DADDIES AND MOMMIES SHOULDN'T LET THEIR COWBOYS GROW UP TO HAVE BABIES

Like I said, ROTC took up a lot of my time.  In August of 2001, I was beginning my fourth-year level of Military Studies at the University of Iowa.  That's where I met a good man, Ramón.  Most people in ROTC never served in the US Army.  In fact, there was only two other people who had...and they were in the National Guard and Army Reserve.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.  It's hard to have an intimate knowledge of the inner-workings of the military when you're a weekend warrior, though.

The staff was made up of quite a few people who had no idea what was going on.  This guy was one of ‘em.

I was pretty alone, especially when I noticed how FUBAR the entire operation was around the ROTC building.  ROTC-land was the way things were supposed to run in the Army, at least that's what most of my peers thought.  The main problem was our Professor of Military Science.  She was the worst micro-manager I've ever seen.  I had heard her biggest leadership position was a crew of seventeen people before coming to the U of I, and it was fairly obvious to me that she didn't know what to do. 

Originally, I decided not to waste my time with classes and shit and only show up to Ace the tests, which I did.  She took issue with that, and claimed it wasn't only about me, and as a leader, I had the obligation to help others.  Great.  Let's not forget these others are officers.  Also leaders.  If you can't pull your own weight, then I figure you're worthless and shouldn't be granted a position of authority over others.  I guess I could have stayed true to the course and 'fought the system', but I gave up, realizing who truly had the power, and participated in whatever I had to in order to meet the requirements.  Besides that, though, I volunteered for nothing.  When Ramón came on the staff, he understood the problem as I did.  He was an old Airborne guy, like me, and we hit it off pretty well from the start.

Now, I'd just like to give a little back-story, here.  Within the first week, Ramón told me he had to go to Ohio to get some of his personal effects from his ex-wife.  I told him I'd help him move, if he needed it.  I didn't really think he'd ask me, but I figured I'd offer, at least.  However, the Thursday before he left, he did call me.  It was an off-week for football, and I had shit-else to do, so I went with him.  His ex was pretty nasty, but she looked decent in the naked gardening video he showed me.  She must have gone downhill pretty fast after they parted ways.  We decided to stay in Ohio that night, and he said, "Hey, you want to see where I met my wife?" I agreed.

We went to a strip club.  I affectionately referred to this place as 'The Outback' every time it came up in conversation, afterwards.  He asked me why I called it that.  I told him, "Because I haven't seen that many kangaroos in my life."

"Kangaroos?"

"Yeah, all the women in that place had pouches on their stomachs." And they did.  It was disgusting.  It was easy to see, though, why Ramón hooked up with his ex, considering she would have looked like a runway model, by comparison.  This 24-hour gesture of help placed me forever in the good graces of Ramón.  That's why, later, in October, when he told me there was a new female Sergeant coming into our building, I feigned interest.  (On a side note - If I could have hooked up with anyone, it would have been the Air Force Sergeant in our building.  Damn, she was hot, but going through a divorce.) Ramón knew I was a Spanish major, and the new Sergeant wore a Hernandez nametag.

I have a rule.  It's one I've broken many times.  "I will never date an Army chick."  I have a theory that anyone who joins the Army has something wrong with them.  Some problem.  Maybe they're running away from home, in a sense.  Maybe they've gotten crushed romantically.  Maybe they're maladjusted.  Maybe they don't respect authority, needed structure, would have ended up in prison, otherwise.  Maybe their daddy and their daddy's daddy was in, so they will be, too.  Maybe they're one of the jocks that always have to prove themselves.  There are very few true, Captain America types like me, anymore.

I don't know for sure, but it's always been my theory.  I don't think that's a bad thing, in fact, sometimes the Army's the best remedy for these people.  Anyway, in conjunction with this theory, I think women that join have even larger problems, due to the fact that it takes more of a stimulus to get a woman to even consider the Army.  They rarely get 'cured' by the Army.  Most of them are crazy, I've found.  But, there are some gems, I'm sure.  I've never found any, though, and, like I said, I've broken my rule many, many times.

The first time I saw Angela Hernandez she was walking across the parking lot in uniform.  I didn't even remember my conversation with Ramón; I just thought she was hot.  I saw her two days later, inside.  I started talking to her and flirting lightly.  She was overly responsive, starting with the touching and such.  I stepped back, because I didn't want this to happen so close to the maniacal Lieutenant Colonel.  I was about to leave when Ramón called me back.  He introduced me to Angela.  "We've met," she told him.

"Oh, well.  We should get together later this week," Ramón said.

"There's karaoke at Grizzlies on Thursday," I decided.  "Why don't the three of us get together then?"

We all agreed, and went out separate ways.

