Yield

“Hoss! Hoss! Open the fucking door!” 

I'm sitting alone in my barracks room on a weekend rocking a game on the PlayStation 2. Next thing I know I hear Bailey’s voice and an urgent pounding on the door. I open it and there’s Bailey, Farncomb, and the new rookie, aka platoon FNG (Fuckin’ New Guy) standing in the hallway.

And between them is an 8 foot tall wooden post with a Yield sign attached.

“Dude! We got this for you!” Bailey says. He and Farncomb look extremely pleased with themselves. I’ll never forget this moment. The FNG is amused too, but mostly because he got dragged along with the cool kids and clearly did a good job.

“What the fuck?” I ask. Of course, I understand why they’re holding a Yield sign. It’s because these are my two best friends and they know how much this means to me. I’m just stunned that it’s right there in Charlie Troop’s barracks.

They drag the entire thing into my room. Farncomb explains they were golfing on the neighboring Air Force Base and drinking one beer per hole. They took the FNG as designated driver so they could actually enjoy their afternoon. Price you pay for being the new guy, but the trade off is street cred among your fellow soldiers which is gold when you’re new to the unit.

I stare at this idol beckoning to me like a shining beacon that connects my past and future. The sign is red and white, fit to fight. Just like the U.S. Cavalry. 

“We were a good way through and then we just saw this sign,” Bailey explains. “But to us, it didn’t say ‘Yield,’ it said ‘Hoss.’” He waves his hand across the invisible memory in his field of vision for emphasis. Meanwhile, Farncomb is laughing along with me at the whole situation. FNG is just happy to be included. 

“We drove right through the main gate with this sticking out the back!” Farncomb tells me. This is extra funny because Bailey drives a 2-door Jeep Wrangler which cannot possibly conceal 8 feet of anything, let alone a full size street sign passing in front of an MP checkpoint.

At some point I had told my buddies about the time my friends and I “appropriated” a Yield sign from the streets of Tallahassee when we worked at Domino’s Pizza. One of my friends was pissed after a shitty delivery with no tip, and he got mad and ripped the sign out of the ground. We asked him where it was, then one of my roommates took his truck to the sight and unbolted the Yield sign which adorned the walls of our college bachelor pad as a trophy. When we all eventually went our separate ways, we left it with one of our friends. His wife eventually made him get rid of it, because..well...it’s a fucking road sign.

But as I had explained to my Army buddies, that first Yield sign wasn’t just a fucking road sign. It was a symbol that my old friends in Florida had used to bond over one thing we all loved: Pearl Jam.

My Florida friends had been Pearl Jam fans from the start, but I didn’t really discover the band until right before their album Yield came out in 1998. I listened to it a lot while delivering pizzas to broke FSU students. And then we all took a road trip down to Fort Lauderdale to see Pearl Jam live. And I loved it. That concert sold me. Their music helped me get through a lot of tough times in my life, especially while in the military.

So I’m standing here at Fort Lewis thinking about all of this in a flash of memory, and all I can say is, “Dudes. I don’t know what to say.” Bailey and Farncomb just grin and tell me to enjoy it. I make quick work getting the Yield sign off the post and ditching the wood somewhere. I know I can stash the Yield sign behind wall lockers, but Sergeants tend to notice shit like a sign on an 8 foot post during room inspections. Out of sight, out of mind. The United States military mantra for success.

In this moment I’m really happy because my friends know how much the Yield sign means to me. I have a deep connection with Pearl Jam’s music and they went the extra mile just for me. People might think a road sign is juvenile (college days, right?) but for me it’s not about the sign itself. It’s because my best friends risked getting caught by Air Force and Army MP soldiers to get the damn thing to me.

Flash forward to 2019. I went though a lot of bad years and had to abandon a lot of possessions in Oregon at some point. But I never got rid of that sign. After rising from my lowest point in 2006, I went back to college, got a degree, and great career job with the Government. In 2011 I bought my house and that Yield sign was the first thing I put up on my wall. It’s opposite my couch so I see it all the time, every day. I'm staring at it right now in South Philadelphia, yet I'm also seeing it for the first time back at Fort Lewis.

Friends who visit my house just see a scratched road sign. I look at it every day, especially when I’m playing guitar. And it doesn't say, “Yield.” It' reads:

To Hoss

From Zac & Cameron

1/14 Cavalry - Never Forget

"Here's a token of my openness
Of my need to not disappear."

-Pearl Jam

Raise the Flag

Best as I can recall, this is my first trip to a strip club. I'm sure there's a more P.C. or professional name for these joints, but let's call it what it is: a strip club outside an Army base. It's possible I've been here before with Warner and Wolff, but whether it's our first trip or not is irrelevant. The point is, Dick Lips is in the house and that's all that really matters. Otherwise this is just one more forgettable night lost among beer-hazed memories.

