The Importance of Doing Things the Right Way

My last post left you hanging about one of the funniest things I ever did while serving this country. Hell, it’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever done, period. I almost left this story for another time as I had been thinking about writing on a deep and philosophical topic. Then I remembered that the story of my last urinalysis test in the army reserve isn’t merely some humorous anecdote. It’s a valuable lesson on, um, the value of doing things the right way, I guess.

Generally, I’m not especially particular about doing things “the right way.” To me, it’s more important that things are just done. And I don’t want to suggest that you should cut corners or do anything morally or legally questionable, just to get something done, especially something done in the service of our nation’s dearest taxpayers.

Indeed, once while training America’s next generation of bureaucrats for the Department of Veterans Affairs, I was teaching how to ensure that a rating decision was ready to process—ensuring that service had been verified, checking that there was a substantially complete claim, ensuring that the veteran had been properly notified of the VA’s “Duty to Assist” in gathering evidence, and so forth. (The details of that training are not that important for this story.) I went through all the “steps” in a few different sequences because I wanted to show them that the sequence didn’t matter. It was just important to get it all done.

However, a few of the students wanted to know “the right way” to do it. I told them that they should find a routine that worked for them. The important lesson was that they check everything that matters before processing that rating. They were not thrilled with me. I still moved on.

Like I said, generally, I don’t give a shit about how things are accomplished, as long as they’re done, and on the day of my final urinalysis in uniform, I generally didn’t quite give a fuck about anything. I was consumed with an anguish I hadn’t fully come to understand, so I was kind of an asshole. I’m sure that Sergeant Beaman, who was administering that urinalysis would have—and well, did—disagree about that “kind of,” but this isn’t his goddamn story.

Anyway, there was this one fun thing that I had done at urinalysis tests throughout my military career. I’d make a simple request of the person administering the test—who wore gloves because there may have been dribbled urine on one or more of the sample bottles that had to be sealed and sent to the lab. I’d sometimes ask if there were an extra pair of gloves I could use because I didn’t know “where this thing had been.”

Of course, that was a joke, a bit of japery for my good Piss Test NCO. And for the benefit of any future Ted Perrin lovebirds out there who may be reading this, I know full well where this thing has been, and I have no problem whatsoever with gloveless urinating. I do it daily.

If anyone had asked me what kind of buffoonery I might bring to the table during my last urinalysis in the service of this country, I would have guessed that I might demand a pair of gloves to wear. Of course, that guess wouldn’t have accounted for the unpleasantness that had overcome me of late, nor would I have had any idea how unambitious that so-called “gag” would have been. I seethed with a torment still unlabeled.

The situation started simply enough. Beaman, ever the dutiful Piss Test NCO, had filled in the line on the form with my name and all the pertinent information about the bottle’s label number and whatever bullshit had to be on the form. Then, he asked me to sign it.

Normally, I would have just signed the block he asked me to, even though the column was labeled “Remarks.” I may have even joked about not signing it in the past, and whoever the Piss Test NCO was at the time may have even chuckled a bit having, you know, heard the same lame-ass joke a dozen times already that morning. But I wasn’t in much of a joking mood. Well, that isn’t entirely true. I’m almost always in a joking mood—even at the most inappropriate of times—and I probably was that morning. Only, I was also being an incredible asshole due to my unchecked bitterness.

“No,” I said.

“Come on, Sergeant Perrin,” Beaman replied. (I only remember the general gist of the conversation, but it went down pretty much as I’ll describe it.)

“No.”

“Look, everyone else is signing it,” he told me, pointing to lo these many signatures filling that “Remarks” column.

“I don’t care what everyone else did,” I told him, and deep down, I did not care. I may even have thrown in a “Have you not heard that I do not give a fuck?” If I didn’t actually say it, that’s a missed opportunity. Shame on me.

“Just sign it, please!” Beaman said, echoed by those who had been assigned to observe the day’s pissing.

Now, I don’t know what was required in that box. Maybe it was the pisser’s signature. I did go to the Piss Test NCO training. (Actually, the position was called Unit Prevention Leader, as in prevention of substance abuse, but I like the name I’ve given it.) However, I don’t remember what was supposed to go in that box. The regulation may have, indeed, called for the pissing service member’s signature in the “Remarks” column.

“I’m not signing this,” I said, “I’ll happily enter some remarks, though, because that’s what it says. It says ‘remarks.’”

“Look, can you just sign it!?”

Beaman and the Piss Observers were more than a little frustrated. I’m pretty sure I suggested that I could come back a later. No, I don’t have a clear memory of what was said that made me ask about pissing later in the day, but I do know what followed.

“No, Sergeant Perrin, you can’t come back later. We have to be done with this by noon.”

The thing was, see, they didn’t have to be done by noon, and I felt that it was my duty to remind them.

“Actually, Sergeant Beaman, you do not have to be done with this by noon. The lawful order read by the detachment commander this morning said that each member of the unit had to provide a sample by close of business. That’s 1630 or 1700. I have five or more hours left before I have to provide a urine sample.”

