Thirty minutes after I graduated from High School the bitter truth of life sank in as my parents told me that I either had to join the military or move out. This was sprung fifteen minutes after pictures were taken with friends and teachers, while the thoughts of what I had planned to do with my life were just a gleam in my eye, this was sprung on me.
“You mean if I don’t get a job or go to college, I have to move out?”
“No, either you join the service, or you’re out.”
My family was made up of soldiers, sailors, police officers, detectives and a few who were in various governmental alphabet soup groups. My older brothers were in the Marines and one younger sister was already proficient in firearms and tackling people—mainly me—into submission. My offense to the family honor? I played bass guitar in band and sang in the school choir as a high tenor.
I had zero intention to be forced to join the armed forces. I knew this discussion was going to come up, as it had with my brothers, but I thought there would be at least a gap year or something to allow me to get ready. Not like I had a car in order to get a job, I didn’t; and we lived too far out in the country to try and walk or ride a bicycle.
So, you can imagine, what should have been a day of celebration with high-fives, and middle fingers to the high school building, I stood in front of the school with a thousand yard stare. I wouldn’t last a day in boot camp.
“Dear, you could have said that when we were in the car,” Mom stated as she took me by the arm.
“He’s known,” my sister replied and I shot back with a look that I hoped would kill.
“Andrea Lynne Moore.”
“Alan’s going to great in the Marine Corp,” she continued. “Think of it, Al, seeing the world!”
“No thank you,” I replied.
“Then the army then,” Dad said as he handed a pamphlet to me.
“Did you bring one from all of the branches?” I asked.
“All except the Air Force. You need to be out on the front, not hiding in a plane like some kind of video game.”
I wanted to rip it in two, but I also didn’t want to walk home.
We left the grounds in silence, well, I did, and I admit I sulked like a four year old denied of their bowl of Froot Loops and Barney the Dinosaur. I went over the scenarios in my head on how I could avoid being thrown out or thrown onto a bus to Fort Whatever. Talking would not work and I had nothing to hold over my dad’s head as leverage. No, he was pretty much set in his way as a former Marine. He had the tattoos, attitude and a “Semper Fi” license plate to boot. Nothing could change his mind…but there was a someone who could.
There was one chance to avoid the gulag. A chance to get a normal job, play my guitar, hang out with people and then find my own path that did not involve being yelled at by someone with a rank before their name. It would involve kind of starting over. It would require living in a semi-uncomfortable environment and explaining things later on…but, I could at least be free to be me and keep my hair as long as I wanted to.
I would move to the south, in the 110 degree heat index, explain the rainbow flag on my guitar, and be expected to do daily chores…but at least it wouldn’t at the sound of a bugle call.
I took out my cell phone and swiped down to see the name of my potential savior: Grandma.