My dad was standing in front of the sliding glass doors with the light of the full moon shining down on him. He was sipping whiskey from the bottle, murmuring garbled growls between swigs, and he was naked except for his Hanes tightie whities. His chiseled caveman body was glistening with a layer of slimy summer sweat. At his side, in his right hand, he held his shotgun.

If mom had come home that night, I have no doubt he would have killed her.

I made sure to not make a sound when I tip toed back to my room. After I locked my door, I slid my dresser over for some extra insurance. It must have taken me an hour to get that old pink polka-dot three drawer piece of shit four dam feet. But I wasn’t taking any chances. Nothing to draw his attention. Him get in here and remember he’s mad at me too, for some reason.

The next morning, before the sun was up, I left the house by climbing out my window. It was a tough six foot drop and I twisted my ankle pretty good. I had my boombox in my book bag and even with three changes of clothes to cushion my precious Sony, I wasn’t chancing drop plopping it down. So wearing my bag made the climb down too cumbersome, but necessarily cumbersome.

I hitched my way to New York. That one trucker wanted a blow job. I knew it by the look in his eyes. It was also a dead give away when he took one hand off the steering wheel to unzip his fly and pull out his erect cock and he said something kinda whitty, what did he say, something like, “make me cum or make for walking, your choice.” I made a compromise and gave him a really good hand job, spit lubrication and all. Plus, I used the moaning sound effects I learned by peeping my mom do it for all those guys.

When I saw Broadway for the first time, I knew I had arrived at my destiny. It was all going to be worth it. I was going to be a star. I figured that there wasn’t anything holding me back. I didn’t believe in this reality enough to not be an actor.

I stole what I needed for a while. Sleeping in the park was hard as hell. I couldn’t get more then four or five bucks a day with my street rapping so even the YMC was out of my budget. The Sony ran out of batteries so I didn’t have any beats to help me get a roll going. And I couldn’t ever figure out how to get plugged into an outlet in a good public spot, so yeah, couldn’t get no juice flowing.

McDonald’s was a huge fucking break. The manager didn’t check my ID. Didn’t care that I was 17. Didn’t give a fuck that I didn’t graduate high school. I made sure as hell he didn’t regret giving me a shot. Somehow I got there on time and clean enough to do my shifts. Didn’t miss one. Always stayed after late and came in early too. Told Gary that I wanted to make sure I started each shift with clean trash cans and set the next shift up with clean cans too.

I pulled that shit off for a good bit too and I even got a place, like regular, squatting under the bridge. And I had a system started going. Wash my Mickey Dees uniform after shift with the hose out back. Hey, I ain't too proud to wash it in the restaurant bathroom but I also ain't so dumb to think managers might not take too kindly to an employee scrubbing up in the bathroom after shifts. Then the routine, take my uniform home in a trash bag. Pull it out and hang it up to dry above my head, from one of the loose bolts on the under carriage of the bridge. Spend my off time reading Starship Troopers over and over. 15 mile march one way into work. So plenty tired by the time I got home, get to sleep easy enough.

Had it pretty figured out and was making it good. But broke my heart, make the sensible decision, give up rapping. But someone stole my beatbox. It was probably Rusty, sticky hands son of a bitch. But whatever, not like I didn’t owe him for some shit anyway.

And you know what, gotta thank my dad for whipping the shit out of me when he caught me with that joint when I was 9. Must of been classical conditioning cause ever since then I've fucking hated the idea of getting high. And you know what, I also fucking hate taking a break from reality. Fuck that shit. So no alcohol either and just gonna make it clean, man. You know.

It's all connected in this universe. It's all got a purpose. All those trials and tribulations. Without em, wouldn’t have gotten to where I belong. With my brothers.

I know for sure it shocked the recruiter when my piss came back clean. That Army staff sergeant in his dress mess, man, he was the shit. He fucking cared. I know it's like on him and he’s under pressure to get guys in but fuck, man, he fucking cared. It took him a while to get me a ship date. But, man, fuck, when that day came. I said good bye to McDonalds and my bridge digs without looking back. Fo’sho’. Mos def. Deuces!

The ride to the airport. The bus into basic training reception. The free haircut. The clean uniforms. Couldn’t believe they were just handing that bad ass shit out. Sign me up again. Don’t care. Can I reenlist for life now? Shit man. That’s what I was feeling. My first night in that basic training bay, it was like I was at sweet tits Hilton palace. Sleeping on a bed. Clean sheets for the first time in forever. Thought I died and went to heaven.

They could have asked me to kill anyone, anything, and sure thing boss, I was gonna do it, as long as they let me keep this high class living.

Some of the guys cried on the first night of basic. No shame. I cried too. But I think I was probably crying for a different reason. But gotta be committed to cry your way through that shit, bitch. We all got our row to hoe. I ain't one to judge your plight, brother, but, don't cry to quit.

At the end of the shit is the happiness though. The contentment. With a little bit of freedom you can call your own. Some rank so you can protect someone from the fire storm. Looking at yourself in the mirror with your clean pressed ribbons and brass best dress all prim and proper and polished and shined. Gotta admit, I’m crying again. For another different reason. I’m trained now, strong enough to pay it forward a little bit. Praying I keep getting some juice flowing through me, give to someone else needs to have soldiering as an option.

Dam though, I’m so happy to be a soldier. An NCO. For life, man. So blessed. Fucking love America. Say that creed every morning still.

I am an American Soldier. I am a warrior and a member of a team. I serve the people of the United States, and live the Army values. I will always place the mission first. I will never accept defeat. I will never quit. I will never leave a fallen comrade. I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior tasks and drills. I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself. I am an expert and I am a professional. I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies of the United States of America in close combat. I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life. I am an American Soldier.