This was me in a "good mood"
during a fall 2012 drill weekend

They were so pissed at me, pun definitely intended. It warms the cockles of my heart just thinking about this. I had been in such a bad place for months, but this interaction was starting to cheer me up. It’s such a cherished memory—for everyone involved, I’m sure.

“Oh, come on, sergeant!”

Having drawn this out, I decided to offer a compromise, a little olive branch for my brothers in—I don’t know—piss?

“Do you want me to sign this?” I asked.

“Yes!”

“Okay, just line through the word ‘remarks,’ initial it, and print ‘signature’ over it. I’ll sign it.”

“Everyone else signed it!”

“That says remarks,” I said. “Should I write in some remarks?”

“Fine!” said Beaman as he crossed out “remarks,” initialed it, and wrote “Signature” over it.

“Oh, so just sign here, where it says signature?” I asked, certainly unable to fully contain my laughter and absolutely pleased with myself.

That, in and of itself, would probably have been a fine story to tell you about the time I was miserable and completely turned my mood around by deciding to be an asshole—but in a fun, self-important, and of course, technically correct way. But I wasn’t finished. No, I was not.

Beaman gave me my sample bottle, and I verified the numbers on it and that it was clean or whatever. Not important. I took off my jacket, as a pissing service member must do while participating in the hallowed tradition of the army urinalysis test, for there are sneaky bastards who secret such things as Whizzinators and containers of someone else’s unfouled urine as a means to foil the efforts of the army’s Substance Abuse Program that keeps the common soldiery off the drugs. Such perfidy must be prevented, so in just my t-shirt and trousers, I carried my sample bottle high above my shoulder for my assigned Piss Observer, one Sergeant Kevin Haefele, to see it as we entered the designated Piss Test Latrine.

The briefing for Piss Test Observers—among the least favorite of short straws—calls for one to observe the following “chain of custody”: flesh, fluid, plastic. No one wanted to volunteer for this, for someone who aspired to observe the pissing of the troops might make said troops a bit uncomfortable. (Of course, there were probably those who cherished their assignments as Piss Observers, but only in secret. I’m certain Haefele isn’t among them, at least on this day.)

Almost no one cared about dutifully focusing on that aforementioned “chain of custody.” Some people would make you stand at an angle, so they could ensure there was no tampering with the sample, or whatever. Most people, though, would just want you to hurry up, piss, and get the hell out of there. Even when I went to the Piss Test NCO training, the trainer guy—who was, like, the Northeastern Senior Regional Piss Master or something like that—he didn’t, you know, fully observe my “chain of custody.”

You’re probably saying to yourself, I wonder if Kevin Haefele was a dutiful young Piss Observer. Honestly, I can’t tell you what he would have done had I not been in a, well, mood, nor what he may have done with all those other pissing soldiers he was duty bound to observe on that cold December morning. I only know what happened after he followed me into that little one-seat latrine.

He stayed by the door, and I dropped my pants around my ankles, like a kindergartener, and I shuffled around to the side of the commode to offer my dear observer a full view of my “chain of custody.” Then, I started screaming at him.

“Watch me! You’re supposed to watch me, Kevin!! Watch me!”

Haefele, for his part, did not present any outward indication that he found my, let’s call it, “supportive display” at all humorous or even helpful at all. I mean, I was trying to make sure that he adhered to the army’s Piss Regulations. Integrity is one of the army’s core values.

“Watch me, Kevin! Watch me! Watch me piss!”

I kept that up for the duration, and I, well, have a rather voluminous bladder. My service in the army reserve once put me in a situation where there was no latrine in the building where we were drinking, and it was problematic to urinate out of doors. I overfilled a 32-ounce Gatorade bottle. So, I was there for a while, screaming, “Watch me!” at Haefele and just laughing my ass off. It took so long, I almost got bored. Can you imagine anyone getting bored of screaming “Watch me piss!” at someone who’s dutybound to watch? I sure can’t.

Such a sweet, sweet memory.

“Watch me piss! You’re supposed to watch me piss, Kevin!!”

Goddamn, that was hilarious. I was laughing so hard, I’m shocked that there was no big mess. Well, I probably could have used a pair of those gloves that I used to joke about, but I didn’t know what I was going to do when I went in that little pissoir with my man Kevin.

So that is what led the Piss Test NCO to talk to the First Sergeant about me being “out of control.”

“What happened up there?” the First Sergeant asked me. Only one of the finest moments of my entire career in the army reserve. You’re welcome, America.

Oh, yeah, there was something about an important lesson or it’s good to do things the right way or something like that? Who cares? That was just some rhetorical bullshit to draw you in. Just enjoy the idea, if not the image, of me screaming “Watch me piss!” at Kevin Haefele.

 

Epilogue

I just did some Googling, this form dated November 2014 does call for the pissing service member’s signature. I retired from the army reserve just in time.

