Oh how I love the internet. I love the fact that so much information is right at my fingertips and I really love that I can still remember how to type. I also love the fact that the internet provides me with the opportunity to reconnect with people I haven't laid eyes on, let alone spoken to, in many years. Thus is the case with good 'ol Wes Johnson.
A few days ago, I decided to delve into the world of Facebook and check out who was eating what for dinner, whose kid made the honor roll, or perhaps even be enlightened to the fact that it's cold outside. I'm always mildly annoyed by those little red numbers at the top of the screen as I get an inordinate amount of game requests, etc. and most of the time I simply ignore them. As usual, I noticed the red numbers, but this time, someone wanted to be my friend. Stop laughing, what's so funny about that? I moved the the mouse as to place the arrow over the number to find out who the mystery person was and clicked. To say that I was blown away would be somewhat of an understatement. I had gotten a friend request from none other than Wesley Johnson.
Wes and I entered the US Air Force in May of 1989 together. Well, almost together. He was from Florida and I was from Virginia of course. But, we arrived at Lackland Air Force Base on the same miserable night. Actually, miserable doesn't properly describe what we going through at the time, but I do know that it was just shy of torture. Nothing is fun when you're wearing the same underwear for the second straight day, your deodorant gave out in Atlanta, and a very large and menacing fellow is yelling profanities in your face at two o'clock in the morning. Strangling my recruiter was at the very top of my list if I ever got out of Basic Training. "Oh, it's not very rough. In fact, lots of people enjoy it, you'll see," he said with a sarcastic grin creeping across his face. Yep, he was definitely in for a strangulation upon my arrival back in Virginia.
We were herded onto an old bus and driven to a cavernous dining hall across the base. "Get your asses in there, eat, and get back out here in five minutes!" sergeant Hodge screamed as we hurried off the bus. For some strange reason, we were required to guzzle three glasses of warm water before we could begin eating. Maybe they were trying to keep us hydrated, or perhaps we looked so pitiful they figured they'd go ahead and poison us and put us out of our misery and theirs. Either way, after the guzzling, I wasn't hungry for the mess of pork and beans that had been splattered onto my tray. I ate anyway.
After we returned to our barracks, we were assigned a bunk, wall locker and told to go to sleep. By then in was early. Really early. Like three-thirty in the morning early. I was never so glad to lie down in all of my eighteen years. Slowly, I drifted off to sleep. "Get up numb nuts!!! I'm your mama now!!! This ain't the Holiday Inn, get moving you pieces of s**t!!!" Sergeant Hodge bellowed from the center isle of the barracks. I still had my watch on, and carefully glanced down and took note of the time. Five o'clock. Strangulation was way to lenient for my recruiter. I would most certainly insert bamboo shoots under his fingernails instead.
In the days to follow, we began to develop a routine, had our heads shaved, which made us look like round lollipops that had been dropped on shag carpet, given uniforms and instructed on how to properly shave. It was then that I first became friends with Wes Johnson. "Now that you no count piss ants know how to shave, I don't EVER want to catch you with as much as a strand of hair on your face! Got it?!!! the overgrown drill instructor growled.
"Sir, yes sir!" we screamed in unison.
It should be noted that even during the so called down times, we were a collection of nervous wrecks. Thankfully, we were able to keep our nerves in check, and function well enough to carry out most of the tasks required by the Air Force. Shaving would prove to be a time of utmost necessity in keeping calm. On our first 'official' attempt at shaving our tender faces, I found myself staring into a latrine mirror and the guy staring back appeared to be a bald headed shell of my former self. To my right was Airman Heigle. To his right stood Wesley Johnson. I didn't know either of their names, but would soon know them very well. Quickly and without hesitation, we lathered our faces and began the shaving sequence that Sgt. Hodge had demonstrated earlier that day. "Ouch, oh..." came a series of sounds emanating from my immediate right side. Heigle had apparently removed a pimple or had simply cut himself as a stream of blood slowly ran down his cheek and splashed into the sink. Apparently, the other side of his face hadn't fared much better based on the look on Wesley's face as I could see him occasionally grimace at the sight of poor Heigle. By the time we'd finished shaving, the pitiful soul looked as though he had the lead role in the latest Friday the 13th installment. He was a bloody mess. "Man, did you see that guy's face?" I asked the guy to Heigle's right as we exited the latrine.
"Yeah, he's all tore up. I feel sorry for him honestly. I'm Wes Johnson by the way," he answered as we headed back to the bunk area to don our uniforms.
"I'm Neil Fix, glad to meet you."
When we were satisfied that our uniforms were on correctly, we scurried down the steps, and out the door to line up in formation. Suddenly, everyone began chuckling, although they were trying their level best not to. I wondered what was so funny. Then I saw him. Heigle.
Poor Heigle had tiny, blood soaked squares of toilet paper dotting almost every square inch of his face. I had only been in the Air Force for a few days, but I was sure that toilet paper stuck to your face simply wasn't going to please Sgt. Hodge. It didn't. Before that day, I had heard of a human conniption, but had never seen one. Honestly, I don't ever want so see another one. Sgt. Hodge went into a complete and utter rampage. Poor Heigle had been reduced to a puddle of mush
on the concrete drill pad. Our bloody comrade disappeared from our flight a short while later, never to be seen again. I had hoped that they mercifully sent him home, but part of me wondered if Sgt. Hodge and all his anger had killed the poor soul.
The shaving incident was my first encounter with Wes. We became fast friends and to be honest, I think the fact that we became such good friends made life a little easier and tolerable. We finally graduated from basic training and he went to Texas, and I went north to Illinois. We kept in touch briefly after that, but as most people do, we lost touch. I looked for him several times over the years, but never had any luck. Do you know how many Wesley Johnsons there are in the world? Plenty. Thankfully, good 'ol Wes found me on Facebook and I'm truly happy about that. It's a wonderful feeling to be in touch with my friend after nearly twenty-six years. Maybe I'll call him and find out if he's been addressed as numb nuts lately.
But first, I wonder if I can find my recruiter? I've got a little unfinished business with him.
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