Sale Price

On this side of the ledger, one is subject to run across those instances wherein drastic times will call for drastic measures. At the going rate these days, that's par for the course. But lack of discernment can take one just a little too far over the edge—to the point of no return in fact. In the following story, Charles Androne's cohort Interlichia held that truth to be self-evident.

Chapter One

Chutzpah And The Fool

Although not the standard, my choosing to enlist in The United States Navy at such an advanced age didn't meet with the resistance that I expected. Being a Seaman recruit three years shy of The Big 3-Oh! was bound to be a talking point within the family —and probably everywhere else. But by that point, mom and dad were tediously resigned to the notion that their little drummer boy was hell-bent on marching to his own beat and due to our financial situation, my girlfriend Pauline felt we had nothing to lose anyway. So the way I figured it, if there was any variance to be at odds with, it would be of that from within.

I’d been receiving Navy literature through the mail since I was a sophomore in high school but always casually dismissed the notion of following in my family's footsteps. My dad served. His brother served. My grandfather rose from the ranks of Seaman to become a stellar Officer in The Navy—a rare feat indeed. But the pageantry of becoming a decorated war veteran fell short of me so the decision to NOT become one was never a hard one.

Times changed however and I changed with it, and after awhile I began to warm up to the idea of carrying on the family name. Being a third generation sailor wouldn’t be so bad after all. The time to enlist and finally stop running was upon me.

My score on the ASVAB pretty much qualified me for any rate of my choosing. I was never a slow leak, just pressed for ambition. When I perused the list of available rates, the grandeur and conceit of becoming an Intelligence Specialist sounded too tantalizing to pass up. And to boot, I found out that they were actually offering er . . . a $20,000 bonus to sign up, so again I found myself face to face with a decision that I definitely wasn't split on. Hell it was already spent before it ever hit direct deposit! A surprise I couldn't have found more pleasant.

A Few Weeks Later

With boot camp behind me, I was off to military school on my way to becoming what the fleet affectionately termed an “IS.” The distinction had a nice ring to it and even inclined me to believe that maybe—just maybe—Pops would be proud.

School would commence and it was time for business. It started out well enough: a score of ninety on my first test, an eighty-seven on my next, forging right ahead with the mien of the patriotic, flag-waving sailor Pops would have gushed over. Upon entering the program, each student was provided a brand new Moleskine notebook for note-taking. I took so many notes that first week that the instructor had to give me another. I had actually found something that piqued my interest and I was feeling pretty good about it.

The department head took a shine to me as well: Lieutenant Betancourt was his name. I wasn’t the traditional recruit in terms of age. I was a full ten years or so older than the other guys and I guess being closer in age to Lieutenant aided in my racking up cool points perhaps. He would give me the kind of advice that was congruent to the experiences only had by someone who was nearing thirty. He was so instrumental to me in ways that transcended the obvious.

A few more weeks passed and things began to take a deviant turn. Momentum gained through the first month of Intelligence School was no longer my salvation and my lagging grades threw into sharp relief an apparent disconnect. I didn’t have high test scores to hang my hat on anymore. All of a sudden, being an Intelligence Specialist had become regrettable. Even caught myself doodling aimlessly in my notebook one day . . . notes that assuredly had nothing to do with Signals Intelligence or Order of Battle.

I had been ASMO’d more times than you could have shaken a stick at and frankly I was just waiting honestly for the day Lieutenant Betancourt summoned me to his office to discuss the matter. Getting ASMO’d after so many times was the precursor to his looking you dead in the eye to tell you that you weren’t quite cut out for The Navy. I had heard horror stories about it. ASMO’d is basically when they roll you back in training when it’s apparent that you aren’t learning at the same rate as your peers. It’s their way of compassion of sorts in giving one yet another chance to exhibit The Navy core values of Honor, Courage, and Commitment as a means of proving that you indeed belong amongst their ranks after all. But in doing so, one is on borrowed time. No one has forever to keep messing up. At least not in the military. After the third time getting set back, I knew . . . I knew how the next morning was going to go.

The next morning came and we filed into class per the usual and thirty minutes might have passed when the instructor whispered in my ear to go see Lieutenant. I never understood why he didn’t do it sooner. I got up and made the trek to his office and normally his door remained closed whether he was inside or not. On this particular morning, it was ajar. No doubt open because he was prepared to tell me what recent weeks had groomed me to believe: you aren’t quite what we're looking for. I reached his office and through the crack in the door, he saw me. He was already looking in my direction. He was surprisingly informal, which was odd. No need for decorum while talking to a flunkee I reckon.