And from AR 600-85 The Army Piss Regulation, Appendix E, E-5.l (p 129) “The observer must see urine leaving the Soldier’s body and entering the specimen bottle (or collection cup).” I was just doing my part to make sure the regs were being followed.

Moving Forward from the Election

So, here we are. This campaign season was very depressing. It showed just how divided we are as a people. On the night of the election I was filled with anxiety. I dreaded the outcome, the possibility of Donald Trump winning.

Now that he’s President-Elect Trump, that painful anxiety is gone. I’m oddly optimistic. I look at this as a chance for us to actually come together as a people. The right may not have tried to understand the left during the Obama Presidency, choosing instead to obstruct as much as they could right up to the end. Hopefully, we on the left will take this opportunity to understand what we’re up against and look for ways to find opportunities to compromise and make our country better.

I’ve thought a great deal about this campaign, and I did more reading about the candidates than I ever have before. Here are some of my thoughts as we — hopefully — begin the process of healing.

Stop the Blame Game

I enrolled as a Democrat to caucus for Bernie Sanders, and I went to the Maine Democratic Convention as an alternate delegate for him. I’ve never been a member of any political party before, and I’ve voted for both Democrats and Republicans through the years. I’m not a fan of the two-party system, and I’d gladly vote for a worthy third party candidate. I think they have a lot of work to do to improve their chances.

But as long as we have this shit sandwich of a two-party system, I may as well pick a side. (That being said, I will still vote for a Republican if she’s a better candidate.)  I’ll remain a democrat until the party really pisses me off somehow.

And seriously, as a Democrat I have to say that we need to stop trying to assign blame for Hillary Clinton’s loss. We can’t blame “racists” for the rise of Trump. He did appeal to white supremacists, but many good, honorable people voted for him as well. We can’t blame third party candidates, either. Many of those votes would probably have gone to the Republican ticket had there been no other options.

We can only blame ourselves. I don’t buy into the apocryphal “Hillary’s a criminal” mindset. I think the Republicans have done a great job of smearing her over the years, especially with the gratuitous Benghazi hearings. Dopey — to borrow one of President Elect Trump’s favorite epithets and appropriately assign it — Congressman Kevin McCarthy made it clear that there was more motivation behind the hearings than just getting to the bottom of the attacks. While Secretary Clinton was cleared in all the reports, she was tarnished beyond repair. The email scandal, which I feel was blown way out of proportion, wasn’t handled well. Even though she was cleared by the FBI, many didn’t agree with that exoneration.

There’s also the Clinton Foundation, a world class nonprofit organization that has done amazing work for people around the globe, and the Republicans were able to cast it in a very negative light. And much of the blame for that can be placed squarely on Secretary Clinton, herself. No reasonable person should think that friendship won’t get you access to people in power, but when donors to that organization are given access, whether or not that access is truly related to the donations, it stinks of corruption.

Then there are people who honestly believe that Bill and Hillary Clinton have had people killed. I joke on Facebook about people needing to stop talking badly about the Clintons or they’ll be visited by a Bill and Hillary Death Squad, but seriously?  People actually believe this. Let me move on.

The Democratic Party nominated an incredibly polarizing figure, and we stinking liberals need to acknowledge that. While Mr. Trump is no stranger to polarization, many people just wanted someone who isn’t a career politician in there to shake things up (even though nothing in his platform gives much of an indication that things will actually be different during his presidency or after it).

The American people wanted change, and for better or worse, we got it.

Let Go of the Campaign Drama

During the 2016 presidential campaign, there was very little substantive discussion. It was infuriating. We needed to wait until the final debate to hear any discussion of one of the greatest threats to our prosperity, the national debt. Not surprisingly, no one had a plan that would actually address reducing it.

No, we had pure mud-slinging. All the talk was about how Hillary Clinton is corrupt and Donald Trump is a — for the sake of brevity — just a horrible person. We need to let go of that drama. Seriously. I’m not a fan of Donald Trump, but we need to give him our attention. Protesting in the street won’t help anything.

Trying to undermine his presidency by saying “he’s not my president” won’t help either. It didn’t make Barack Obama any less of the President of the United States over the last 8 years when republicans said the same thing and even questioned his citizenship.

Michael Moore’s 5 Point Plan won’t help either. We aren’t suddenly going to get rid of the Electoral College and fire all TV pundits. That’s silly. And we absolutely need to heal the divide. We can’t “. . . obstruct in the way Republicans did against President Obama. . .” That’s counterproductive. We need to grow up and find common ground, or else we can merely kiss progress on a lot of issues goodbye. It’s also going to be rather difficult for Democrat’s to obstruct when the Republicans will soon hold power in all three branches of our government.

I agree that we should let go of the Electoral College. It's getting in the way of what the people want. But there’s a process to amend the Constitution. Enough people have to make their Senators and Representatives know that they want this change before it would even be introduced as a proposed amendment. We can’t just cry about Hillary getting more votes. We have to DO something.

