SIX MINUTES

Chapter Ten from Dirt Merchant

Graduation felt heavy. Commencement behind me. Boot camp months away. The recruiter called weekly, checking for hesitation. Each time, he sounded lighter, almost teammate-like, asking about run times, pull-ups, sit-ups, and push-ups, ending with, “You’re still good to go, right?” 

We had one phone in the house—a rotary faded from white to yellow—mounted between the dining room and the kitchen, resting on the phone book. Mom’s address book sat tucked behind it, off-limits. From the living-room sofa, I stared at the phone and rehearsed calling him, my mouth already practicing retreat. 

I never dialed. 

I wasn’t going to be one of those older guys still circling high-school parties, hitting on girls who hadn’t learned to say no. 

Robby and I called our town the vacuum—nothing moved, everything stalled. Graduation felt less like arrival than burial. Cap toss, handshake, smiles—a show already ending. I stood in the heat with a practiced smile, diploma in hand, while people tossed out future talk like stage dressing. 

That summer, Guns N’ Roses ran through everything. 

Welcome to the Jungle blasted from Camaros, arcades, even the parking lot outside the recruiting office—its snarl promising danger and deliverance in the same breath. 

I heard it again at boot camp—leaking from other bays, the only place music slipped through since we weren’t allowed it. 

There, it wasn’t an invitation.

It was a warning. 

I was proud to graduate alongside my childhood friends. We grew up racing BMX bikes, skiing, sneaking into the drive-in, raiding ski lodges in winter when vacationers left beer on decks. We climbed up, snagged a few, toasted our luck. We slow-danced with teenage crushes to Bryan Adams, slipped into Grateful Dead shows at Alpine Valley, covered for each other when trouble hit. 

They buffered me when home or school closed in—proof that belonging didn’t have to hurt. 

Right before the ceremony, we stood outside the main entrance and sang Jet Airliner by the Steve Miller Band. We knew the lyrics by heart. 

Goodbye wearing nostalgia. 

A few days later, a VHS tape flickered blue in the basement. Recruits lost names to numbers. A drill instructor shouted like a priest in reverse—ritual erasing identity. 

My name hovered at the edge of the screen, waiting to be taken. 

I had never seen anything like it. 

While friends packed for dorms and electives, I trained to fight a war I hadn’t seen: three-mile runs under eighteen minutes, twenty pull-ups, sixty push-ups, one hundred sit-ups. 

During those silent push-ups, childhood surfaced—someone calling me in for dinner—my arms locking as if the floor could answer. 

Sweat dripped onto the basement carpet. 

Each drop was rehearsal. 

Charlie should have been there.

Still laughing. Still alive. 

I carried him anyway. 

He always talked shit—hallway, blacktop, wherever we met. He’d check the ball hard into my chest, grin wide, waiting. I’d catch it and fire it straight back. He’d smile—that big, open smile—and we’d goof until someone yelled “next game.” 

He made pressure playful. 

That’s what I carried into the basement. 

-

August 15, 1988.

Humid. Scorcher. 

I helped draw the shades. A hug followed—words meant to steady. Mom’s voice trembling on resolve. A government Chevy idled in the driveway. 

As we pulled away, the house shrank in the mirror—smaller, unreachable. 

I raised my hand to wave. It froze—caught between boy and Marine. 

At the Military Entrance Processing Station, the air rattled with vents and dot-matrix printers. Recruits in street clothes clutched manila envelopes, futures folded in triplicate. 

DD Form 4.

DD Form 1966.

Transfer made official. 

Rows of metal chairs lined the hallway like pews before a different kind of Mass. Sweat gathered between my shoulder blades. 

Names were called. Eighteen-year-olds disappeared behind frosted doors to learn who they would be allowed to become. 

The walls were crowded with symbols—eagle, globe, and anchor. Jump wings. Aircraft frozen mid-bank. Men waist-deep in swamps, rifles up. 

Jeans. A blue polo washed the night before. Brand-new Tiger running shoes squeaking on linoleum. A driver’s license and a folded twenty-dollar bill in my pocket—as if contingency could be folded that small. 

When my turn came, my throat went dry. 

“Helicopter mechanic’s full.” 

Closed for the quarter. 

A new form rolled into the platen. 

Open Contract. 

“You can retest or pick another field—we need a decision in six minutes.” 

Six minutes to redesign my life. 

The room narrowed to the clock, the form, and the man controlling both. 

My pulse climbed into my throat and stayed there. 

The clock hung where I could not ignore it. 

My stomach dropped. Heat climbed my neck. I focused on holding steady—keeping my face neutral. 

I’d enlisted on my own. 

I searched for the recruiter. He stood off to the side, posture crisp, distance measured. 

No one needed to say anything. 

“Can I wait for a slot to reopen?” 

He let the silence answer for him. 

“Open contract lets you list duty-station preferences. Camp Pendleton’s nice—ocean view.” 

He said it like he was helping me. 

No force needed. 

Time joined the pressure. 

I signed before I could object. 

They called it the lottery. Infantry. Engineers. Military police.

By the time they told you where you were going, you already belonged to them.

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