From Rober Rosser's ENGL 101 class at Camp Henry, Korea

February 14, 1995. Late. Today is my eighteenth birthday and I am alone. The streetlights in the parking lot are wisps of illuminated cloud through the raging ice storm. As entertaining as the storm is, I’m far more interested in the uniformed figures behind me, looking to see if I had gone yet so they can get back home for Valentine’s Day. I find strange solace in knowing they’re stuck here like me. My shoes squeak across the polished linoleum floor of the Des Moines Military Entry Processing Station as I pace between the stainless steel drinking fountain to the cracked plastic seats in the lobby, waiting for my ride.

I feel the cold through the plate-glass window and watch as my breath freezes to it then fades away. I wish I could fade away. Being cold and alone doesn’t bother me; I’ve spent most of my life alone. The pity in the reflection of those sergeants’ eyes behind me make my teeth grind. It’s self-serving and insincere. They want me gone so they can shut off the lights, lock the doors, and move on. I know this because that’s the way it’s always been. Once again I am spotlighted as the burden and I’m tired of apologizing. As I walk to the door and pull it open, I wish I were boarding that plane tonight, to be finally lost in a sea of nameless faces. A gust of wind and ice cut through my t-shirt and I squint to see that my ride still isn’t here.

Not that I have anywhere to go. It’s easy to have a flexible schedule when you’re among the fashionably hated in high school. It’s my eighteenth birthday and I’m spending it signing up for the Army. Shivering, I brush the snow from my hair and shake a negative response to the onlookers. There’s a smile on my lips tonight, not because I’m going to get a bonus or see exotic places, but because I can finally have the dignity of anonymity. Happy birthday.

February 1995 – February 2003. The Army is my great escape. Behind the curtain of military service, I get to have an excuse not to come back home but maybe twice a year. I can make disposable friends. I can even change my entire personality every couple of years when I move if I want. I can even be bold enough to live out the characters I think people will like, to gain that attention I’ve been deprived of so long. The problem is, it’s not like high school where there is a distinct break in the progression. You can wake up one day and find that eight short years have melted away.

I, like every other soldier, am talking about getting out. The days are ticking by, the release abstract and unknown as heaven, but anticipated like parole. It’s nothing I have to worry about; no one will ever ask. But if you did, I'd be the first to tell you how excited I am about it.

My wife wants me to get out and move back to Iowa. I tell her whatever she wants to hear to get her to shut up. White picket fences and BBQs on the fourth of July--it’s too far away to think about. And besides, in the Army all of my needs are taken care of. Why can’t she see what I see? We never talk about what I want; we never talk period. She’s a stranger. I toss the beer bottle cap into the trash and take a prolonged drink. No words are spoken as she heads out the door for work. No kisses. All I have is Byron, my son.

March 2003. I crumple my freshly cut orders for another Korea tour into a tight ball and throw it into my desk drawer, slamming it shut with a loud curse. My only options, according the Sergeant Major, are to go to Korea again or sign a declination of continued service statement. I bite my lip to keep from screaming at the memory of Destini threatening to leave and take Byron from me if I go back to Korea. Even her name tastes vile in my mouth as I speak it.

August 2003. In my mind this day would never come. The movers don't leave much in the apartment aside from scraps of packing-paper and empty soda cans. My eyes fix on those dull white walls, while it all descends upon me like a great and menacing spider suspended above my head, slowly dropping from the ceiling, waiting for me to look up. And so I look. My heart pounds in my chest and my hands grip my scalp, gritty fingers sliding through sweat-matted hair.

Retreating, I find myself at my best friend’s place, sobbing and muttering in great gasps. Still and stoic, she asks, “What’s wrong?” “They took my stuff,” I say. What I mean is, “They took me.”

September 4, 2003. No purpose, no calling, and, more frightening still, I’m starting to realize it. With every mile that passes on the slow drive back to Iowa, a piece of what I thought I was flakes away. I hate everything. I hate my wife and the Army for forcing decisions. Most of all, I hate myself. My knuckles tighten on the steering wheel every time a large truck passes or I go under a bridge, hoping the other driver is asleep at the wheel and will veer into my lane, or I will lose control. My soul is an aching chasm. Death seems easier than what lies ahead.

September 6, 2003. I can’t deal with what I have become, or what I haven’t become, and neither can my wife. I watch that car drive away into the distance. I really don’t care That relationship died years ago, but taking my son has ripped from me the small part that was real and true.

September 15, 2003. I’m a teenager, lost and insecure with plenty of time to think. There has been no growing wiser, just older, and life paused when I vanished from the radar. I’m a twenty-six-old boy, living in his parent’s basement. No family, no friends, no education--not even a driver’s license. Half asleep on the couch, I wrap the musty blanket around me tighter. My mouth fills with the dust of my squandered past, and I choke.

But as I lie there, a ray of light shines through, a slim chance of getting back into the Army. I can run back to the Army and hide. A scared man can run twice as fast as an angry man. I throw off the ratty blanket and sprint up the stairs to rifle through a box of documents for the number to reenlist.

October 15, 2003. It takes the better part of a painful month to get the waivers I need. It is the first time I have really worked for something. I begin to prioritize my life and examine my history. I look my demons in the face.

I see the Army anew. The air seems cleaner, the water fresher. I put on my uniform and it feels like I've been misspelling a word all of my life and suddenly know the right way. My legs wobble as I stand in front of my peers. A swirling fog of confusion, anxiety and eagerness, sweat dripping from my trembling hands, I struggle to speak back the oath of reenlistment, repeated fumbles adding to my anxiety. What am I doing?

April 23, 2004. I see what the Army has done to me, allowed me to do, and can still do for me, but I know I must get out some day if the dreamer intends to wake up.