Why I Supported Hillary Clinton

Look, I know she wasn’t perfect, but I didn’t buy into the horrors that many people believe about her. I believe that she is able and experienced. I believe that her economic plan would have been the least damaging to the federal debt. I believe in the free market, but I also believe that it needs to be regulated to prevent innocent people from financial ruin. (Remember the mortgage crisis, anyone?)

I believe that she would have protected a woman’s right to choose. I’m pro-choice, not pro-abortion. I agree with her that the government shouldn’t be interfering in a woman’s decision to terminate a pregnancy. I know women who have had abortions. It definitely wasn’t “birth control.” It was the most gut-wrenching decision of their lives, and for one of them, that decision saved her life. Get out of the womb, government.

I also believe that she would have made the best choice for the Supreme Court. I don’t want to forsake the progress we’ve made on the rights of the LGBT population.

Now I have to hope that my belief in those rights can find enough support to be protected for a while. It’s hard to be optimistic.

Much was made of the “lesser of two evils” argument for both candidates. I didn’t think Secretary Clinton is evil. And, honestly, I don’t necessarily think Trump is “evil.”  I have serious reservations about him as a person, and I’m seriously concerned about his inability to acknowledge any flaws. I worry about him lying about so many stupid little things, like the NFL complaining to him about the debate schedule. How I think of him as a person aside, I just preferred the Democratic platform over that of the Republicans.

What I Worry About for the Future

Naturally, I worry about those same rights being undermined. I worry that education about sexual health and birth control will suffer. I worry that we will become a less inclusive country. I worry that terror groups will be more motivated to attack us because of the things President-Elect Trump has said about Islam. I worry that we could get into another war in the Middle East when if he reneges on the Iran Nuclear Treaty.

I worry that he doesn’t have a complex understanding of many issues. I’m concerned about the economy. Sure, the markets are doing well now, but does that benefit anyone other than the wealthy? How will he move to deregulate it and how will that affect working families? How is he going to get production jobs back to the US when he, himself, shipped them overseas?

I worry about freedom of speech. Will he actually change libel laws?

How about all the talk of jailing Secretary Clinton?  He graciously said that we should be thankful for her years of service during his acceptance speech. But will the alt-right groups who think she should be in jail be disappointed in him when she doesn’t go to jail? Will they respond with plans to attack? I don’t trust unstable conspiracy theorists.

What about the rise of hate?  Will white supremacists like David Duke continue to be emboldened by President-Elect Trump? I’m not trying to suggest that Mr. Trump is a white supremacist. I’m saying that he often speaks impulsively, and white supremacists have liked a lot of what he’s said. He was even endorsed by the KKK’s newspaper. He did distance himself from that, and he can’t help who likes him. But that doesn’t make who likes him any less of a concern when they feel that he’s their voice.

And what about how we communicate? Will email ever be the same?  I guarantee that it won’t be in any political campaign again. I’ve long felt that privacy is an illusion, but private conversations shouldn’t be used to undermine public figures. We should also be very concerned about foreign governments and organizations hacking our communications and publicizing them to interfere in our democratic processes. Are we just going to assume that republican emails didn’t contain anything damaging to the Trump campaign? I don’t.

The FBI interference in the campaign is also very troubling. Will there be serious inquiry into the operations at the FBI — along with the email hacks? Or will the party in power not care because these issues didn’t harm their campaigns?

How about the Affordable Care Act? It's going to be repealed, but what will replace it? Something terrific? I know the right is upset that premiums are going up for those plans, but at least those people can get insurance now.

There’s a lot that concerns me.

Moving Forward

I hope that we can come together as a country and understand our divisions. We have a long way to go, and this campaign hasn’t helped. But we desperately need to move forward. Donald J. Trump will be the next President of the United States. Period. We all need to accept that. Complaining and trying to obstruct won’t get us anywhere.

I hope — perhaps foolishly — that the government will see how close the popular vote was and realize that our country isn’t just a Republican or Democratic monolith with one set of values. Somewhere in the middle will be fine. . . Yes, that is pretty foolish of me.

I hope we can get past our fears. Donald Trump ran a campaign based on instilling a great deal of fear in the electorate, and Hillary Clinton ran a campaign based largely on fear of Donald Trump. Many fear that he’s a fascist. (I, myself, am worried about some of those tendencies.) I just hope he will be the president for all of us — whether we like that or not — and that he surrounds himself with wise men and women. I hope that’s not a foolish wish.

I hope we can bring decorum back to life and treat each other with respect.

I am a Liar

             Yes, you read that correctly.  I’m a liar.  And, no I’m not a pathological liar.  I'm no Tommy Flanagan.

            This is difficult for me.  I’ve grown a lot over the years, and have to admit that I’ve also told a lot of untruths.   Many of us have, and no, I’m not saying that to make an excuse for my behavior.  Most of us at least tell some little white lies to protect someone’s feelings.  People do that. 