When Thursday came, I asked my newest roommate, my cousin Michael, if he wanted to come with me for a night on the town.  Looking back, I was happy to have him with us.  He was a nice addition to the apartment, bridging the gap between me and Neal.  Neal never went out, but Michael did occasionally, and I liked having a pool partner from time to time.  We drove down to Grizzlies.  We got a pitcher of beer and waited for Angela and Ramón.  About fifteen minutes later, Angela walked through the door, but Ramón wasn’t with her.  She said she’d talked to him earlier, and he’d be late.

I was, naturally, duded up in my cowboy hat and western attire.  She was impressed.  “You look so cute!” she exclaimed.  The three of us sat down at a table by the karaoke equipment, and I started to look through books.  I picked out a few songs and handed them to the KJ.  I went back to the table and the three of us carried on a conversation for an hour or so.  Then, I excused myself, got out my cell phone and called Ramón.  “Hey, man, what’s up? Where are you?”

“Sorry…I won’t be able to come down tonight, man.  I just stopped by the bar here in West Branch to drop something off, and all these guys bought me a bunch of shots.  I’m drunk, man.  Sorry.” This wasn’t really all that unexpected.  For one thing, I knew he was trying to hook me up, and this happened quite often with Ramón.  Breaking an appointment was commonplace.

“All right,” I said.  “Have a good time.”

I went back inside the bar just in time to hear my name being called out.  I got up and sang Gene Watson’s “Farewell Party”.

The look on her face couldn’t have been any more clear if the words “I WANT TO FUCK YOU” were stamped on her forehead.  Michael, like a trooper, stuck around for another forty-five minutes, sang some Matchbox 20, and endured her gushing over my singing and asking questions like, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three,” I answered.

“Oh, a baby!” she cried.  “No wonder you’re so cute!” Now, I knew she was 32.  Hell, that was half the reason I wanted to go out with her.

I could understand, however, what an uncomfortable atmosphere this probably was for Michael.  That’s why, when he said he was leaving, I wasn’t too surprised.

“Take my car,” I told him.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’ll walk home.” That was a feasible plan, considering I only lived seven or eight blocks from Grizzlies, but in reality, I knew I already had a ride.  We continued drinking, and I started getting pretty lit.  I sang some more music, although I only got to sing three songs in four hours that night.  It wasn’t even busy.  Had I wanted to sing, I’d have been pissed.  He was one of these KJ/DJ bastards that do both.  I hate those fuckers.  Do one or the other.  Or else you won’t have a happy crowd at all.  Most people either want to dance or they want to sing.  If you mix it, you piss one group off no matter what you do.  And another thing:  Most times you can still dance even if someone’s singing.  But I digress.

The other songs were “Neon Moon” and “I Can Still Make Cheyenne”, which wouldn’t be that important…normally.  Angela made a confession, “I have to tell you…I don’t own any country CDs.”

“Really,” I said, surprised.  She sure seemed to be a fan.  I looked at her.

Freeze.

I’ve gotten good at this.  Really good.  As in, 100% of the time, haven’t been shot down good.  If I’m paying attention, I can spot the look, without fail.  Even if it seems to be a hint of a look, I’ll see that sumbitch.  You know…the look that she gives out that says, “Kiss me.”  The only problem is that, sometimes, I won’t be paying attention, and they’ll put it out there and I’ll miss it.  Then, sometimes I can use my historical perspective and say, “Shit.  Should’ve known…”  But, most times I see it.  It pops up in weird places.  The middle of a conversation.  The middle of a movie.  As your taking a shower together.  As I said, weird places.  Every time I think I’ve located the look, I’ve gone in for a li’l smootch, and, thus far, have never been turned down.  Heh.

I saw it, so I went in.  We made out for a little while, and then she started talking to me.  That’s when I started to get a little annoyed.  She wasn’t much for conversation, and the vast majority of the topics encircled the question of age.  It didn’t bother me, but she kept saying shit like, “I’m robbing the cradle!”  I’ve never had a predilection for clichés, unless I twist them.

The night finally ended, and we walked outside.  She said, “I’m not ready to call it a night yet, are you?”  I may be an idiot in some situations, but I knew the right answer to this question.  “Do you want to…come to my house for a while?”  That one, too.

We went to her place and she showed me around.  This little bastard dog on LSD started running around like a madman.  “Would you like a Corona?” Angela asked.

“Sure,” I said.  I drank maybe half of it, before we started making out again.  I’d stopped smoking at the bar, so now my taste was coming back.  I know I’m being a bit of a hypocrite here, but her mouth tasted awful.  I mean, the breath was not for the faint of heart.

We went to her bedroom, and she said, “Do you want to sleep with me?” I agreed, but I took it to mean the cleaner, more literal sense.  She didn’t.  I got into her bed and we continued to make out.  She straddled me, but I couldn’t get excited over this chick.  Well, Chewie could, but my mind couldn’t.  The problems arose in three main areas:

1 – Stinky Breath
2 – Bad Conversation
3 – Spare Tire (Albeit a small one)

I hadn’t noticed the third little deficiency until she was down to her bra and panties, and while I could have forgiven two of the three, the last strike made me write her off for the evening.  Maybe I’m half psychic.  Maybe I saw what the future would hold if I would have…consummated this companionship.