Imagine you have a completely repressed hardcore fundamentalist Republican Mormon churchgoer with zero social skills. Zero. A dude whose ideals were passed on without ever being allowed to critically think or form his own opinion about anything (except Rammstein - he loves those fuckers and I seriously doubt he got that from his parents). A guy who is ardently against everything a strip club has to offer and exposed to all the evils of society. Evils like overpriced drinks and girls who pretend they're actually into you at a rate of $20 per four minute rock song. Just imagine this person. The kind of guy who isn't savvy enough to realize he's wearing his helmet backwards. And don't worry, I'll tell you that story another time. So what happens when you introduce this individual to such a wretched den of iniquity?

Well apparently said individual takes all his fundamentalist ideals and throws them right out the fucking window. Because tits. And ass.

The sign outside says "Deja Vu - Showgirls." Yeah, it's a chain. God bless America. What would hardworking soldiers and airmen stationed around Tacoma do without such a place? Go out and try to actually speak with girls in the wild? And face rejection? Fuck that, it's payday. Friday. "The day the Eagle shits," as our First Sergeant always says.

And that slogan: "100's of beautiful girls - and 3 ugly ones." McDonald's marketing has got nothing on Deja Vu. That billions and billions served bit is old and busted.

I've already had my inaugural lap dance and fallen into the whole trap about buying your dancer a super overpriced non-alcoholic beverage. I don't understand the scam right now, but I've got that feeling that if I don't do it then Moose and Rocko are going to haul my ass out onto the street. I've got cash to burn so I go with the flow for one round. Don't rock the boat. I learned at a young age that's the easiest way to get through any unknown situation. Go with the goddamn flow.

I don't recall which song they just played even as I leave the VIP room. I would have preferred "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails but probably got "All Star" by Smash Mouth. It's already a haze. Anyway, I get roped into the whole buy your dancer a drink routine along with Warner and Wolff. We were very clearly marked as newbies the moment we walked into this place. So they're in the same situation. Three dudes, and three ladies desperately watching the clock so they can skate away from the fake conversation after like three minutes.

Meanwhile, Dick Lips is still sitting there looking awkward and trying to tell us to leave. This isn't the kind of place for people to be. These dancers are someone's daughter. That whole spiel.

So I don't even know how it happens, but of course he breaks down eventually. It takes maybe ten minutes. I'm laughing and high fiving the Super W Brothers when some girl gets ol' Wild Man to break down and leads him by the hand back to a private booth. We did it. We got him to realize he's a normal guy just like everyone else, with a dick and everything. Ok, well maybe not like everyone else. We can do things like tell a joke and remember to tie both shoes before leaving the house. But you get the idea.

Next thing I know Dick Lips is back at our table after the song ends. And I can't believe my fucking eyes. This dude is standing around, out of breath like he just sprinted a half mile. And he's got a raging tentpole. Kinda hard not to miss because we're sitting down and Cap'n Winky is at eye level.

"Jesus Christ, Wild Man! Wolff shouts. "Have a good time in there?"

"Huh?" He looks down. "Oh, yeah."

I've seen a lot of shitty 80s comedies and I thought the lap dance boner trope was just a joke. Nope. Dick Lips has got a rager going.

"Dude, fucking sit down man." He does.

Over the rest of the evening before we leave which is probably about an hour or so until we hit up a bar, two notable things happen. One: a dancer tells me that a bouncer has escorted Warner to an ATM off the premises because his card didn't work at the ATM in here. So we probably shouldn't leave without him. She's a nice girl. Probably pre-med. Law school, maybe. And Two: Dick Lips enthusiastically runs up after his second or fifth lap dance and tells us there's a girl on girl shower scene going on in the VIP lounge.

"Come on guys! It's OK, you can bring your drinks!" He runs off, waving us back to where there is, in fact, a girl on girl shower scene going on. I didn't expect to see two chicks in a kiddie pool when I woke up this morning, but whatever. Roll with it. Wild Man is apparently the guy who knows what's what in this joint.

"What the fuck, it's like he's been going here for years," Wolff says. "This is old hat for him already."

Eventually Warner gets back with sort of an embarrassed look, having been escorted to find his wallet since they wouldn't take an IOU and all. And we have to practically drag Wild Man out so Wolff can drive us to the next bar.

It only takes until Monday afternoon formation before all 80 or so soldiers in Bravo Troop know Dick Lips popped a tentpole in public. This is only the beginning of his legacy.

TGI Fucktards

I'm sitting at a table in Fridays, with Wolff on my left, Warner across from me, and Wild Man in the last seat opposite mine. His eyes look out at us through his stupid glasses, and there's those fucked up lips that I'm constantly trying not to laugh at. Sounds mean, but hey, fuck him.