Sometimes, we lie to avoid conflict.  I’ve done that a lot.  For a long time, I was very conflict-avoidant.  The intense emotions of conflict brought me to a place emotionally that I didn’t understand and didn’t like.  I would lie about stupid things when I was married.  When asked simple things, like whether or not I’d paid the electric bill, I’d say that I had done so in order to avoid any potential conflict over why I hadn’t, even if I was planning to do the bills, which weren’t late, that evening.   Had I said that I was going to do them that evening, it would have been fine.  I was just incredibly insecure and afraid of where conflict would take me.  The great irony of those lies is that they caused a great deal more conflict than I was trying to avoid in the first place. 

I worked through this with a therapist, and I understand where the conflicts brought me.  I’ve made peace with this.  It doesn’t change the damage that those lies did, but I was able to move forward.  In subsequent relationships I’ve been able to be honest about stupid little shit like that. 

We may also say things that aren’t true in order to save someone’s feelings.  We may say that someone looks great in a new shirt because that person feels confident and beautiful in it, even though we wouldn’t let our dog have puppies on that shirt because we think it’s so grossly ugly that adding puppy afterbirth to it would just be more than we could bear.  We don’t want to hurt that person’s feelings.   It’s not my shirt, and I don’t have to wear it.  Along the same lines a teacher or parent may say that a child’s art is wonderful, even though the kid hasn’t heard of foreshortening and has absolutely no concept of the atmospheric perspective.   People tell that kid it’s great because we want to encourage her to explore her creativity, and hopefully, she’ll learn about depth.

And sometimes, people lie to hide their shame and embarrassment.  I’m never all that shocked when a politician or celebrity is exposed for a lie.  Of course politicians want to hide things that might be politically damaging, and of course celebrities hide things that may embarrass them or damage their reputations.  Of course President Clinton didn’t inhale, and of course he didn’t receive the historic Oval Office hummer.  Of course Larry Craig had a wide stance.  Of course Lance Armstrong and Aaron Rodriguez didn’t use performance enhancing drugs.  Of course Tiger Woods was a faithful husband.  Of course [insert female celebrity’s name here] has real boobs.   Of course [insert male celebrity’s name here] didn’t cheat on his smoking hot wife with the beautiful nanny.  Those are all damn lies!

People do things that hurt their careers and reputations and relationships, and they don’t want that truth out.  The truth hurts relationships and legacies.  The truth costs people their careers.  The truth can just be embarrassing.  I completely understand why people lie about this stuff.  I also completely understand the consequences.  If we don’t want to be embarrassed or have our marriages or careers ruined, then we should just do the right thing from the beginning.  We often don’t, and we pay the price. 

There are things I’ve done that are very embarrassing.  I’m glad no one knows about them.  I’ve lied about some of them.  Some I’ve told the truth about.  If TMZ were to get some embarrassing video of me, I’d own my behavior and try to move forward.  I don’t think there are any unrevealed lies out there that would hurt anyone who’s currently in my life.  There may be some things that would cause me some embarrassment.  I’d have to deal with that.  This piece isn’t really about those lies.  I’ve made peace with them, and I try to think about the consequences of what I do before I put myself in situations where I may be embarrassed by what happens.

There are still other lies that are harder to understand for most people.  These are lies that people use to create a back story.  Now, I’m not going to go after Ben Carson here.  That’s too easy.  But people create back stories to make themselves look better or to feel connected with something.  Comedian Steve Rannazzisi was working in New York in 2001.  After he moved to LA he started telling people that he had been working for Merrill Lynch in the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001.  I don’t know why he did this.  I’m not sure he does, but he’s paid quite a price professionally.   He’s pretty funny, and I hope, for his sake,that he can overcome some of the damage to his career.   There’s no excusing what he did, but he’s really only guilty of being an asshole and offending millions of people. 

And there are darker lies that create back stories.  Iraq has weapons of mass destruction and plans to attack out country and our allies.  Al Quaeda is in Iraq, and Iraq was involved in 9-11.  These lies get people killed.  They’re shameful.  I would only be avoiding telling my own truth if I delved into this, so I’ll move on.

My greatest lie is one of these.  No, I did not get anyone killed or start a war.  I did create a back story, to my shame, and my conscience can’t seem to shake it.  I have to process through this, and no mere discussion with my therapist will allow me to let it go.

But first, let’s briefly consider what a lie is.  A lie is something that someone says that is untrue.  And we have to know it’s untrue for it to be a lie.  Otherwise, it’s just a mistake.  If I say that the universe is about 10 billion years old, but I later find out that it’s really around 12 billion years old.  I didn’t lie.  I was just ignorant of the truth. 

   Now, let’s dig deeper.  What is truth?  Can we call it observable reality?  It’s more complicated than we think.  Can we say that something is true if it is observable, something that happened, without the filter of emotion or of judgment?  I believe this will work.  The sky is blue.  The earth revolves around the sun.  Ice cream is cold.  I have a maple tree in my yard.  These are all things that different people can observe and agree on. 

