Life after the military is both exhilarating and intimidating.
I long had aspirations towards a commission or becoming a SNCO, but, given
recent events and policies being implemented, I doubt that I will continue past
my current enlistment. I am in no way insulting or undermining the protectors
of my beloved nation. All throughout my childhood and adolescence, thoughts and
preoccupations with military life rattled around continually in my head. I
initially believed them to be demons that I could never exorcise, the act
itself one borne of futility. Before I was awakened by a sharp jolt of harsh
reality, I believed that I was weak, feeble, and impotent to change my fate,
let alone the next few years of my life as I saw fit. I believed that my very
existence was held to the considerations and machinations of a variety of
external forces, and that my own views, opinions and emotions were largely
immaterial and irrelevant. Looking back as a man, I shudder at my own
insouciance, but I also have to chuckle fondly. At 15, socially awkward, short,
frail, and terrified of women, no matter how much false bravado I sought to
exude, I wanted nothing more than to be a guitarist, whether in a rock band or
on my own, a la Satriani or Vai. I not only lacked the friends, but I was in
sore need of originality. The vast void of post-school life threatened me on a
primordial level, similar to how life outside of the Navy does. I’ve lain awake
for the past few months wondering what I’ll do when my service is up.
I’m not that talented at my job. By my own admission I’m
competent, but I lack passion for the profession. In a shop where a good half
of my coworkers own modified laptops and desktops that they fine tune and
customize with the same relish as a gearhead who’s charitably come into
possession of a 67 Mustang, I am the outlier, the misplaced Luddite adrift in a
sea of tech-savvy hackers. The most powerful, articulate peace of hardware that
I own is my Galaxy S7 smartphone, a gift from my parents. The handy little
device is my loyal assistant, and I run my blog, play online poker, maintain
connections and friendships from all over the world, and manage my money from
the little luminescent rectangle. I’ve used it tirelessly over endless nights,
my only company a glass of iced tea, researching possible financial avenues.
Perhaps I could work in IT. I’m good at certain aspects of my job, and have
taught myself basic coding. The issue is that my talents have been allowed to
fester and atrophy due to other duties being foisted upon me. My tenure in the
military has taught me one thing above all, for which, while it initially
frustrated me to no end, has proven to be my sole consolation. That harsh fact
is that, no matter what, whether machines become superbly advanced and
eventually overcome us in a dystopic nightmare, or our technological prowess is
stunted and our upward ascendance towards digital nirvana is ultimately
stalled, a young man with a strong back and arms is always in demand.
I’ve carried a variety of guns, which I enjoyed profusely,
and I consider those unceasing moments of brotherhood my best year in the Navy.
I’ve looked into private contracting, which I’ve come to find is basically an
extension of the infantry and Special Forces. Although I’ve long admired that
world, and always will, I’ve come to the conclusion that I would be little more
than a hindrance to them given my unfortunate lack of experience over the wire.
Next was an excursion into the benefits of maritime security, which I’ve
undoubtedly performed loads of. Not the way I want to spend my life, but the
money’s there, and, hell, I’d get my guns back. I’ve pretty much accepted by
this point that I’m destined for a career as a blue collar worker, or as a type
of blue/white collar hybrid. I lack the temperament to sit in a sterile, cute
little air conditioned office, performing menial, cyber assembly line work. I’d
rather castrate myself than suffer through forced conversation and gossip by
the water cooler with effeminate, emasculated “men” and corpulent, entitled
women, although the very act would suffice to castrate me in a sense. This is
all for the best, however. I’d rather wear work boots than polished dress
shoes, and Levi’s with a black t-shirt or well-worn flannel will always beat an
overpriced suit. I can’t help but feel I’ve disappointed those who’ve wanted
more for me, yet I can’t muster the shame to apologize, because none exists. It
all comes down to earning potential and the presence of fertile monetary soil
that lends itself to the cultivation of compounding affluence, and this exists
in abundance in a variety of physically arduous jobs. I’ll be fine.
This of course isn’t to say that I won’t be using my head as
well as my hands. Quite contrarily, the career paths that I’ve been offered
entrance to in the private sector while still enlisted are quite magnanimous. When
granted the chance to travel the world, creating network infrastructures and
coding routing protocols, my heart fluttered. The company, which will remain
anonymous, would pay for everything, all expenses completely covered. I’d be
free essentially, earning 6 figures, a wealthy vagabond, free-falling and
floating with no ties to anyone or anything. But, I’ve lived such a life for
far less money, a fraction of that salary, and while it is indeed intense and
preferable, even desirable, loneliness begins to gnaw at my heart after a
prolonged period of wandering. My physique and size alone have drummed up
spontaneous offers for private security for some wealthy business owner or
spoiled foreign national. Bouncing jobs in dive bars around colleges are
legion, and the poker room is always open. No matter which way I follow, I’m
safe in the knowledge that I’m prepared and resilient. I’ve always fantasized about living solely by
my wits, uncertain about steadiness but alive in the flickering, chaotic
moment. Only time will tell.