The rumors were true. Airman Morey was married and had been for over a year. I’d done many things I regretted and had regretful things yet to do, but pursuing a married woman was not one of them. As it turned out, my moral stance wouldn’t be challenged any time soon. Shortly after my initial in-processing, I was scheduled for a six month training course on the other side of base. The course was designed to better prepare me for my job on the flightline (which I definitely needed). It was also during this time that I would return to the person I fought so hard to get away from.
Before I joined the military, I had a conversation with a good friend of mine named Ben. Ben was one of the only friends I had at the time who had it all together. He had spent a semester with me at Stanislaus State before transferring to U.C. Berkley to pursue a degree in literature. He is still one of the most curiously talented individuals I’ve ever met. He seriously looks like Jack Black, but shoots like Ray Allen…amazing. But, outside of his basketball talents, Ben was also one of the most level minded people I was (and still am) blessed enough to have in my life. In an effort to convince him that taking on the Air Force was a good idea, I told Ben all the reasons why I wanted to leave.
“I’m in too deep.” I began, “trust me, my only option is to catch a plane to anywhere but here. “ I was slumped over in my chair with my head down. “I quit the track team. I’m going to school full time, working part time, and partying five days a week. Every dime I make goes into bar tabs, beer runs, rent, and student loans…in that order.” Sitting across from me, Ben leaned in attentively. “I feel like I wake up every morning a thin shell of the person I know I’m was supposed to be.”
Ben continued to listen as I went on to tell him how I needed to get away and pursue something that would give me the discipline to control my habits and straighten out my life.
After hearing my case and taking it all in, Ben simply said, “Steve, remember, wherever you go, there you are.” This short Confucius quote didn’t mean much to me then, but I would eventually find it to be truer than I ever could have anticipated.
In my months of training at Dover, I quickly became more comfortable with the military lifestyle. As the fear of basic training started to wear away, I began to find my comfort zone and eventually adopted the popular military lifestyle of “work hard, play hard”. I did both. In class I was trying my best to learn everything I needed to know. I made a decision that since I was going to be stuck with this job for the next couple of years, I might as well try to be the best at it. I was our class leader, studied hard, and had the best test scores. Then, when the weekend came, it was time to go out and play.
Kevin the Texan (who was actually a pretty good guy, had never lumberjacked, but was a farm boy from Texas) was in the class with me. We got an apartment together with one other roommate. He was another airman named Davin Smith, but everyone called him Smitty. Our first couple of weekends away from the controlling grip of the Air Force base Kevin, Smitty and I checked out the local bars. We went out to the bar that looked like a small house and the one down by the lake. We met a few people, most were military, and the whole scene came up short of the true adventure we were seeking. It didn’t take us long to decide to expand our horizons.
After some asking around and a quick internet research, we decided to make our way up to club Egypt in Philadelphia. We’d heard the drinks were cheap and there were a lot of girls there on Friday nights; what else could you ask for?
We were rife with the scent of deodorant and body spray as we packed into Kevin’s Jeep Wrangler and made our way to Philly. On our drive, (as guys typically do) we talked about the game plan.
“It’s too loud in clubs. I always feel like I’m shouting at them. No one wants to be shouted at.” I began, “My strategy is to find a quiet place to find out her name and get to know her.”
“Never gonna happen. There’s no quiet place in a club bro. Hang out with me at the bar. Girls gotta get drinks right? When someone comes up to order, just start talking to her.” Responded Smitty, with a strategy of his own.
“What if she is getting the drink for her boyfriend or something?” I replied.
“What if she isn’t?” He said back.
“You guys are making it too complicated”, Kevin interrupted, “just tell her, ‘Hey there girl, come on over here.’ Then take her out to the dance floor. Show her a good time and the rest will take care of itself.” That was easy for him to say. He could go out there and dance like Elaine Benes and girls would be all over his cowboy style and Texas charm. Once we got to the club, Kevin handed the keys over to me as it was my turn to be the designated driver.
Right as we entered the club, the repetitive bass from the quick tempo techno music beat in my chest like a raging heart arrhythmia. The place was loud and packed with people from wall to wall. There were a few different bars and a couple of dance floors each featuring a different genre of music. As we settled in, each of us came to his own different club character. Smitty, for instance, was a “Bargoyle”. He headed straight to the bar, found a perch to sit on, ordered a drink, sat and talked. At the bar was where he was when we got there and at the bar was where he would be when we left. He liked drinking and meeting interesting people, so Bargoyle was definitely his club persona. Kevin was the exact opposite. He was an “Entertainer”. Being an Entertainer meant: if there was karaoke, he was singing. If there was a pool table, he was playing. And, if there was music, you better believe he was dancing. I, by default, was a “Roamer”. My attention span was too short to just sit at the bar and talk. I couldn’t dance (unless you count the running man, which hasn’t gotten anyone in with the ladies since 1985) and I couldn’t sing (no matter how hard I try, all of my songs come out as if Cher was singing them with strep throat and an Adam’s Apple). This left me with the option of either being a “Creeper” (the guy who stands in the middle of the dance floor, drinking his beer through a straw, watching everyone else dance, and probably has a mirror on the toe of his shoe) or a Roamer. An added benefit to being a Roamer was that it allowed me to keep track of my friends. From my experience, as drinking and talking or drinking and dancing increase, so does testosterone, resulting in a fight. If you’re an Entertainer, you’re usually the one in the fight and if you’re a Bargoyle, you’re usually egging someone on. As a Roamer, I always kept an eye on my boys to make sure if things got out of hand, I could get us out of there.
Our time at the club went well. I never found a quiet place to sit and chat with one of the ladies (Smitty was right, the place was louder than standing between Fran Drescher and an Abrams Tank), but there was hope for us yet. As I was making my rounds toward the end of the night, I saw Kevin had been dancing with the same group of girls for the last hour. After the club closed, I met up with Kevin, Smitty, and a group of three girls on the side walk by the club entrance. As we started with introductions, we were startled by the blaring of police sirens and the screeching of tires. Five cop cars sped in and surrounded the club across the street. There were people sprinting out of the club doors and police officers chasing them down on foot. I became suddenly aware of our exact situation. We were in downtown Philly at 2:00 a.m. with three girls we didn’t know. As Ben would say…there I was.
**Tune in Monday for Stacy’s blog post with a giveaway!
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