We also have to consider perception.  Our perceptions tend to influence our understanding of reality.   Is it partly cloudy or mostly sunny?  As a color blind man, I often have to check with others to confirm the colors of objects.  I may have purchased a nice, blue shirt last weekend, but the first time I wear it, someone compliments me on my nice, purple shirt.  But now I know the truth.  The shirt is purple, and I trust others’ perceptions of it.  That’s a very simple example.  Here’s another.  The city of Augusta, Maine, where I used to work, has a few traffic circles.  Some people perceive them as a pain in the ass, and try to avoid them.  Some people perceive presence of traffic circles as just how things are, and they perceive the idiots who do not know how to drive in traffic circles as the pain in the ass. 

Indeed, whether or not something is a pain in the ass is subjective.  People can objectively agree that there are traffic circles in Augusta.  This is factually observable and is, therefore, true.   The things that make the traffic circles a pain in the ass are matters of opinion, affected by an individual’s perception and experience.  While they are true for the individual, they are not something that everyone sees the same, so they can’t be accepted as a general truth. 

There are some things that may seem to be subjective, but they are, in fact absolutely true.  I have a great ass.  You’d think that using “great” makes it subjective.  Nope, it’s universally accepted that I have a great ass.  It’s one of those things like, “Angelina Jolie is beautiful” or “Peyton Manning is the best actor in the NFL,” that everyone universally agrees upon.

And I won’t get into the belief versus truth issue with religion versus science.  That’s a bigger issue, and, quite frankly, that would be another way for me to put off writing about my big, big lie, the reason for this piece. 

When I was younger and didn’t know myself well, I often probably didn’t know what truth really was.  I lied about things to protect others’ feelings or to preserve the idea that I’m a sweet and nice guy or to avoid conflicts.  Those lies hurt people and damaged my relationships.  There are days when I still kick myself for some of those lies.  But those lies are in the past.  I’ve made peace with them and learned from them.  I know myself better, and I know I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone with untruths anymore.  I’ve tried to become a truth teller, and I can honestly say that I’m proud of the progress I’ve made.

Except for one pretty significant lie. 

While I was in the army and army reserve I was over the army’s weight limit for my age and height for most of my career.  Whenever we had a weigh-in, I’d have to be given the body fat tape test even when I was in the best shape of my life.  I was often 15 to 25 pounds over the weight limit, but I always passed the tape test.  But the 50-ish pounds of pure masculine glory that I put on from the time I was 18 to the time I retired from the army reserve at 43 started to get to me along the way.  I made something up to try to explain it away. 

I guess I was embarrassed.  I don’t know.  I guess I wanted to make myself feel better about having to be taped because I was overweight.  I mean, I still don’t know why I did this.  I’ve never

Does this guy look like he
has any reason to be
ashamed of his body?

considered myself a Fatty McFatterson.  I’m kind of stocky, so I’m going to carry more pounds than I think it may look like I’m carrying.  I may have reverse body dysmorphic disorder, or something, but I’ve never thought that I was all that big.  Seriously, I carry it well, I think.

And pretty much everyone agrees how desirable and awesome I am.  A recent Gallup poll showed the 89 percent of single women wanted to be with me and 99 percent of men wanted to be me (3.5 percent margin of error).   Hell, a lot of the men wanted to be with me, and a significant percentage of the women wanted to be me.   And there I was lying about stuff for all those years of my military service.  What is wrong with me?

I may never understand why, and I may never be able to make anyone understand.  I just had to make up a story, a story, incidentally, that could pass no test of the truth.  It was objectively and subjectively false.  No one, and I mean no one, would be able to objectively observe me and concur that what I had been saying was even remotely true.  I couldn’t even make a subjective argument that it was true in my perception.  I fully acknowledge that it was a lie, and I own this.

I don’t even know if I’m going to be able to post this.  I may just delete this file.  Here’s what I did.  Here’s my lie.  I implied that my, ahem, “masculinity” was the reason I was overweight.  Hell, who am I kidding?  Not you.  Not America.  I was a soldier with a security clearance, and I couldn’t say a basic truth about myself. 

And for crying out loud, I didn’t imply anything.  I just lied.  I’ll spare you the indelicate language I used, but I said that it was all “junk" weight.  That was why I didn’t meet the army’s weight standards.  Seriously, 25 pounds?  That’s a hell of a lie.  I’m sorry.  I know.  I’m a bad person.  I failed to live up to the army values, and I failed my country.  I failed you all.

I’m a bad person, and I hope that someday, I will be able to regain your trust.

I Live by a Certain Code

Well, that seems a bit more dramatic than what I’m going for here.  I don’t want to come across like one of those crazy Guantanamo Bay marines from A Few Good Men.   I just believe in returning favors and that sometimes for someone to get me to do something, I may have to get him to agree to reciprocate in advance.

Now, I don’t do things for people always expecting something in return.  I try to be a good person, and I try to do good things for people.  That’s just the right thing to do.  I try not to expect anything in return.  All this being said, I also try to do what’s funny.  Sometimes, I can effectively blend good deeds and humor.  Sometimes, being funny trumps that.  A man has to live by some standards.