So the waitress shows up with our salads, and the salad ritual begins. I'm starting to dig into mine, as are my counterparts, when we notice something odd. Wild Man is eating his house salad with ranch dressing.

With his fingers.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Wolff asks. Me and Warner have the 'never-ceases-to-amaze' look on our faces.

"Huh?" he says between ranch dressing coated lips. "I don't have any silverware."

"Just take some off the table next to us!" Wolff has opened the door to reality to Dick Lips, but he's too fucking stupid to step through.

"I don't want to get in trouble," Mr. Passive mumbles.

I can't take it anymore. "You moron!" I say. "Just take it. There's nobody there, nobody gives a shit."

"I'll just wait for the waitress," he explains. Another chunk of jizz-covered lettuce with tomato passes from fingers to lips. Warner is making his usual 'you fucking idiot' face.

As I'm wondering if anybody else in the restaurant who isn't three years old is eating salad with their fingers, Wolff stands up. "I can't take it! Here!" He reaches all of three feet to the next table, vacant, and grabs a napkin-rolled fork and knife. He slams it down on the table in front of Wild Man. This once happened with Ketchup in Applebee's.

"Thanks," Dick Lips mumbles. He unwraps his silverware, smearing ranch dressing on the napkin in the process, and Wolff hangs his head in disbelief. In many situations, I take the opportunity to use a Hoss-style movie quote. This is one of those times.

"Wild Man," I begin.

He looks up as he spears some crap on his plate.

"When you go to the bathroom and the toilet lid is down, do you shit your pants?"

About one second of silence passes, then Warner, gotta love him, almost chokes on his food, he's laughing so fucking hard. Wolff catches it a second later. I wonder at times like this if the people think we're the most obnoxious assholes they'll run into all night, making so much noise, usually at Wild Man's expense.

"Ha, ha," he says in his stupid little mock laugh.

I'm still laughing over that one, because that dumb fuck just re-enlisted for six years.

So the rest of the meal goes by normal, with the occasional at-Dick-Lips'-expense joke. Any other normal human would have stopped hanging out with us a long time ago. But he takes the abuse. Likewise, we would have given up on Captain Dipshit even longer ago, but hey, he's got a car.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Wild Man excuses himself to the bathroom, making the cardinal mistake of leaving his food unguarded. Wolff wastes no time grabbing the salt shaker.

"Sweet," Warner says between burger bites. I'm grinning like a fiend. Wolff unscrews the top of the shaker, and proceeds to ceremoniously dump half the contents into Wild Man's fruity drink, one of those fru-fru things he always orders. No alcohol. Wild man and alcohol don't mix.

About that time, the waitress steps up to our table, and sees our mischief in progress.

"You guys are sooo bad," she admonishes.

No shit.

Wolff still has that big goofy face as he hands me the salt shaker. As I return it to its original spot on the table, he stirs the drink with the straw. They're free here.

Enter Wild Man just as the deed has been done.

So the meal continues, all three of us silently cackling evilly, willing him to take a sip. I enjoy the look from Warner across the table, a look that says he takes pleasure in knowing those big lips will pucker up in disgust any moment. But they don't.

And then the waitress shows up with a refill for Wild Man, knowing what's coming up. This should seem odd since his current drink is almost full. But Dick Lips can't find his way out of a paper bag. I know. I actually drew him a map once.

Come on.

Drink it!

The salt must have settled.

And then, when Wild Man gets near the bottom, he takes a nice long, slow sip from the straw. Then I am rewarded with those huge lips puckering up in disgust.

"Which one of you put salt in my drink?" he yells at us. Cool, because he doesn't get pissed that often. Then Wolff goes off on him.

"What!? Don't you dare ever accuse us of fucking with your drink!"

"Well, it had to be one of you," Wild Man reasons. Sound logic. I'm impressed.

"We're your friends!" Wolff continues. "We don't do that kind of shit! And I'm pissed off that you'd have the balls to think we'd do something that stupid to you!" Me and Warner try not to choke on our food.

"Maybe you're right," Wild Man admits. "Someone might have messed up in the kitchen. I'm sorry."

No shit.

This guy really exists.

Six fucking years.



Author's note: I originally wrote this shortly after it happened circa 2001 when I was in the Army. I recently discovered a written copy and transcribed it exactly as written. Partially to preserve integrity of art or some such bullshit, but mostly so I can look back and see my shortcomings as a writer. I don't like my excessive use of commas and run-on sentences, but hey - live and learn. It's a product of its time.

Tactical Drop

"Cover my move. I gotta take a shit."

