No Foot Right

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My first year of college was spent at the California Maritime Academy – a paramilitary school for merchant marines (the military’s FedEx) – and it was paid for by the United States Navy. The plan: major in mechanical engineering, get college paid for in exchange for becoming a Naval Officer, then join Special Operations.

Though the campus was gorgeous and overlooked the San Francisco Bay (that was the view from my dorm room up there), I couldn’t bring myself to be okay with a student body of 850. My graduating class in high school had 800, and that’s not including the 400 kids in my year that didn’t pass, so I had grown accustomed to a certain level of anonymity. Also, it was about 80% men, and I like the ladies too much for that ratio.

Again, I loved and excelled in ROTC. My unit was composed of students from Cal Maritime, UC Davis, UC Berkeley, and Stanford, and we met in Berkeley for classes, drill, and Physical Training (PT) once a week. I loved my unit, and I maintained relationships with many of the people in it for many years.

I traveled with them to Reno to judge NJROTC units from Nevada. I traveled with them to Memphis to participate in an armed drill competition. I participated in field exercises throughout Northern California. I loved all of it, despite my characteristic comical whining.

Simultaneously, my roommate for my first semester away from home happened to be the coke dealer for the school. A conservative estimate would be about $10,000 of product in and out of that room while I was in it. Self restraint has never been my strong suit, so I took full advantage of its availability. On any given day, you could scrape about a half gram off the mirror on his desk for free, but with the Navy’s stipend and money from my parents, I was able to afford a fair amount. I’d snort as much as my funds and nepotism would allow, then I’d take six Advil PM or freebase Oxycontin to come back down far enough to sleep.

I was chasing highs in whatever directions I could at that point. I tried acid for the first time that year. I also bought about 25 pills of MDMA in one go, and did it with such regularity that I started to have bouts of inexplicable blindness where my vision would go completely black during physical exertion (not ideal if you’re training to be in the military). The only thing that limited usage was the weekly potential for randomized drug tests, and by some miracle I always passed when I was tested.

One night, my coke-laden prattling worried my step aunt who was the same age as me, and she told my parents. I was livid with her, but in retrospect it was the right call, as it allowed me the degree of separation I needed to survive my first year of college.

During the summer, I went down to San Diego to spend a month learning about the many things the Navy has to offer an aspiring officer. I spent one week learning about surface warfare that included a night on a ship, shooting guns off the side into the ocean, seeing a shell as big as my leg fired over the horizon, and watching a helicopter land on the deck. Then I spent a week learning about submarine warfare, and spent a night under the Pacific. Then I spent a week with the aviators and got to fly in an F-18 Fighter Jet with a pilot that had just been selected for the Blue Angels. Then I spent a week with the Marines shooting guns and physically exhausting myself in the most rewarding ways.

I loved each and every step of that journey, but I loved my artsy girlfriend and the allure of a debaucherous life more. I transferred to UC Davis, and opted out of ROTC. I abandoned the dream I had had for the better part of five years for something that I’m sure seemed very enticing at the time. I can’t recall my reasoning, but I can say assuredly that once I’ve decided something, I power forward.

I gotta say, that’s a much easier way to live when you don’t spend any time looking back. Damn pursuit of writing in my later years…

No Foot Left

thumbnail_000_0056I originally joined Naval Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps (NJROTC) in high school to get out of doing any real exercise. I was willing to squeeze my fat, adolescent body into a uniform once a week if it meant limiting my exposure to the track. Once I was in, I realized that I really liked the structure that the program provided, and so began my love for the armed services. Sure, you get yelled at and belittled every now and again, but that fit with my already-low view of myself, so I didn’t mind that so much. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I found it funny on a lot of levels.

After my freshman year, I stuck around and started getting more involved with its many extracurricular facets. I started out in Academic Team, which was a lot like the ROTC version of Academic Decathlon – memorize stuff and take a test. I did well in that, and got to go to competitions where I watched my friends who were in unarmed and armed drill team, and who competed in relay races, and pushup and situp competitions. True to form, I thought, “I can do those things better than those people are doing those things,” so I joined each of them one by one as I shed the baby weight (growing helped, but I think my overly-competitive nature did more to get me in shape than anything else).

Soon, I was spending most of my lunches in the NJROTC room. I was hanging out with my fellow cadets after school. My first girlfriend was ROTC. So was my second. And sort of my third. The small set of people I still talk to regularly – all from JROTC. It’s safe to say that it was one of the most formative parts of my teen years.

I excelled at all things NJROTC. I got medals and ribbons and promotions; I was given command of the armed drill team and the academic team in my junior year. Unfortunately, this coincided with my discovery of the satisfactions of delinquency. I regularly chose not to go to class that year, as staying home to play videogames, going to a movie, going to the beach, or pretty much any other activity was more appealing to me than school. I’d still show up for practices and ROTC classes most of the time, but my grades in everything else suffered because of my absences.

The amount of pushups I was doing as a reprimand for my misconduct also helped get me in good physical shape, but did nothing for my grades. I finished junior year with two D’s and two F’s, meaning I had passed only a third of my classes that year (I still got 4’s and 5’s on the AP exams, so I got college credit for the courses, just not high school credit). But who gives a shit about grades? I was set up to be part of the Top 6 (the highest ranking folks) in ROTC in my senior year, and that’s all I really cared about.