She asked, “What do YOU want to do?”  I know the right answer to that one, now, too.  Always did.

However, I intentionally answered incorrectly and said, “I don’t care.”  I was more than content settling for heavy fondling and some suckage of the boobage.

So, we slept.  The next morning, I woke up to her kissing my chest.  I was tired, but I managed to smile.  She then insisted on kissing me with her good morning breath, which, combined with the horror mouth of the night before, created some sort of monster stench the likes of which would have put Saddam’s chemical cache, at its peak, to shame.

I brushed my teeth with my finger as an indicator, but she didn’t get it.  She made coffee, which tasted delicious.  Maybe my mouth was just eager to have something else in it.

I went to leave, and she kissed me goodbye.  The coffee was a nice cover-up, and I left on a good note.  She said she’d call me, and, ultimately, she did.

Pity.

The following Thursday, Angela called me.  I guess I'm at a loss to try to explain exactly why I agreed to meet her.  By my best estimation, I suppose I was bored, and I figured watching Cops and Unsolved Mysteries had an extremely low probability in ending with a blow job.  In retrospect, I can't imagine what my boys would smell like after that.

At any rate, I agreed to go out to another karaoke club with Angela that night.  When I got to her place, though, it had started to rain.  I knocked on the door, my trademark fedora soaking in the rain, a lá Last Crusade, when she kissed me.

I'd decided to give her another chance, thinking that maybe the bar and morning breath were to blame for the previous infractions.  I was wrong.  I should have ran like hell.  But I stepped inside.

Maybe, in some twisted timeline, I could have overlooked the bad in favor for a relationship.  The only problem I can't see past, however, reared its head as soon as I walked through that entryway.

Ah, Psychosis.  My old nemesis.

"Farewell Party" was playing on her CD player.  I looked on the floor.  It was like looking at a chalk outline, I was so horrified.  She had purchased the three CDs with the songs I'd sung on them.  She had them programmed on her player, playing on repeat.  I would call that a red flag, but it was more like a red fucking sunset.

She came out of the kitchen and smiled, "Would you like a beer?"

"No," I answered uncharacteristically.  I wanted to make sure I was driving home.  "Pop would be fine."

"Do you mind if we stay in tonight?  It's raining, and my dog gets so scared when it rains and he's home alone."  Funny, incidentally, this concern for her pet.  Considering she locked the bastard in her bathroom for the majority of the night.

I agreed, but, if you've read my other tales of woe, you know that pet peeve number one on ol' Seth's list is:

DENY ME KARAOKE.

Not a good relationship move, on their part, anyway.  So, we sat down and watched some television.  There really wasn't shit on, but she ordered a pizza.  I went to the bathroom and let the little dog watch me pee.  I hope he didn't get any ideas of his own.

I was understandably uncomfortable.  She kept calling me her young boyfriend for one.  I was all for a good time, but getting all serious with her was never my intention.  The pizza came and we started to eat.

"So, what do you want to do tonight?" she asked.

"I don't care," I said.

"Well, I just got Godfather on DVD for my birthday.  Do you want to watch it?"

I'd never seen Godfather.  I'd heard it was long and never felt like investing the time.  I decided I could spend two hours, but I didn't know this was the damn extended edition.  Over three and a half hours I was sitting there.

She kept making comments that were somewhat insensitive.  Normally, I'm not a guy that would get offended by that sort of thing, but I thought it was pretty ballsy to say, "Damn white girl stealing a guy like Pacino away from his own race!"

Naturally, instead of complaining, I tried one-upsmanship.  "Well," I admitted, "it's better than fucking some nasty Hispanic broad." She acted upset, but she still tried making out with me.  I couldn't get over the whole song fiasco yet, though.

Towards the end of the night, she asked me, "What do you plan on doing next summer?"

I looked forward, and all I could see was, "I have to go to Officer Basic Course.  I'll probably be busy doing that." I didn't care, but, still, I asked, "What're you going to do?"

She said, "Stay here and have your babies."  I don't know if she was joking or not, but that's probably the worst possible plan she could revealed.  She leaned in for a kiss.  I pulled away in disgust.  Thank goodness I didn't sleep with her.  Insane bitches like this poke holes in your condoms and shit.

Still, I didn't leave.  I had to see the end of the movie.  Let's not get crazy.  James Caan getting shot was awesome.

After that, I left, though.  As fast as I could fucking drive.

I never spoke to her again, but, now, sometimes, when I pull up to a toll booth, I think of Angela.  The dreamy vision of someone getting filled with lead by some random gangsters while she crosses my mind still makes me laugh.

Ah, good times.