Disclaimer: Sexism has no bearing on the content of this posting. I’ll be using the term “the man” many times. This is simply employed to describe the context of one’s behavior, not whether their Hanes are his way or her way.
Throughout our lives we seem to be faced with critical juncture points. Many of these are obvious, like deciding where to go to school or when to propose. I think many of the most life changing and critical junctures slip up on us during the course of our normal days. It’s at these points that we are faced with the decision to try and step out and become “the man.” In fact, I can tie many of my greatest successes and embarrassments to my urge to be “the man.” Sometimes it leads to you making a great leap forward. Other times it’s reminiscent of that quote about “opening your mouth and removing all doubt that you are, in fact, an idiot.” Therefore we must take the time to judge the situation very carefully. Impulsivity rarely pays off. For me, it usually leads directly to trying to slink down in my chair.
My story today is one that was a little more ridiculous and obvious to spot, but I chose to chest puff anyhow. Big mistake.
Nothing misrepresents actuality more than the military uniform. It makes it look like we all show up and do the very same job every day. In actuality, there are many different jobs in a military service and it takes all types of people to fill those jobs. The Coast Guard is no different. We have many different missions that attract many different types of people. I was a Marine Science Technician. MSTs are, for lack of a better word, the nerds of the CG. We investigate pollution, read regulations, and do various types of inspections. We don’t carry weapons, we carry books. However, this job usually attracts people who are very intellectually alpha. We hate being wrong, and love being challenged to find the answers to tricky questions.
On another side of the house we have the gun toters; physical alphas whose bull pen usually resembles a locker room. They do armed vessels boardings and patrols of the port areas.
Well, during the last few months of my enlistment I was working at my desk when approached by my immediate boss. “Hey Jamey, wanna make 75 bucks?” “Of Course!” He then explains that the bravado of the bull pen had gotten a bit out of hand. One young Gunner’s Mate, in an attempt to impress his co-workers, made a foolish statement. He stated that he loved hot food so much that the heat never bothered him. He was too tough. His bluff was called as a standard coffee cup was filled to the brim with Tabasco sauce and placed on the table in front of him. But he doesn’t yield. He scoffs at it and explains that he would totally do it, but not for free. So, money starts hitting the table. By the time the older guys were finished with him, he would now have to drink the entire thing or pay each of them (10 or so) $75 a piece. That’s giant money for a young enlisted guy, so he’s stuck. Also, there was no way this kid was going to touch that cup. Every time he got close, he would balk and try to change the bet. They weren’t having it.
My boss happened to be in their bull pen as this was going on, felt bad for the kid, and decided to give him a cheaper way out. That’s where I came in. My boss proudly marches me in to the room and declares that if the young GM wouldn’t do it, he had an MST who would. “Uhh…what?” The kid looks at me trying to size up my will power. Inside, I’m as freaked out as he is, but there is no way I’m letting this little punk see it.
My boss goes on to explain that if I would drink the cup the kid only had to pay me. The rest of the guys agreed. After a few seconds of “aww shucks guys,” he agrees. Now here is the point where I'm faced with the decision to step up and be “the man.” All of my instincts were telling me that this was a bad mistake. But, my more animal side was simply repeating that there was no way I was leaving this room without appearing to be a natural born badass. God, I hate my animal side.
As soon as the kid gets the last syllable of “OK” out of his mouth I quickly, yet nonchalantly, throw the cup back like it’s the antidote. I don’t taste it as it goes down, all 8 ounces of it. In fact, for the first few seconds I didn’t really even feel it. This left me just enough time to slam the cup down, wipe my mouth, instruct the kid to have my money by Friday, and leave the room beneath a chorus of jeers toward the young man.
As the door to their bullpen shut behind me, my internal organs had pressed the emergency button. The top of my head begins POURING sweat as I make a quick right turn down the hallway towards the restroom. There is no way I was going to let someone see me freak out. I entered a stall a hunched over in agonizing pain. This must be what being poisoned feels like. We’ve all seen movies where a character drinks the poisoned wine and then over-dramatically wails and flails around on the floor like a fish. The problem is, I was now living it. A couple of minutes in to this display my body began to involuntarily reject my submission as I continuously dry heaved about thirty times in a row. I get it Lord, maybe next time I should just mind my own business and not try to be “the man.”
Once the convulsions and heaving subsided I quickly made my way to the Coke machine for a cold drink to sooth my fiery stomach. One problem; I did NOT anticipate the reaction that carbonation would have the SATANIC liquid in my system. After the first sip of a cold Sprite, I felt as though I had swallowed a 1000 count roll of black cats and lit the fuse, as the heat bubbled back up in to my esophagus. That was the final sign that there was no way around this thing. I was going to have to live through this bad decision and learn my lesson.
It took HOURS for me to feel normal again. Simply drinking milk would not cure the fact that I had poisoned myself with peppers. It had to “pass.” After all was said and done, I was done with bravado for a while. That is, until a friend of mine swore that he could not vomit, so I challenged him to an ipecac drinking contest. But that’s a story for another day.
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