One More for Love The Story: Chapter 11 – Smoke Pit Stories

“You won’t believe what Melissa did today.” I said to Sergeant Morey while we were standing in the smoke pit waiting for the truck to come by and pick us up. We had made it a post roll call habit to share stories about our courting counterparts. Today, I had a doozy.


“Oh, I’ve got one for you too.” Said Sergeant Morey, after a drag of her cigarette.


“Ok, here we go.” I said and began to tell her a story that still baffles me today.


*****


Melissa was twenty years old and had graduated as an honor roll student from Milford High School. I had secretly always questioned her honor roll credibility. That was until one day at her parent’s house I casually asked if she had any high school memorabilia lying around. I played it off like I wanted to know who she was in high school. Her parents were more than happy to show off the old honor roll certificates and reports cards they had kept in a box in their basement. They bragged about Melissa’s active involvement in the schools media and pep rally programs. Even after facing the hard proof that she had been recognized for her outstanding academic performance, I still felt like something wasn’t adding up.


One night Melissa and I were hanging out at the house just joking around and watching some T.V. when I decided to reveal to her one my most impressive talents.


“I have a gift that not many have.” I said to Melissa.


“Oh and what is that?” She asked sarcastically.


“I can name all fifty states in half a second.”


“Seriously?”


“Yeah, put on a helmet because I’m about to blow…your…MIND.” I said, then cleared my throat and let her have it. “NYAAH!” I blurted incoherently. She and I both laughed for a minute.


“Good one, but you forgot three states.” She said.


Quick wit on this one. I thought to myself and let out a chuckle.


“What?” She said with a short giggle. “There are fifty-three states.” I gave this comment not even a full chuckle, it was more like a chuc – pause-awkward silence.


“Wait, are you serious?” I said feeling the conversations jovial mood turn somber faster than Seabiscuit on steroids. I could tell by her facial expression that she was upset that I had laughed at her. In an honest effort to turn this all around I asked, “What are the fifty-first, fifty-second, and fifty-third states?” Hoping beyond hope that she would come back with something like: Guam, Puerto Rico, and Washington D.C.


“I don’t know, but I know there are fifty-three states.” She was getting defensive, but I tried again to resolve this with logic.


“How many stars are there on the American Flag?” Clearly this would steer our conversation back in the right direction.


“What does that have to do with how many states there are?” Fail. “I’m calling my mom!” Her defensive demeanor was rapidly escalating to angry as Melissa began to dial up her mother on her cell phone.


“Melissa. Even if your mother says there are a hundred and fifty-three states, that doesn’t change the fact that there are only fifty.” This wasn’t much help. I made a note to myself that sarcasm plus increasing anger equals full blown anger…good to know.


“Hey mom it’s Melissa.” I watched and listened intently to Melissa’s reactions waiting for her jaw to drop at the revelation that there were only fifty states; at which point I could hammer it home with hard earned ‘I told you so’. “Fifty-one?” Said Melissa. “Ask dad, you gotta ask dad.” She said.


“Fifty-one? Fifty-one? What episode of the twilight zone am I in?” I thought to myself, waiting for Melissa to relay her father’s answer.


“Fifty-three! Yeah, that’s right mom. No, it’s not fifty-one, it’s fifty-three. No problem, I’ll call you back later.” She hung up the phone and looked at me with an arrogant smile. “I told you so! See, fifty-THREE.” I couldn’t believe I was actually having this argument.


“That doesn’t prove anything.” I said as calmly as I could; trying to suppress the emotional mixture of being annoyed, frustrated, and bewildered. Of course my first thought was to ask the “Google” machine. Surely in all its internet glory it could guide us through this labyrinth. However, because I didn’t have the internet at my house, I made a decision that I knew would result in countless years of ribbing and friendly ridicule. I decided to call Ben.


“Melissa, I am going to call my friend Ben. He graduated from a prestigious college in California called U.C. Berkley.” I noticed myself talking down to her like she was a young child. “You shouldn’t need a college degree to know how many states there are, but can we both agree that a person with an undergraduate degree from a nationally recognized university would know how many states there are?”


“I already know how many states there are.” Her arms were crossed. Any chance of recovering the conversation (or the day for that matter) were long gone. “There are fifffff…teeeee…three.”


I dialed Ben.“Hello.” Said Ben in his contagiously upbeat voice.


“Hey Ben.” I said with a sigh. “I know the question I am about to ask you will sound ridiculously elementary, but please just answer honestly so I can get this behind me.


“Ok…”


I could picture my pride packing its suite case and looking up at me like, “Well Steve, it was a good run. See you in a few years” then putting on its short brimmed hat, popping in a cigar and walking out the door for a long vacation.


I let out a long exhale. “How many states are there in the United States of America?” I asked, feeling the utter destruction of my intellectual credibility.


Without hesitation, Ben said, “Steve, how many stars are there on the American Flag?”


“There are 50 stars, one for each state and thirteen stripes, one for each of the original thirteen colonies.” I threw the last part in as the first step of a long journey out of this embarrassment.


“Then you’ve answered your own question.” He said in an exaggerated tone of eureka.


“Ben, I’m trying to win an argument here. I need you to answer this question directly. How many states are there in the United States of America.”


“Steve, there are fifty states in the United States of America.” He responded with a full helping of sarcasm.


“Thank you, I will call you later to explain.”


“Later buddy.”


I hung up the phone and turned to Melissa. “Fifty…there are fifty states.” I said, in disbelief that I had to justify this fact by calling Ben, but relieved that the argument was finally over.


“That doesn’t mean anything.” Said Melissa, defensive. “I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”


My frustration, confusion, and blood pressure shot up like an Apollo astronaut on a mission to mars. Ben was the best resource I had. If he wasn’t good enough, then this argument was never going to end. I turned toward the door and left the room.


*****


My story had drawn quite a crowd. By the time I finished, Sergeant Morey and a small group of others were laughing and looking at me in disbelief.


“That can’t be true.” Said Airman York, who had joined the story about half way through.


“I swear that’s exactly how it went down.” I said and looked at Sergeant Morey who was just recovering from a long laugh. “Ok, what’s yours?”


Just then one of the blue bread trucks arrived. “Sergeant Morey! We got a comm nav write-up on two-seven. Let’s go!” Yelled Sergeant Fox out the driver’s side window.


Sergeant Morey looked at the group and said, “let’s just say it took one of us forty-five minutes to do their hair before going out last night and it wasn’t me.” We let out a group chuckle as she got onto the bread truck and drove away.