At eighteen years old I didn’t have much going on. Having just graduated high school by the thinnest of margins1, I spent the summer of 2004 bouncing between jobs at Hollister and Kroger, folding clothes and retrieving carts with the enthusiasm of a man digging his own grave.
During that summer, Spider-man 2 was a runaway hit, Yeah! by Usher filled the airwaves of every radio station, and the US military was balls-deep in Iraq, our just the tip approach from 1990 had apparently been insufficient2. If you were an idle young man in 2004, I’m betting you received a few calls from the local military recruiter.
I sure did.
The military branch most fervently calling me was the US Army and on a hot summer afternoon, I walked in to find a gentleman from the Army sitting at our dining room table with my parents, laughing, and cracking jokes. He wore a wide smile on his wide face as he stood and pulled out a chair, inviting me to sit and discuss my future3.
He extolled the virtues of manhood, touted free college tuition, and mentioned a bonus worth thousands of dollars for those recruited to certain jobs; within the hour becoming my best friend, guidance counselor, and personal savior. When our conversation shifted, as they do with recruiters, to making a commitment, I remained non-committal.
“No problem, bud.” He said, lowering himself into the government issued Chevy Malibu. “Think about it and I’ll give you a call.”
I haven’t answered the phone in nearly twenty years.
While the Army wasn’t for me, the conversation with the recruiter had planted a seed and I began thinking about military service as a viable option. I don’t remember having ambitions outside of leaving Jeffersonville IN, but I don’t think one really needs lofty ambitions to join the military. People sign up for all kinds of reasons, one of my friends in the Navy had been given the choice to join or go to jail and that choice pretty much makes itself, I think.
As the weeks and months passed, 2004 turned into 2005, and one afternoon in January I called an Air Force recruiter, saying I’d like to fix airplanes and was ready to enlist today if that was okay with him.
After a few get-to-know you questions, he began a series of medical questions designed to weed out candidates with issues precluding them from military service. You see, military recruiters deal with an extraordinary amount of bull shit just to keep their recruits on the straight-and-narrow, often handholding for months only for a recruit to get cold feet and back out last minute. Thinning the herd early in the process saves time, headaches, and mountains of paperwork.
“When we spoke on the phone, you never mentioned being blind and missing both arms.” I imagine a recruiter saying, eyes closed and rubbing their temples in exasperation.
“Oh, will that be an issue?” The blind capital ‘I’ would say toward the wall, bags packed for bootcamp and tethered to their torso.
The Air Force recruiter, sounding vaguely disinterested, rattled off questions about tattoos and piercings, how many did I have and where were they. He asked about past surgeries and present illness, reassuring me that the tonsillectomy I had when I was six wasn’t a problem, but he’d need a copy of those medical records. I answered dozens of questions in a yes or no fashion, providing details when prompted. One question, mid-survey, changed the trajectory of my life.
“Have you ever been diagnosed with, and been prescribed medication for, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder?”
“Yes.” I said. “But that was a long time ago, and I haven’t taken medication since middle school.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “You can’t join the Air Force if you have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.”
“Really?” I asked. “Even though it was years ago?”
Suddenly miffed, I was no longer courting multiple suiters like a prized athlete choosing a college from which to accept a scholarship. I had been rejected for a years-old diagnosis.
“Me?” I thought. “An able-bodied young man turned down for military service. And while there’s a war going on? How dare he!”
He said, “Since you told me, I can’t process you into the Air Force.” 4
I remember not knowing what to say and saying nothing, my silent disappointment screamed through the phone and the recruiter added. “If you want to work on airplanes, I’ll take your information to the Navy Recruiter down the hall. The Navy actually has more airplanes than the Air Force.”
“Huh,” I said. “Okay, that sounds good. So, what do I do now?”
“Somebody over there will give you a call. Probably this afternoon if they’re not busy.” He said.
“Okay, thanks.”
“You have a good day.” And the line went dead.
My mother, sitting nearby and not bothering to hide her eavesdropping, asked. “What did they say?”
“I’m not eligible for the Air Force because I took Ritalin in eighth grade so he’s giving my information to the Navy recruiter.”
“Do you want to join the Navy?”
“Maybe.” I added, “The Navy actually has more airplanes than the Air Force.”
“Huh.” She said.
I remember the Navy taking minutes to call, the phone still warm from my call with the Harvard- sorry, the Air Force recruiter.5
I answered the phone. “Stewart residence.”
“Hi,” The voice said, “I’m looking for Benjamin Stewart. Is he available?”
“This is him.”
“This is AO2 Meyer with the US Navy, and I hear you’d like to fix airplanes.”
These conversations took place, like I said, in January of 2005 and sometime around midnight on July 25th of the same year, I arrived at Navy Recruit Training Command just north of Chicago where a red-faced man in a spotless white uniform boarded my shuttle from the airport and screamed “Get off the fucking bus!”
- My mother and a saintly counselor named Ms. Dunn dragged me through senior year. Every class and every scrap of homework was monitored to ensure I turned it in on time. Even so, my GPA was abysmal and I’m shocked the state of Indiana let me walk across that stage. ↩︎
- Yes, I know it’s complicated. ↩︎
- It seemed like my future was being discussed with or without my participation, still I sat. ↩︎
- The lesson here, kids, is that I should have lied. No one would have ever known, and this collection of stories would be called Air Force Days, which admittedly, isn’t as pleasing to the ears. So, cheers to a better title. ↩︎
- Am I still chafed? No, of course not. Not at all. That would be absurd.
↩︎
First published in the Spring 2023 Edition of Voices magazine
Ben Stewart 
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