach became my friend. I never saw any sharks, dolphins, whales, or sea turtles; or anything larger than a foot, but they may have been nearby. While swimming, I always felt as if observed.

That evening, I didn't swim. I smoked as much as I thought I would need to in order to inundate my system, then felt surprise at just how potent the stuff was. Oh, it was potent. I don't actually enjoy pot very much, but the body high soon gave way to that hazy dopey-ness and a mild cheer. My eye-lids grew heavy although I wasn't tired, and each time I blinked my perception of the world became as one giant, real-life cartoon. It was so unusual that I felt compelled to observe the effect more, and, as a consequence, I ended up walking around with my eyes closed more than open.

When I observed my own body with eyes closed, I became a pudgy, cartoon Hawaiian girl in a purple tube top, yellow flower-print shorts, and sandals. That was also quite unusual. Eyes open; tall thin marine. Eyes closed; short pudgy girl. Eyes open; a night-time stroll through a street on base. Eyes closed; a day-time stroll through cartoon Hawaii. The cartoonyness lasted about half an hour. The man-girl duality lasted several more.

About halfway to my barracks I noticed a group of leaves following me. It was really quite bizarre; they were dry, fall leaves which I could hear dragging in the wind behind me. When I stopped to turn and catch them in the act they would slow to a stop. Resuming my walk, they picked up after me. It really was something out of Alice in Wonderland. I felt ridiculous; I knew full well the leaves couldn't possibly be following me, and yet they persisted. It was too silly. Start, stop. Start, stop. I varied the pattern of my steps to thwart the apparent causality and each time it thwarted me back. What stupidity; I was beside myself with dualistic fantasy. But it was also fun. It was as if I were playing with nature itself, stupid as that may sound to the reader.

In a last ditch effort to shake the leaves from my trail, I burst into a run. The wind picked up in that exact moment, chasing after me with several fists full of leaves. I almost panicked, but I had a smirk on my face the whole time. After a hundred yards or so I stopped on a dime and turned to fact what I was beginning to perceive as a kind of ghost. The leaves tumbled to a stop (they really did), and I stared into the void, slightly bewildered. I couldn't see anything to account for the movement, except the pile of leaves itself. I was a little carried away -- I made a menacing stomp, and some of the leaves bounded backwards, as if startled. I giggled to myself. I was seriously high and it dawned on me then; and not for the first time that evening.

So when the commanding officer of my battalion asked me that day if the pot had been any good, I couldn't exactly lie to him. They had a field day with my answer. They hated me for that. The Sergeant Major's composure completely unraveled. My command was sweating and fidgeting. The room palpably darkened. I guess they thought I wouldn't answer. So why did he ask? What a creepy man.

I was demoted, twice, and given something like 3 months of extra duty with restriction. I was the lowest ranking person on Oahu. I took a sort of pride in that. My coworkers loved me; some nights they smuggled me off base, took me to beach parties or strip clubs, and always had me back in time to report for more extra duty, which included lawn mowing, bathroom cleaning, garbage sorting, weed pulling, shrubbery-cutting, sprinkler repair, dusting, mopping, and I can't even remember what else. I had 12 hour workdays, was only allowed to wear my camouflage uniform, and had a rigid check-in schedule.

But I was also given unique and unprecedented privileges. I reported directly to our new company first Sergeant, which meant I didn't really have anyone watching over me all day. I was exempted from almost all of my daily duties, having lost my security clearance and no longer being a training priority (although a loophole made me have to spend a week re-qualifying on the rifle range, anyway). And rather than being in a traditional platoon, I was attached to a strange squad of Sergeants and Staff-Sergeants, which somehow ended up being a much more relaxed environment than it sounds.

Usually, I was on phone-watch duty, which meant I sat by the phone in case someone important called, surfing the Internet.

Two days before Thanksgiving, I was called into the First Sergeant's office. A respectable Gunnery Sergeant was holding the job; I really liked the guy. "Day," he said. "I just got a phone call. You're really going to like this." I thought I might, but I didn't know what he was going to say; and I didn't know how much I would until he actually said it. "We have 48 hours to get you the fuck out of the Marine Corps." He said it exactly like that. And he was smiling.

It was one of those moments; I was excited, he knew I was excited. I knew he knew I was excited, he knew I knew that, etc.

I almost kissed the girl, the married, Mormon girl that I'd been harboring a crush on, in the hallway just outside his office.

Somewhere in the Marine Corps files is an order stating that I can never set foot on MCBH again. I'll never find that coin. Fair enough.