A Month in the NutHouse Thanks to the U.S. Army - (before I First Listened to Arlo) Part One

It's called "bw's Intro to the Rubber Room"

I am bw
and there never really was rubber in this "Rubber Room" -
that is just what we've all 'come adjusted to calling a psyche ward,
that is, "the Nut House" in everyday speak-talk

It was nearly fifteen years ago in El Paso, Texas
when the clothes I wore were camouflage green.
Now, though I thought my clothes looked good on me then,
I soon came to realize that the damn things just didn't seem to fit like they did on ev'ryone else.
(Everyone in the community wore the same green, camouflage clothes, you know.)
Yeah, I'm speaking of the Army.
And I'm speaking of Fort Bliss.
Which will soon come to my speaking of the W.B. Medical Center.

It was not quite two weeks after Thanksgiving
Just eleven days after stepping off the plane from my ten day leave back home.
Eighteen years old and ready to ready to start life anew as a career soldier
- a life that was to be dedicated to driving big trucks around in circles
upon the "training grounds" of the dustiest damn place I will ever see.

Everything was cool for those first ten days. I mean,
I was wearing those camouflage green clothes with the buttons and pockets
and little green hat that matched. I wore those clothes and that little green matching hat
and laced up my government issued, mid-shin black boots, like I was a man that was doing what I
was really wanting to do.
Like I was a man.
Like I was a man that was beyond his eighteen years and knew what was what - how was how -when and where was when and where and all those things that eighteen year old boys think they know. I was on top of the world 'cause I was told upon my entry into that unit that we were going to Saudi Arabia for our six month deployment.
You see, this was almost two years after the first Gulf War was over and more than a decade 'fore the first shot was fired in the second one. I guess 'tween that time and this time our people in charge of things were sent to Saudi for peace insurance and, as long as folks were keeping up on their secure peace time installments every month, Uncle Sam was more than happy to keep up with the deal.

But I am not writing this to talk about Uncle Sam, Saudi Arabia or up-front insurance premiums...I am here to talk about a pack of weasels.
The pack of weasels consisted of one staff sargeant, one regular three-stripe sargeant, two regular looking specialists and one specialist - (notice that I did not PROPERLY capitalize the first letter of each rank as should be done) - that looked like a ferret which is a type of weasel if we really think about it.
Well, by the time the weasels came into the picture, I had already decided that these camouflage green clothes with the buttons and many pockets did not fit me as well as they fit others.
By the time the weasels came into the picture, I found that my little green matching hat came down over my eyes, making it so that I could not see clearly.
By the time those weasels came into the picture, my feet hurt because those government issued, mid-shin boots cramped my toes and pinched my sole(s).
Yeah, you could say that I wanted to wear different clothes and I was near ready to tell the understanding men in charge that I wanted to ditch these garments and boots and put on something else.

Let me now mention that it was a faulty alarm clock that woke up that pack of weasels one morning.
It was an alarm clock made by the hands of tired people from Taiwan that was made to set off a high pitched sound that could awaken animals and not human beings that got the weasels moving into hungry action at my door one morning. My roommate, (a one stripe private), had done gone and gotten ass drunk on his night to clean up our room and I, (a no stripe buck private), had decided that it was my turn to go bowling until midnight at the on-post bowling alley that was a mile walk from our barracks. I, too, had decided to get a little crocked that night - that is, ass drunk and, by the time I walked into our uncleaned room, (with spilled beer cans and spittoons and dirty, sweaty clothes from my roommate's back all over the floor, I was too damn loaded up with beer to even care.
I went to bed.

Five AM came awfully quick to two guys in a messy room with cans and clothes on the floor and that damn alarm clock made by the hands of tired people from Taiwan had sounded off the alarm to all of those weasels that ran the joint. We woke up to the knocking at the door from the three stripe Sargent weasel who took a look at the room and listened to the story of a one stripe private versus the story of a no stripe buck private. The tri-stripe weasel then told the specialist weasels to handle the no stripe buck private, (me), and they, in turn, ram sacked the room after dismissing the one stripe private from any further disciplinary action.
But I was not so lucky as my roommate.

It was then that the bull specialist weasel dismissed the other specialist weasels and had his way of talking to me, which was threatening me with what he called, "wall to wall counseling", which is to say that he threatened to bounce me off of the walls.
Well, many things went through my mind at this time.
The clothes just didn't fit.
The hat obscured my vision.
And those damn boots hurt my feet.
But the thought of this ferret-faced, lip-less, no chinned specialist was threatening me with physicality got me right where I call home.

I'm going to stop talking about that particular moment right now, 'cause, honestly, that is the point where the camouflage green clothes with buttons and pockets and the matching hat that kept falling over my eyes and the toe-cramping, sole/soul pinching toes became an afterthought - which is to say that my military career was over.

But, with the military, it was not enough to say, "You're out, Kid!" No...
They needed, D-O-C-U-M-E-N-T-A-T-I-O-N.
And the only way for them to get the necessary documentation was for me to see the folks in white and allow them to make a decision.

I just don't understand. They asked me questions and told me to be honest with every answer that I gave them.
And I was.
I was doing well with the questions that they asked, answering honestly and heart-fully when the next segment of inquisition came up.
"How do you feel about going to Saudi Arabia for six months, bw?"
First of all, I knew I was in trouble right then and there. When the U.S. Army addresses you by your birth name, you know that things are not going well. When they address you by your chosen nickname, then you know that some serious, uncool stuff is going to happen to you.
But I kept calm and answered their question, honestly and heart-fully. "Hell, I'm ready to go," I said. "I've never been out of Ohio until I joined the Army, let alone out of the country."
The white coat people smiled before asking the next question.
"You know, if war ever breaks out while you are over there...you may have to share a foxhole with specialist Cu" (the first letters of bull-weasel's last name), "Tell us how you'd feel about that."
So I answered, honestly and heart-fully. "Well, I see no harm just as long as he is not between them and me. But if his ass is in the foxhole, he should be okay."

Folks, I thought...I really thought that would be the end of the whole dumb thing right then and there. I thought that come the next evening, I would be sitting at home with my family and friends, sharing Christmas preparation activity and eating good, home cooked food while wearing my jeans, work boots and an unbuttoned flannel shirt over top of my ratty t-shirt.

In an hour, I was wearing blue and white striped pajamas, laying in a bed and staring up at a camera that was mounted on the wall right over the barred window in a room on the eleventh floor of the William Beaumont Military Hospital.

(to be continued)