The Stupid Universe Strikes Back ... Four Years After I Stupidly Offended It

As an expert in offending the universe, take it from me—when it’s time for payback, the universe is mean.

A little over four years ago, I found myself in Montgomery, Alabama.  That fact alone is not why I’m in the universe’s debt—hell, if anything, it should be the other way around.  No, my date with fate stems from an experience I had at Officer Training School in the aforementioned Montgomery, Alabama.  Our class was divided into six “flights” made up of about a dozen students.  The people in my flight were obviously smart, because they nominated me to be the flight’s candidate for the class top graduate or homecoming queen or some other award that, clearly, was based on a combination of looks and popularity.  The nominees from the six flights had to endure an interview by a board of cantankerous majors and lieutenant colonels who surely were wondering why their careers had gone so badly that they were interviewing dweeby lieutenants for a pointless award. 

This is the guy who made the world's
greatest trophy.  My trophy.

Of course, I didn’t think it was pointless at the time.  In fact, I wanted to win that thing, and not just because there were rumors that the trophy was one of those wooden ships inside a bottle.  Or maybe it was a bronzed eagle head.  The rumors were a little vague.  Anyway, the trophy notwithstanding, I also wanted to win the award because (1) I am competitive, stemming from a deep-rooted insecurity about the size of my Adam’s apple and (2) I wanted to impress my first boss.  I imagined placing that ship-in-a-bottle or bronzed eagle’s head on my desk as my boss whispered to my awe-struck co-workers, “Wow, he was the OTS homecoming queen!  And that ship-in-a-bottle really compliments his Adam’s apple, don’t you think?”  So almost needless to say, I was determined to win … and I knew the key would be acing the interview.

I assumed the interview would be a cake walk for an accomplished attorney like myself.  I mean, good grief, I had argued a case in Ohio appellate court, charmed an Air Force colonel into recommending me for a commission despite having a felony murder conviction on my record, and made nerds from Stanford cry at the National Moot Court national championships.  Charming three or four field grade officers sitting on an awards board would almost be too easy.  I even thought about wearing Groucho glasses and a fake moustache just to even the playing field, but I figured my gesture would be misinterpreted as mocking what was a solemn award.  So instead, I prepped for the interview like I was about to argue before the Supreme Court.  My instructor even worked with me on my salute, which, by the time of the interview was so perfect, so manly that I later would become the model for those “The Few, the Proud, the Marines” commercials.

On the day of the interview, I made sure my hair and uniform looked spiffier than Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men.  I went over my reporting instructions and a couple of canned responses to some questions I was sure I’d be asked.  When it was my turn to be interviewed, I knocked on the door, ran through my reporting statements with ease, and took my seat.  I don’t remember the first few questions, but I know I was killing ’em.  The people who were there told me later that I was so smooth that I made Obama sound like George W. Bush.

Then they asked The Question.  You’re a commander, one particularly crabby major on the panel said, and your entire unit is deploying.  An airman in your unit is married, and his wife is going to give birth to their first child during the deployment.  He’s upset.  What do you do?

“Run!” should have been the first thing that came to my mind, or even “Submit your separation papers dummy!”  But by the time I was being interviewed, I had sat through nearly five weeks of straight-up brainwashing.  I mean, I was ready to put on some black sneakers, climb in my bunk bed, and go and see the aliens.  I couldn’t get the Kool-Aid smile off my face.  By the end of OTS, I was ready to volunteer for five-year deployments, court-martial my subordinates for getting their hair cut during normal duty hours, and get the lyrics to the Air Force song tattooed on my butt (the placement of which would ensure compliance with AFI 36-2903).  So I stupidly said the following, and unfortunately I’m not making this up:

“Well, I’d tell him that we all signed up to be in the Air Force, we’re all volunteers, and we knew it was a possibility we’d have the opportunity to serve our great country against her enemies.  I’d tell him that I can relate to how he feels, because I have three children and being there when they were born were three of the happiest moments of my life, and boy, it would be tough to miss out on that.  But we did sign up for this.”

I’m going to be totally honest with you—even I felt like punching myself in the neck as soon as I said this.  I still feel like punching myself in the neck four years later.  But hey, I told them what I thought they wanted to hear and, damn it, if that was going to get me that ship-in-a-bottle, I could always punch myself in the neck later. 

Only I didn’t win the award.  In fact, in announcing the winner, the board president specifically noted that Lt Eberle hadn’t just told the board what one might think they wanted to hear.  I felt that particular comment was aimed directly at me, at which point I hid my Adam’s apple in shame.  I also commented to a classmate that, clearly, too much emphasis was placed on a stupid interview. 

Eh, it was an ugly trophy anyway.

As Lt Eberle went on the stage to collect her bronzed eagle’s head (I was relieved to see that it was not a ship-in-a-bottle and that it was a particularly ugly bronzed eagle’s head, which would not have gone on my fireplace mantel anyway), I figured that was it.  That the universe had extracted a little payback for my shameless pandering.  That my inability to suggest a more humane approach, like trying to ensure my Airman had access to Skype or even a satellite phone, resulted in an embarrassing loss, all because I decided to regurgitate a bunch of patriotic hooey instead of actually use my brain.

Turns out, the universe was just getting started.  It also turns out that I’m the Airman who is going to miss out on a child’s birth.  Any day now, I will receive an email from my very pregnant wife, informing me she has gone into labor.  I will then obsessively check my email for the news that I’m the father of a healthy, baby girl.  If everything works out, I’ll be able to Skype with my new daughter shortly after she comes into the world.  At the very least, I’ll have a satellite phone handy.

And if anyone tells me that hey, we signed up for this, I will definitely punch him in the neck.