Anyway, during my last drill weekend in uniform, in May 2013, before I became a member of

Me and my trusty M16 on our last day together.

the retired reserves following my 20-plus years of combined active and reserve service, I was presented with an opportunity to do a solid for one of my fellow soldiers.

That drill weekend was a four-day training event in Camp Ethan Allen, Vermont.  My battalion was spread-out with detachments from Maine to New Jersey, and for the last six or so years of my service, we’d been getting together for battalion-wide training at least once a year instead of doing our regular thing at our various detachment locations.  I hated these weekends, fucking hated them.  They often meant no booze, officially anyway.  That last weekend, I had a stainless steel water bottle filled with Jameson’s, because I was a God-damned rebel.  But this was my last drill weekend.  I was in good spirits, so the six-hour bus ride didn’t bother me.   I was almost free, and I had some whiskey. 

On our first morning, I was doing KP--kitchen police, for you civilians out there.  It may be odd for many to think of a Staff Sergeant doing KP, but I was in a small detachment:  just about everyone had one of these stupid jobs to do on these weekends.   I preferred KP over waking up in the middle of the night for fire guard.  Screw that waking up in the middle of the night bullshit.  Anyway, I was doing KP for breakfast, and I was helping  to clean up after morning chow, when Sergeant First Class Hatch, my detachment chief, came up to me.

“Hey, Ted, can you do me a favor?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied.  “What’s the favor?”

“Can you try to qualify this weekend?”

This may need some explanation. . .

So, I mentioned that this was my last drill weekend.  Late in the previous September, I had received my “20 Year Letter,” meaning that I had 20 good years of combined active and reserve service, creditable toward military retirement, for which I will start collecting a pension when I turn 60.  For a few drill weekends after that, I kind of went off the rails.  I was kind of an unpredictable asshole around my unit, and these weren’t exactly the best few months of my many years of military service.   That’s another story, though.

One thing on my unit’s training schedule while I was “off the rails” was a range day for my unit.  During our October drill weekend we had to qualify with our individually assigned weapons.  This happened just about every October, and during our combined battalion training events in the spring, anyone who didn’t qualify would have a chance to try to qualify again, if needed.

Over the years, I’d become very proud of my ability to qualify on the first try.  This hadn’t always been the case.   During basic training, I’d internalized the four fundamentals of marksmanship:  breath control, site picture, trigger squeeze, and relaxing.  I was the perfect soldier, except for the whole “relaxing” thing, I’d misinterpreted the living shit out of that.  Nobody noticed this until around my tenth year of service.   I’d usually hit 18 or better, out of 20, from a supported position, with my non-trigger hand and the barrel resting on a sandbag.  I’d also usually fail to make it to 23 total hits the first time from a non-supported position, with my non-trigger hand holding up the barrel.  So, I was a pretty shitty marksman until someone in my reserve unit was coaching me during one of our range days, and he said, “Why are you holding your weapon so loosely?”

I told him that I was just relaxing, and he explained to me that the whole “relaxing” fundamental thing meant to just relax, but you still have to hold your weapon firmly. 

Noted.

So, having figured this out, with the help of ol’ Staff Sergeant Buckley, I qualified as a marksman or sharpshooter, on the first try, every time, for about the last half of my military career.

Until, of course, the last time.

Now, in October 2012, with my 20-year-letter in hand, I simply did not give a fuck anymore

This is me, actually
giving a fuck.

and went off the rails—again, that is another story.  So, why bother wasting M16 ammunition on me when I was so close to putting in my retirement paperwork?  There were plenty of people in my unit who could have used those 40 rounds, either to practice or to just meet the requirements after a failed attempt.  So, I decided that trying was a waste of time.  Instead of just refusing to fire—which probably would have sufficed—I took the more hilarious route, and I decided to aim all of my rounds into a single silhouette.

Allow me to ‘splain.  For M16 qualification, the minimum standard is usually hitting 23 out of 40 targets on a range where the targets randomly pop up at varying distances, from 50 to 300 meters away.  The range is programmed for a machine to pull each target up in a set order for a set amount of time.  Sensors register each hit, and the target will drop after a hit or after the set time elapses.

I saw a documentary once that showed how this started.  In the World War II and Korean War eras, soldiers fired on circular targets as they learned to use their weapons.  The documentary discussed the invasion of Iwo Jima and how a large number of American soldiers and marines didn’t fire a round.  The defense of the island was so furious that many of our boys kind of freaked out (my interpretation) and didn’t fire back. Of course they didn’t respond, for they had been trained to fire at circles (my oversimplification).  So, the US Military came up with the whole pop-up target thing, with targets in the general shape and size of a person that popped-up to be shot.  The stimulus, as the documentary described, was seeing an enemy silhouette.  The response was to shoot him.  Stimulus-response, BF Skinner would be so proud.

But, these ranges are expensive, millions-of-dollars expensive.  So, unless there’s an active duty base or regularly used National Guard training area nearby, a lot of guard and reserve soldiers use an alternate, paper target to qualify, like the target in the picture below.