They announced Top 6 at the end of the yearly competition between all of the classes. I sat on the bleachers and listened to the names of some of closest friends read out over the loudspeaker – six names, none of which were mine. It felt like I got punched in the gut. I thought there must’ve been a mistake. I clearly had the most command presence, and if there was gonna be a popular vote, I would have won it hands-down. I ranted and raved and punched shit, then got called into the Commander’s office (the retired Naval Commander who taught the high school class), and had it all explained to me.

“You passed hardly any of your classes, Farrell,” he told me in a stern tone.

“I got an A in ROTC! Doesn’t that count for anything?!”

“Sure, but you can’t say that you’re modeling good behavior and leading from the front when you’re failing so many of your classes. At some point, you’re going to have to acknowledge that the rules apply to you, too!”

I didn’t. I couldn’t. I stormed out of the office, and out of JROTC. Well, not immediately. I stuck around for another semester as the dedicated nuisance of the unit. I continued my string of bad behavior, and I used my leadership potential to negatively influence anyone who would listen. Was I good? Sure, I was good at all of the same things I had been good at previously. Was I a good leader? No, I was not. My anger blinded me and got in the way of any self improvements that I might have made. After leaving the unit, I still hung around like some latchkey kid, pretending I was too cool for everything.

I went on to get the ROTC scholarship after high school, but I think it was too late for me at that point. Misconduct was my norm, and once that’s got its hooks in you, it’s hard to turn away from – being bad does truly feel so good (until you have to deal with the ramifications). Were I shooting myself in the foot in a more literal way, I think it’s safe to say that I’d have had no foot left fairly early on. Then at least I might have stopped.

Fake ID’s

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I mean Jesus… Look at this kid. I’d rob this kid.

I had my phone pressed to my ear and I was telling my girlfriend, “No really! I can get you anything! This place has every knock-off thing you can imagine. Gucci, Prada, Rolex…”

I was on Canal Street in Manhattan, and I was sixteen, and for whatever reason I was trusted to be on my own. I was trying my damnedest to project an air of confidence, that probably just came off as cocky naivete – the kind that only an over-privileged, over-indulged white kid can muster.

During my boisterous listing of the few name brands I was able to commit to memory or have shouted at me by vendors on either side of me, I caught someone’s attention.

“Fake ID’s,” the large black man interjected, leaning over as he passed me on the street to add to the secrecy. As if he pierced my ear with a fish hook when he walked by, my head turned and my body followed.

“I gotta call you back,” I closed the flip phone. “Sir, I believe you’ve found a customer.”

I followed this dude through the alleyways leading away from Canal Street (it was daylight, but I’m willing to acknowledge it wasn’t the best plan) as he explained the process. We would go up to his guy’s studio for the photos, and he would print them out right then and there with whatever magical machine he had stolen specifically for this purpose. This guy was the best – used to work for the DMV and shit.

We landed in a small Chinese cafe across the street from the spot. Then the negotiating started. “How much you got on you?”

“Really, I only have about $80. So that’ll have to do.” I tried sneakily pulling the money from my pocket without getting my wallet out so I could continue bluffing. Being much more adept at this than I was, he noticed right away.

“Hey man! We gotta trust each other here! You gotta be up front with me! Is that really all you got?!”

It was not. I pulled out the entire $130 that I had in my pocket and handed it over.

“Alright. Coo. You gotta trust people, man. Anyway, here’s the thing. This guy is super paranoid, and he don’t trust anybody. I need to prove to him that you cool and you not wearin’ a wire.”

It was far-fetched, but what did I know about the illegal fake ID industry? I handed him my watch, which was the “most likely place for me to be hiding a recording device.” He left me with my phone, though, which was very nice of him and really should have raised some red flags.

“Alright. I’m gonna run across the street and check in with him. Stay right here and I’ll be back in a minute.” I saw him disappear into a store across the street. I counted to 60. I made it to 50 before jumping out of my seat and following him.

I got inside the store and immediately saw the door leading to the other street that I couldn’t see from the cafe. I ran outside to try and find him, but Canal Street was buzzing with other idiotic tourists trying to find cheap alternatives to luxury items. Also, there was a subway entrance on each corner. This dude was gone.

Any normal person would probably have cut their losses, but not your young, privileged idiot protagonist! I ran back inside and asked the Israelis who owned the place if they had seen the guy. They hadn’t, but they said they had a pretty decent surveillance system, so I called the police so I could finger the guy (not like that).

They arrived not long after I called and told me to describe what happened. “Alright, so I was buying a fake ID, but we’re going to have to look past that for the time being because this guy robbed me.” I explained the rest of the story in as much detail as I could remember. Apparently this was a recurring issue with tourists – two dudes from Australia just had the same thing happen to them the week prior.

I accompanied the police inside, and found them a pretty decent (though grainy) photo of the guy. Part of me wants to think that my insistence on being in the right lead to this guy’s capture and imprisonment, and part of me is impressed by the guy’s commitment to his craft, and hopes that he continued duping dumb white tourists for years to come.

If you ever plan on living in a big city, I strongly encourage you to get robbed a couple times. I’m not going to say it’s resulted in me making better choices, but they’re definitely better-informed bad choices.