Strange interactions.

I am not a male model. If you’ve ever seen me, you’ll render this claim as undeniable as if I were to say, I am not Santa Claus, or I am not a mongoose. I am neither of those things and I am also not a male model. Which is Ok. I’ve come to terms with it. Although, nothing makes me feel less like Santa Claus or a Mongoose and more like a male model than the way I look in the dressing rooms at Kohl’s. 

They must have highly trained engineers come in and design these rooms with just the precise lighting fixtures, calculating the exact wattage needed, which combined with the sheen off the mirror, transforms the reflection of an Average Joe into a Hunky pile of man meat. When I see myself in those mirrors I like what I see. I mean, I look good. Almost too good. So good I fear for my safety and well-being. My knowledge of the law is rudimentary at best but I figure it’s gotta be illegal to be this sexy. And not only do I have to worry about the cops but also of the flocks of females likely waiting for me in the parking lot. I’ll have to sprint to my car to avoid all the wild, sex-crazed, maniacal women lunging at my genitals and showering me with their panties. 

But I won’t allow my head to balloon up with an inflated sense of desirability. Not again. I’ve fallen victim to these mirrors before. It’s the same song and dance every time. By the time you make it home and try on the shirt for a second time, it’s as massive a disappointment as the finished product on a microwaveable dinner. Your mouth waters while examining the picture of a scrumptious looking Chicken Parmesan on the Lean Cuisine box, but once you pull the steaming hot tray out of the microwave, the succulent, juicy chicken breast you thought you’d be eating appears, dry, flavorless, cold and somehow also overcooked. 

I know now that while standing before this mirror in this dressing room, I may appear to be a legit snack, while in reality I most likely better resemble last week’s leftovers. I know this now. 

But at the time, I was a young, vain, impressionable 18 year old kid, whose top priorities were being cool, keeping it real and looking real cool. I was fresh out of high school working as a pizza delivery driver and like most 18 year olds, I had a lot of free time. Free time I spent socializing and partying as much as possible. Mingling, meeting new people, getting fucked-up, and, graciously accepting compliments on my crispy new T-shirts. 

Of course, the same T-shirt size discrepancy always presents itself. As far as T-shirt sizes go, medium and large, which represent 70% of consumers, often jump too much between the two sizes. This is especially apparent at Kohl’s as the folks at the Urban Pipeline clothing company seem to lump all men into two categories. You’re either a David Spade or a Chris Farley body type. There is no in between. Which puts me in quite the quandary. Do I go with the medium which fits a little more snugly than I’d prefer on the off chance that it won’t shrink a bit, or do I opt for the much larger shirt, the one that makes me look like a toddler, on the off chance that it will shrink abundantly, and may actually fit? Of course, the third, and most regrettable option, is to forgo the purchase altogether which only gives me seven minutes to search for a replacement. 

I allow myself fifteen minutes in clothing stores to locate whatever fetching piece of garment happens to attract my attention. Fifteen minutes, and it’s already been eight. To make matters worse, I have $20 of Kohl’s cash that expires tomorrow. I have seven minutes remaining to find a new addition to my wardrobe.  Once my time has elapsed, I leave, as it simply wasn’t to be. My process is methodical. I enter the store, head straight towards the men’s department and continue moving, never stopping to browse or mingle, always on the go, traversing through the clothing racks with the tenacity of a Great White shark stalking a school of otters. Starting in the middle, I move outward in concentric circles, swiveling my head from side-to-side until something reaches out and tickles my fancy. If by the end of the fifteen minutes, nothing has tickled my fancy, I leave, and my fancy remains untickled. Numb and dull, feeling no sensations whatsoever. I head toward the parking lot. My fancy yearning for a tickling. 
I exited the dressing room, taking note of the time with one shirt in my left hand reserved as a “Maybe” and the two different sized shirts in my right hand, hoping I’d make a decision on which one to choose by the time I made it back to the rack to return one when I was startled by the presence of an unexpected visitor. 

An army man. A marine, to be more specific.  Semper Fi. But I didn’t know that yet. I was 18. I didn’t know who was what in terms of serviceman. All I saw was an army man in an army uniform. An intimidating figure. And he was looking right at me like he was waiting for me. He was short, but also big. Not stout, but compact. If I had to guess, I’d say he was 5’6” 190 pounds. A pint size, cube of muscles and aftershave with jet black hair, cut razor thin, a rugged jaw line, piercing blue eyes and a neck as thick as a Redwood. He stood before me with rigid posture, his hands folded into each other at his waistline, with a uniform so crisp and clean, you couldn’t detect a speck of lint with a telescope. “Young man,” he shouted more loudly than was necessary. “Have you given any thought into serving your country and joining the marines?” 

Now, I’ve been caught off guard plenty of times in my life. I once encountered a woman at Costco with a service kangaroo. A cab driver once asked me if I knew how to get any heroin while flying down the interstate at an alarmingly fast speed. I once ran into Daryl Strawberry right by the strawberries in the produce section of a grocery store. But I can’t think of a more random occurrence than the one you’re currently reading. 

Had I given any thought into joining the marines? No, I can honestly say that I hadn’t.  Enlisting in the Marines was the furthest thing from my mind. I wasn’t even sure if I could pull off a V-neck shirt yet. How was I expected to make a massive, life-changing commitment like joining the military. I had seen, “Full Metal Jacket” and that was enough to alienate me from that lifestyle forever. The notion of all my insecurities being exploited and eviserated by an irate drill seargant in an attempt to mold me into a cold-blooded, merciless killing machine, seemed like it would be both horrible and ineffective. Not only would I hate every second of it,  but I’d probably also become increasingly unfocused, distraught, and self-conscious. How am I supposed to drive a tank over a bunch of Palestinian children with the constant distraction of whether or not my camouflage was unflattering or if my crew cut made me look gay. 