As you see from the paper target I’ve shown—and I’ve used this “alternate target” every time

Only five of these glorious 38 hits counted. 

but once in my reserve career and even a few times during my regular army years—there are ten silhouettes to hit.  And depending on variations in the standards—and they’ve changed over the years—you have to get three to five rounds in each silhouette from various firing positions for the shots to count.  In the picture, only five of the hits in the 50 meter silhouette counted.  I know, bullshit, right!  I told everyone that I scored a “38, because I waited for them to get close enough for me to take the high-percentage shot.” 

Now, I’ll admit that it is pretty “lame” that I missed the 50 meter silhouette twice, but I also must point out that I wasn’t trying my hardest.  I figured that any rounds I fired were a waste, and I was trying to make that obvious, in the most hilarious way possible.  Sure, there were some people who didn’t get it.  There always are.  “You know all those don’t count, right?”  No shit.  I was a soldier who was off the rails, not a fucking moron.  And I’m not sure why people didn’t get it.  I’d made a point of telling everyone that I didn’t give a fuck anymore.  (Again, that’s another story.)

Oh, and this led to the most hilarious and awesome “needs improvement” supporting comment on my final Noncommissioned Officer Evaluation Report, something along the lines of “Purposely failed to qualify by aiming all 40 rounds into the 50 meter silhouette.”   Also, telling everyone that “I didn’t give a fuck” anymore led to another “needs improvement” on that evaluation.  Apparently, making public professions of “not giving a fuck” displays a “lack of military bearing.”  Well, whatever.  I went out in style.

Anyway, that’s what I thought about my marksmanship score.  Whatever.  But apparently, a certain battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Dan “Big Dan” Cloyd, wanted to clear my poor showing of “five” from the battalion’s readiness stats.  Sure, I had less than a month left on the battalion's books, but if Big Dan, my favorite battalion commander, ever, wanted me to try, I just might have to take something seriously, for a change.

Or would I?

You see, ol’ Hatch had made this whole “qualification thing” about the two of us.  He asked me if I would try to qualify as a “favor” to him.

So, I asked him, “Can you do me a favor?”

“What is it?” he asked.

Then, I opened the curtain on one of the longest running gags in the repertoire of the Ted Perrin Theater of the Absurd.  “Ask me if that’s a banana in my pocket, or if I’m just happy to see you,” I said.

Yeah, perhaps this might need some explanation, too.  You see, in military dining facilities, you can always take hand fruit with you after your meal.  In my barracks rooms, throughout my military career, I always had plenty of oranges and apples to snack on.   Indeed, that’s where I discovered that pairing orange sections with a nice pilsner was a great treat.  I didn’t put orange wheels in my beer.  I just ate the orange while sipping the beer.   For that idea, you’re welcome.

Anyway, one day, after lunch—probably in Bamberg, Germany—I put a banana in my pocket and walked around my battalion headquarters, where I worked, and I had people ask me if I had a banana in my pocket or if I was just happy to see them.  My reply was, always, “It’s a banana.”

I used that gag in many a dining facility in many duty stations, on many of my fellow soldiers.  I used it in Bamberg and Babenhausen, Germany; in Fort Hood, Texas; in Riyadh and Dhahran, Saudi Arabia while on deployment; during my annual training periods in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri and Fort Lewis, Washington; and on many a guard or reserve training base throughout the northeast.

That's it, The banana in my right ammo
pouch.  That was the one that had been in my
pocket.  I wasn't "happy to see" anyone.

For some reason, this often made people feel uncomfortable.  Some people even suggested that this might be “kind of gay.”  Let me say this, as a heterosexual man, it’s not gay if you have a banana in your pocket.  And I’m sure that I’ve had more bananas in my pockets than just about anyone in history, so I’m an expert on the subject.

Now, if you randomly ask me if I have a banana in my pocket or if I’m just happy to see you, you’re on your own.  I cannot guarantee the contents of my pocket.  But if I ask you to ask me that question—unless you’re someone really, really special, and you’ll know if you are—just assume it’s a banana. 

I hate showing my hand like that, but seriously!

And, yeah, the request was out there.  “Ask me if that’s a banana in my pocket or if I’m just happy to see you.”  A very simple request, that I have a difficult time believing Hatch hadn’t received before, or at least hadn’t witnessed before.  But he looked at me, having asked me to qualify “as a favor,” and given this simple request in return—just a little something for my troubles—he said, “No.”  And he walked away.

Now, I ask you this.  Would you have been able to “try to qualify” that day and then be able to look yourself in the mirror and feel that you’d done the right thing?

Actually, you probably could.  But me, when a man asks me for a favor and won’t even ask me a simple, harmless question in return, I just can’t let myself be taken advantage of in that way.  I traffic in some next-level ethos, y’all.

Luckily for my friendship with Big Dan, they ran out of ammunition on the M16 range that day—see what I mean about wasting rounds on me—so I didn’t have to aim all 40 rounds into the 300 meter silhouette and disappoint him. 

And I’ll always have that shitty evaluation report to put an exclamation point on my marginal service.  You’re welcome, America.