Joshua Tucker planned to join the army in five weeks having attended a recruiter's presentation in his junior year in high school without telling anyone. He wanted time to distill the information, let it seep in. He dreamnt about it every night. Now he was about to graduate and was firmly resolved on a military career. His father would have to sign the papers because Joshua would only be seventeen when he graduated having started school early on a fast-track to college based on a high IQ score.
The problem was Joshua's parents were sixties leftists, his father still a Marxist with a shaken worldview, and he couldn't quite bring himself to tell them about the army. He knew his mother would go insane while his father would remain silent until he summoned the proper words to dissuade his son from this deranged idea, this faulty dream, that no doubt he could derail just as sure as his students were parted from their asinine views before they finished his course in political science at the university.
Joshua could picture clearly the scene that would ensue because he grew up hearing their views on the military, members of the military, the United States government, its reach into innocent countries just trying to farm and make baskets, the CIA, the FBI and lately Dick Cheney, the personification of everything evil in the world, but he would not be dissuaded.
Joshua was not rebelling against them; he would like to please his father but ever since he was a small boy he wanted to be a soldier although he was not allowed to have toy guns, play war games or anything related to hunting or cowboys in general though he had a a secret stash of toy soldiers given to him by an uncle that his mother thought had long been given away. He painstakingly painted the soldier's uniforms and rifles with enamel paint taking great care with authenticity. He wasn't sure what his mother would object to most: the soldiers or the chemicals in the paint but she never knew of either.
It was during dinner that evening Joshua told them his plans, brought out the paperwork with rehearsed calm, the fortitude of a soldier, before his mother went to her room hysterically bawling that her beloved son, whom she has cherished from day one, had somehow been lead astray, in fact was no longer the son she had so cushioned and protected from just this type of eventuality. "You are NOT a killer, I did not raise a killer!" she shrieked as she ran up the stairs. Joshua was prepared for this though he wished he could talk to her about his leaving home.
His father quietly poured a triple shot of whiskey from the bottle hidden in the sideboard and returned to his study muttering profanities against the ROTC in schools, crumpling the paper in his fist, tossing it against the wall vowing to never sign a document based on an absurdity as this surely was. He remained in his study drinking for twenty minutes before Joshua knocked on his door holding the form and a pen.
"With all due respect, sir, you need to sign this form."
"Don't give me that respect bullshit. You don't respect me. So be it. That's what I get for leniency; let that goddamn industrial military complex have you. Give me your paper, I'll sign. Go ahead and kill your mother. Kill yourself! Have you thought of that, soldier boy? Have you thought of college?"
"It's only for four years, sir. I'll be back and be able to go to college on the government if I want to."
"If you want to! Are you crazy? You mean if you're not dead or mangled. Thanks a lot. I've got one son and he wants to join the enemy."
"Come on Dad. Stop dramatizing. Forget the past. This is a new army."
"Utter BULLSHIT! Rubbish. That recruiter must have really done a number on you kids. In my day we would have laughed him out of the building."
"He was in a booth outside, sir."
"Cut the crap, Josh. And save the 'sir' for your commanding officers. Fuck that and fuck you. You will be sorry one day for this childish naive bullshit. When you come home without legs. Have you thought of that?" Joshua never blinked an eye; he knew he had to stand guard against emotional badgering to see this through.
After what seemed an eternity, his father grabbed the form, scribbled his name and shoved it into his son's so vulnerable chest. He thought he might cry; he somehow knew he couldn't fight this. How had he lost his only son? What could he do? Nothing. He recognized determination when he was up against it; his own father was a WWII veteran and Josh was made of the same stuff. Implacable. He couldn't fight either of them. His battles were fought over ideals, not raw power.
Joshua took the form, held out his hand to his father but his father brushed it away as if he were a pesky insect interrupting his reading. Joshua didn't press him. He didn't lose his cool and as he left his father's study he was feeling like a man of some courage. It was his first victory and it felt good.
Back in the dining room, Joshua smiled and poured himself a glass of his father's whiskey--his first ever. He had to add water to get it down. The house was now eerily quiet except for the familiar hum of the ancient refrigerator in the kitchen as he pondered the remains of the veggie burgers, the miso salad and Tofu Surprise--maybe for the last time.
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