“Come in . . . have a seat.”

“WOW!” I remember thinking. “Now this is different.” He normally greeted me by name.

I walked in and strolled to the seat of his instruction, right before standing at attention. But I was so frazzled, I didn’t receive his order. I continued to stand.

“Take a seat, shipmate,” he said this time with a slightly lower-pitched baritone.

“When I say sit . . . you sit.”

“Yes Sir!”

He spoke. . . .

“Seaman Androne, you’re a good kid. The way you carry yourself, your professionalism is exactly what we’re looking for in Our Navy. I feel that you will have a good career with us.”

I was beginning to feel a little of that pompous swag coming back. Yes I’d probably set the record for getting ASMO’d but surely if they gave me one more shot, I’d be able to readjust and get it right this time.

He continued, “But it won’t be as an Intelligence Specialist.” I knew the words were coming, but my heart sank anyway.

Now I was going to be reclassified which meant I had to toil through the protocol once more of selecting another job; assuming there were any left. Plus I’d probably lose my enlistment bonus.

“Yes sir,” I said. “I understand.”

“Now shipmate normally when a sailor is separated from the rate and reclassified, they go to the fleet undesignated. But I’m not going to do that to you.”

And what a relief! Going to the fleet undesignated is probably only a few pegs above Hell I often heard. You can be relegated to menial jobs ranging from sweeping up paint chips to washing dishes.

“You’re what we need and I feel you have more to offer than what you gave here. Hey man, Intel isn’t for everybody. Don’t get down about it. It can be a tough rate. I feel you’ll be fine though.”

My hunch was pretty much spot on because of the remaining rates that were available, nothing really suited my interest save one maybe: Master-At-Arms; military speak for police. School for it was in San Antonio, Texas on Lackland Air Force Base. In my mind it was the only choice because it too came with an enlistment bonus so with that incentive, I could just slide right in and wouldn't be obligated to fork over the bonus I had received when I signed up for Intel. Paperwork regarding the transition was signed off on in quick order and it wasn't long before I was headed to The Lone Star State.

Chapter Two

The Grass Isn't Always Green

A Year Later

I was a little bummed out over how Intel ended up for me but with law enforcement, I fell right into my purpose. My being a weekend warrior—reservist—I still had to make ends meet as a civilian, so I joined the police force in my hometown. And I enjoyed it immensely.

One day while on patrol, I happened upon a vehicle that appeared broken down on the highway. As I crept up to it, out from the other side sprung up my buddy Paige from Intel school. He was only changing his tire. He lived in the next county over and he was passing through. We had struck up a pretty cool friendship as students.

We engaged in small talk and exchanged numbers.

“How you been buddy?” he asked while wiping sweat from his brow.

“I’ve been good brother. I’m one of the finest in the county now as you see," I said laughing as I stroked my ego.

“Hadn’t seen you since Intel, Charles.”

“Yea when I got kicked out, we kinda lost track of one another,” I said in response.

“Hey . . . you know that guy Interlichia who sat across from you in class?” Paige asked.

“The guy from Wyoming?” I quizzically inquired.

“Yep!”

“Yea what about him?”

“Bro he was selling secrets.”

“Get the heck out of here!” I said flabbergasted.

“Yes sir,” Paige said, “the $20,000 bonus we got to sign up, they say he was using it to fund terrorist activities.”

“Paige you know come to think of it, I remember him complaining about how he never had any money back in school but saying that it would all be behind him one day. I just chalked it up to idle jibber jabber.”

“Nah man, heard he accepted cash from an undercover agent more than once. That sealed his fate. He always did strike me as a little strange. His trial isn’t looking good. He’ll probably get convicted. If he does, he’s facing a long time behind bars.”

“Sheesh . . . well it only serves him right Paige. You can’t go around betraying the country bro. Why couldn’t he do like everyone else who’s broke and just make an honest living?”

“I don’t know Charles but he’ll probably have plenty of time to think about it.”

“You right!”

Time was passing by the second and I had to get back to the station. Besides, I’m sure Paige had better things to do besides hear me babble.

“You good with your tire bro?”

“Yea I’m good,” he confirmed.

“Ok I gotta ride but I’m gonna give you a ring. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Sounds good!”

He took off and I did too and I was left pondering what in hell Pops would have thought if I’d sold out like Interlichia.

Thank God we’ll never know!