Final hiring interview with the guy who's gonna be my boss, grandboss, and the CEO. The offer letter sits in front of me, reviewed and signed, and I'm making small talk with the boss while we wait for the other two to finish up their meeting and join us.
The door cracks - handshakes, howareyas, smiles and the shuffling of black leather portfolios.
"Let's talk about..." and the CEO catches up on what, exactly, his company is doing while I answer some formal questions. We talk about hitting the ground running, there's a big contract up for bid that they really want to list for on the bid.
The CEO says, "We're really excited to branch into this sector. There's a lot of lucrative work that we're ready to expand in, and it's taken us a long time to find someone with the appropriate experience. It doesn't hurt that we get preference points for veterans."
I nod, familiar with the concept. Part of federal hiring and contracting procedures that were explained as part of my outprocessing briefings a few months previous. This is my first job interview after getting my ticket.
I ask a few questions about timeframes, about what kind of hours I'll be able to bill before the contract lands, about what other opportunities might open up some time down the line. I don't mind what I hear, because the zeroes on the offer letter are the only answer I really care about.
"I'm not really personally familiar with a lot of military stuff," the CEO says. "I was reviewing your resume and was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions?"
Sure, that's why we're here, isn't it?
"Did you ever go overseas," he asks, "You know, to The War? To Iraq or whatever?"
Afghanistan, actually. I spent several years there.
"Huh," he says. "They call that deployment, right?"
Yes indeed.
"Did you," he says, shuffling around some papers, "Ever kill any of those bastards?"
I had been forewarned about this, but all the warning really did was let me, in my shock, to fall back to the prerecorded message.
Heart pounding, palms instantly wet, I tell the man
"To be honest, sir, I'm not really sure if that's relevant to the job position or my expected duties."
Silence from across the table, and then a few sideways glances among them.
The guy who's going to be my boss scoffs, slaps his hands on the table, and says "It's just a question - do you have a problem answering questions?"
Out in Mohammad Khel when there wasn't much to do I would sneak away to a quiet corner somewhere and enjoy the quiet view over the Korengal.
I'd sneak up into the Northwest inner perimeter tower if there was nobody in it and roll cigarettes with the Steiners to keep me company. Otherwise, the far corner of the advisor shack roof was a good spot, far enough from the active parts of the compound that I couldn't hear the motor pool or the gym.
I climbed up the tower one day and found one of the other Americans up there, doing what I did. I saw him as soon as my head cleared the last step, and after a quick pause I turned to go back down.
"You can sit if you want," he said. So I did.
Let's call him Key West. We all used callsigns anyway and that one is as good as the real thing.
I didn't know Key West that well. Like me, he kept to himself on his down time, and spent most of his work time in the armory or on the range with the local forces.
I sat with him and rolled cigarettes in the spring breeze.
I looked across the table while the midboss drummed his fingers on the countertop. The guy who would have been my boss drew in a long breath like he was about to sigh, but I didn't let it happen.
"Thank you for the opportunity," I said, rising, "But I don't think this position is a good fit for me."
As the door closed behind me, I heard "...fuck is his problem?" and it echoed all the way home.
It was three years before I got my nuts up to look for another real job.
I was sitting in the armory with Key West that fall. He was due to rotate home for six months.
I asked him what he had planned, other than get fucked and stay drunk.
"I'm gonna head out to Yellowstone for some free soloing."
"Jesus, Key, that shit's dangerous. What are you gonna do if you fuck up?"
He rolled a cigarette and said,
"I'll die."
I didn't understand it and I told him as much.
He nodded just a hair, and said
"You will."
I shook my head and filed it away.
Years later, I thought about it for the first time since he said it, and I did understand.
There's a bright line shining between the death wish and the life wish.
Fools and adrenaline junkies ride that line whether they can handle it or not, whether they can even see it or not. Take a hot rod motorbike right down the center of that line and if you don't know how to lean just right, off you go through the steel rail and into the yawning darkness, nothing to accompany you but the roar of the machine.
Hunter Thompson talked about the Song of the Sausage Creature. He knew where the line was, but could only describe it to others in terms of blowing the curve right off the high side and through the wet, red gravel trail that leads to death.
It's not just a high, though, that line. It's a path like any other, leading to the fiddler's green, or maybe through Heaven's Gate as part of the away team, however you want to put a handle on it. It's not necessarily the fastest route, nor the simplest, nor the least travelled. I can't tell you about what your line is like, just like I'm not into free soloing.
Make no mistake: the line doesn't lead to the way you want to die. The line takes you through the way you want to live, and following it is the most dangerous thing you can do.
I'm back in school these days. A little tiny regional uni that caters to the locals. I liked the look of one of the programs in particular and decided I wasn't gonna let Uncle Sam get off the hook for the GI Bill he owes me.
The propaganda said veteran friendly. They even have a little plaque and a bench outside one of the buildings to prove it.
I was halfway through the paperwork bonanza and caught a lot of static from student health because I didn't need student healthcare from the campus clinic, and didn't want to give them my medical records anyway. The bullshit went as far as the Dean of Students who confirmed that there was no legal requirement for me to provide them medical records, a full physical, and a complete health history despite the constant demands of the clinic admin staff who I figured must just have been operating on some "100% compliance" paperwork metric.
I figured that since 99.9% of students on campus are your typical by-the-checklist 18 to 21 year old kids, I was obviously a corner case and a little confusion was more or less expected. But it continued, and even escalated - the bullshit. After getting a letter from the Dean to get them off my back and get them to let me register, I caught a phone call from the person who had been ignoring me every time I said I didn't need to, and wasn't gonna, give them the god damned paperwork.
"Veterans have different ideas about things than other students, and you're going to have to compromise. I'm not just going to take no for an answer."
It was personal, for this lady - how dare I? How dare I come around here and exercise my own judgment? And she could tell from my records that I was one of them.
I later found out there were four veterans on campus, total, and two of them were faculty or staff. They were both unsurprised to hear my story. Furious, but unsurprised.
Key West understood the shining line and he knew which way to lean in the curves. I understand it now, too, and the need to ride it.
Those who don't, can at best look on with curiosity, lurid or otherwise. Most, with some confusion; and some, with contempt for things they will never grasp.
The sacrifice you make when you see the line is knowing that so few around you do - or even can - and if you want to ride it, the only way is to do it alone.