The Nomadic Life

Learning to be Me

Chapter 14

“Well, shucks, the world is my oyster, and I have no cocktail sauce,” I think while packing my bags for my next crusade. The road ahead is always wide open, offering endless possibilities. But with this realization comes one fact to consider. There are so many directions one can take, how can I know for sure I am choosing the right path. Will the road I travel down be paved with promise or marred with potholes and roadblocks. It is the uncertainty and the unknown which makes the nomadic lifestyle both thrilling and frightening, ensuring each day will be a new adventure.

Living alone in a big city is like finding myself stranded in the middle of the ocean, no map, no compass, and no guarantee that I will remain afloat for very long. The first thing I learned? No one cares. I am just another face in the crowd, and no one knows or has any reason to care about my struggles. Anonymity can be both a blessing and a curse. I can reinvent myself again, leaving the past behind, and be what or whoever I want to be. The question facing me? Who do I want to be?

Self-isolation becomes an issue. People do not rush to become my friend. The best I can offer anyone in terms of comfort and accommodation is my hotel room. I am unable to host parties, and I cannot invite anyone over without feeling overpowered by the embarrassment I alone placed upon myself.

And then there’s the financial mess I created. I have yet to figure out the most crucial life skill, how to manage my money. Shame keeps me isolated, until I can no longer bear the loneliness. The walls of the small hotel room begin to close in, suffocating me and draining the light from my soul. The distraction of the radio and TV are no longer enough to keep me company. To overcome boredom, I go out at night.

Even though I am practically broke, I find myself in the bars night after night, spending money on beer which offers nothing but a fleeting sense of escape. The next morning, I wake to find I am still alone and now my money’s gone. I stare into an empty wallet and must deal with the repercussions of my choice, and now I am dreading the invadable late rent notice and the ten-dollar late fee I cannot afford. All I can think is, How am I supposed to get ahead when I am always causing myself to scramble?

The vicious cycle continues. I work the graveyard shift at Steak and Egg to cover the rent and to provide myself with the bare essentials. But it’s not enough. The bills keep stacking up. I am a month behind on rent, and in a panic, accept a second job at a clothing factory, shipping out men’s sport coats and women’s formal wear. Running from one job to the next, I only have enough time to shower and change out of my work uniform. With no rest I hope to make it to my next shift on time. Completely exhausted and running on fumes, the bills continue. I have yet to learn how to balance responsibility with the allure of escape. No matter how hard I work, I always seem to find myself behind the eight ball.

And then I hear rumors of a bar on the outskirts of Tupelo, the kind of place that offers freedom to be myself. I am told it is a bar which caters to “my kind,” where behind its closed doors and away from the harsh outside world, they let you be yourself and do not judge. But it’s not without its dangers I am warned. “You can’t let your guard down. Locals are known to keep tabs, writing down license plates, tracking who is from Tupelo and who is from out of town.” As I proudly display a National Guard tag on my car, I am told that alone is enough to make me a target.

Oh, did I not mention that I was once in the National Guard?

Before I left Eupora, I enlisted in the Army National Guard, thinking it would be an easy gig. At the frame mill all the guys swore it was perfect for lazy folks like me. All I would have to do is endure basic training and A.I.T (Advanced Individual Training.) Afterwards I would have to attend one weekend a month at the armory where we all were to hang out and do nothing for a nice check. What could go wrong? Sure, there was two weeks of “summer camp” at Camp Shelby, but my coworkers describe that as, just a two-week-long party.

So, poof. Next thing I know, I am on a plane flying to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, in the late summer.

I won’t bore you with all the details. But let’s just say, being raised by an Army stepdad and having lived on my own since I was sixteen, basic training was easier on me than the rest of the platoon. The drill sergeant’s barking orders just reminded me of my stepdad’s yelling when I was a kid, and the three hots and a cot? I just saw those as yet another sweet perk. As a lot of money was not needed to survive during this time, I would send my remaining balance home, as I only needed money for toiletries and a few beers at the off-base bar on the rare occasion when we were granted a furlough.

Once “the brass” realized and accepted they would not be able to break me as easily as they had the younger ones who had never been away from home before, they left me alone to enjoy this sweet gig.

But the other guys? They were not prepared for what awaited them. Some came from families where the parents had never once raised their voices at them and being yelled at by a big man with a loud voice frightened them into submission. A few were street thugs who thought they could handle anything. After receiving their uniform and buzz cuts, they soon found out the Army did not care about their egos or how tough they thought they were. These large and in charge men turned them into sniveling young boys as well. Many nights I could hear the quiet sobs of homesick kids, their faces buried in their pillows, wishing they could go home.

Completing basic training and AIT was far easier for me than the young men who had no life experience under their belts. I had an advantage, already knowing how to keep my head down and mouth shut. When the sergeant asked who could drive a stick, eager and naive hands shot up. Young men wanting to volunteer in hopes of gaining brownie points with the Staff Sergeants. Me? I kept my hand down and watched their gullible asses reap the rewards of their brown nosing. Instead of being handed keys to a jeep, they were given brooms and mops as the Staff sergeants laughed ordering them to “drive these sticks.”

Once I made it through basic and passed A.I.T, I couldn’t wait to get back home and collect that sweet, sweet “do nothing” check. But life had other plans. A new officer was assigned to our armory, and he didn’t believe in hanging around and watching football. He wanted us to work. This was not the deal I was promised. My coworkers who convinced me to sign up weren’t happy by this new change either, but I was the rookie who never got to experience the lazy version of the National Guard they convinced me to join.

Then came Camp Shelby, two weeks of misery. Drills, calisthenics, endless hiking and no rest even on the weekends. No, this was not what I had envisioned. Being the knowledgeable and stubborn man I am, it took no time to find a way out of the National Guard and within six months of returning home, I received a general discharge under honorable conditions, and that’s how I ended up with a National Guard tag on my car.

I don’t know if my tag was ever noted by the locals, and frankly, I didn’t care. I was figuring life out on my own, and while doing so I started hearing about a bar in Jackson, Mississippi, a place where people ‘like me’ could drink, dance and enjoy being their unapologetic selves. Jackson was a bigger city, with brighter lights, offering not only anonymity but a place where all were accepted. Sure, it was still Mississippi, and I still could not let family or coworkers know my truth, but for a few hours on the weekend, I could live freely.

The nomad in me could not stay in Tupelo any longer. I had to leave and take the chance to explore a new life. The time had come for me to bask in the colorful and gay disco lights of Jackson as they beckon for me.