At this point, I realized hadn’t said anything at all for about thirty seconds. I was speechless. A typical reaction to being caught off guard. After encountering the service kangaroo, I didn’t speak for eleven days. I had seen army recruiters before. They used to stand behind a table with pamphlets on it in the high school cafeteria. There was a recruiting office next door to the Subway I’d go to on occasion. And I had one call my house before. Thank god for Caller ID. At least in that scenario, I could pretend not to be home. However, there was no escaping this conversation, as much as I desperately wanted to. Not wanting Army man to mistake my silence for contemplation, I forced myself to mumble these three words,

 “No thanks, man.” 

Those three words, must have been the detonation code for the chamber of fury and outrage that lay dormant in Army man’s soul. An unlit furnace waiting for its opportunity to explode onto the earth, decimating anything in its path.

“I guess you just want to sit in your mom and dad’s basement all day long playing video games and eating Funjuns!” Army man snarled with a sharp and intense vigor. Quiet enough not to raise suspicion from Kohl’s security but fierce enough to scare the ever living shit out of me. His face tense, nostrils flaring, eyebrows etched into a permanent slant, eyes fixed on me with a gaze so menacing it would have made Medusa blush. “At some point you’re going to have to grow up! Can’t play video games in Mom’s basement the rest of your life. Time to get a job! Be a man!” 

For the second time, he’s mentioned video games. I don’t even play video games. Nor do I eat Funjuns. It’s almost like his whole speech was intended for somebody else. Plus, I had a job. A good one. I made lots of tip money delivering pizza. Although in hindsight, telling that to Army man was a error in judgment. As it only threw more fuel on the inferno of rage boiling inside of him. 

“What a fucking loser you are!” He snapped. “Waste of oxygen! That’s what you are!” He added with his fists clenched and chest puffed out like he was ready to absorb a cannonball blast. 

Now, I’m not an expert in reading body language, but it seemed pretty obvious at that point that Army man wanted to something terrible to me like fashion an open bear trap around my neck on a timer that would clamp my face off unless I found the key, or stick me in a maze lined with barbed wire and watch me rip myself apart trying to escape. I had just seen the movie, “Saw” a few days earlier and still hadn’t processed my emotions. 

The more plausible action for him would be to fold me up like an accordion and slam me on the ground, leaving me half the size of my current self, which would help me with my T-shirt dilemma but wouldn’t bode well for my low threshold for pain. I knew I needed to do something fast, so I side stepped once to the left then spun back to the right in a slippery maneuver that left Army man frozen in the mud. Although, looking back, I’m fairly sure he didn’t try to stop me, but I like to think I would have gotten around him even if he had. 

With one minute remaining, I reached the checkout counter with one V-neck shirt in my hands. This was it. I was finally doing it. Upon being handed my receipt, I politely thanked the cashier and cautiously walked into the parking lot, knowing that he still might be out there, lurking in the bushes, waiting for his chance to pounce. What was with him anyway? Why was he such a dick? So I declined his offer, so what. Surely, that can’t be the first time that’s happened. What kind of emotionally unstable operation was this guy running. Joining the military is a huge commitment. Huge. And after hearing the word, “No” once, he immediately went on the offensive. No second attempt was ever even made to entice me to reconsider. It took several minutes of convincing for me to sign up for The Kohl’s credit card. Yet, this guy thought I jump at the opportunity for four years of combat, a lifetime of PTSD and possible death. Just so we’re clear, I’m not against the military. I’m simply against me being in the military. 

Twenty years later, I can still say with confidence that I made the right decision.  It never would’ve worked. 
As I pulled out of my parking spot and turned down the row to the main road I saw him standing along the sidewalk on the far edge of the building smoking a cigarette. Even from a distance, I could tell that he was still brooding from my rejection of his offer, and as I passed him by, he glared into the car with the same look of contempt, that terrified me minutes earlier outside of that dressing room. 
On the drive home, I pondered over that interaction wondering if perhaps I did anything to provoke him. I replayed the whole ordeal over and over again in my head and couldn’t find any cause for his overreaction. Unless of course, it wasn’t an overreaction at all, but rather the same sales pitch he gives to everybody. An unconventional approach that I highly doubt is effective. Like, Good cop, bad cop, without the good cop. Army man’s strategy seemed to be to berate recruits into signing contracts under duress. I wondered how often that worked and became skeptical that it ever did. Then for a brief moment, I felt bad for Army man. Here was a guy who was just trying to do his job. Maybe he had a mean boss. Maybe he was under performance probation, and was in desperate need of a recruit to meet his quota. Maybe that day was the last straw and he knew he’d be fired upon returning to the office that day, yet again, empty-handed. This wouldn’t excuse his behavior. But it could potentially explain it. 

Years later, at a Super Bowl party, the doorbell rang, and the host of the party asked if I could answer it for him while he ran off to get his wallet. Not wanting to miss any commercials, I briefly considered passing that responsibility on to somebody else, but ultimately decided to do what was asked of me. And I’m glad I did, because when I opened that door,  guess who I saw standing there, muscles bulging, rugged jaw line,  jet black hair peeking out the top of a visor, holding a Pizza Hut bag? 

Just kidding. That part never happened. Would’ve been funny it did though. Can you imagine!