I'm tired, on the verge of hallucinations, and sick of being out here in the desert at night. But if there's one thing I'm gonna stick up for, it's death with dignity. No way am I taking a notional bullet up my literal ass from the OPFOR. I'm not even sure if these guys exist. After two years of training exercises I've never even run into the fake bad guys, which I assume is just four guys from Bravo Troop bullshitting under cover of dark with one hit and fade per night to make it seem like they're actually playing their part.  But I'll be damned if I'm gonna be the guy in Warhorse Squadron known as the Joe who got capped while dropping ass outside his humvee.

Hawkins stirs. He's not totally awake, which is to be expected. When you're sleeping in the field there's some part of your subconscious that keeps you in that 90% sleep zone, with the other 10% knowing at any moment some dicknose is about to wake you up and tell you it's your turn for radio watch. In this case my hour isn't up yet, but a tactical fecal drop takes priority over sporadic radio chatter.

"My turn already?" Hawkins is not pleased.

"Just gimme five minutes. Gotta drop ass but second platoon was talking about OPFOR on the radio. I'll cover your shift."

"Fuck, seriously?"

"Yeah man," I tell him. "Look, just use my NODs and keep an eye out. Shout out if you see anyone moving." We're in the middle of a flat area in the goddamn desert which means seemingly miles of visibility in any direction. But when duty calls you never can be too safe. I hand my night vision over to Hawkins so he can keep an eye out, assuming he doesn't fall asleep in the next few minutes.

"Alright dude, I got you," he says. Score! I've got my window. Time to make a tactical dump that would make Rambo proud. I reach over to my rucksack and pull my E-tool out. Nowadays that sounds like an internet hacking program, but in the real world it's an entrenching tool. Or as I call it, the best wingman ever when you've got a shit on deck.

"Thanks man." I crawl out of the driver's seat and move around to the back of Charlie 1-2, aka First Platoon, second vehicle. Senior Scout's truck, and I'm the Han Solo of this beast. But even Solo has to vacate a load every now and then. It's just one of those things we don't think about. As I walk around to the back of the truck I lock my E-tool into position so the spade sticks out 90 degrees from the handle. You won't find this in the field manual, but that bad boy makes an amazing third leg when you need a field expeident latrine.

I drop trou off the back of the humvee and place my E-tool right there up against my right butt cheek. Since I'm not a total savage I may as well hold on to the back of the truck for extra support, so I use each hand to grab one of the tie down points. I'm in the middle of a mostly moonless night in the desert, it's chilly, and I'm risking getting pretend murdered by fake bad guys. May as well be shitting at the Ritz by US Army standards though. This is about as good as it gets out in the field. That first log drops and it's like Atlas shrugging the weight of the world off his shoulders. Fuckin' A, as the Dude would say. In the background I can hear idle radio chatter. Presumably about not seeing OPFOR because they're asleep while us dumbasses are looking for them.

One of the tricks they don't teach you in basic training is about hoarding the toilet paper from the MREs. Sure, it's a pro move to bring your own rolls of toilet paper with you out in the field, but a good soldier is always prepared for any contigency. So five minutes ago when I didn't want to wake up Sgt. Slater to ask where he stashed his rolls of TP, I was fortunate enough to have my backup. Every MRE comes with a tiny packet of shit tickets and it's long been my own personal standard operating procedure to gather as many of those fuckers as I can and cram them in the pockets of my gear. Specifically for situations like this.

But sometimes, fortune smiles on your side. First, Hawkins is willing to cover me for a tactical dook. Second, OPFOR doesnt appear to make me the laughing stock of the squadron. And third (and most imporatant), it's a clean drop. The best kind. Out-and-out, done deal, no Hershey's residue. Granted it's nighttime, but I don't need visual verification or a safety wipe to confirm this deployment is a success. Mission accomplished, I get my pants back where they're supposed to be and hop back in the front seat, about four pounds lighter.

"Thanks man," I tell Hawkins as he hands my NODs back to me. I'm pretty sure he's asleep within 5 seconds. I check my watch. 1:37am. Or 0137 hours, but I still think of time in the civilian format to make me feel like a real person. Radio watch is uneventful. One or two more spot reports of OPFOR out there from second platoon. Once it hits 2:00am sharp, I wake up Wyman and fork over the radio's hand mic.

Next thing I know the sun is cracking over the Eastern horizon behind us and Sgt. Slater is doing his morning shaving routine using the passenger's side mirror. I sip some water from my Camelbak and step out of the truck to stretch my legs. The rest of the five man crew does the same. Then I hear it. Last night wasn't a dream. It really happened.

"Jesus Christ, Hoss! Could you have shit any closer to the humvee? Like on top of it?"

Hawkins is the unfortunate soul who discovers my tactical bioweapon. Sure, I could have used the E-tool for its actual purpose of digging and buried that bomb, but where's the fun in that? Besides, I was tired. And it's biodegradable.

I give him a look that says, "Who gives a shit?" Apparently I give the shits around here.