Noah Cicero - The Collected Works of Noah Cicero Vol. I

Then the man yelled several more times.

They made several fancy movements and finally, all at the same time, lined up their bodies in perfect precision, facing us with their legs apart and hands on their sides.

Carl and I were terrified.

There were a thousand young men just like me and him standing there on the hot concrete.

The thing that terrified me the most was that the ceremony was at least an hour long.

For the whole hour the young men just like me and Carl were standing there without moving, for an hour.

No fidgeting.

No scratching of the crotch.

Nothing.

No movement.

They stood in the exact same position for one hour straight without moving.

They were like robots.

The only time they moved was when the drill instructor gave a command, and then they would all move like perfectly synchronized robots.

It was terrifying!

That night my childhood friend who I grew up with.

Who enjoyed literature, music, and was very sensitive, told Carl and I about how the drill instructors would hit him, how fighting amongst each other if one didn’t do their work right was encouraged.

How the drill instructors would make them guzzle water till they vomited.

That the drill instructors wouldn’t let them piss, so they would piss themselves.

How every recruit, no matter how big they were, was driven to tears at least once.

How young men constantly tried to kill themselves.

But he said it like it was normal. You could see the terror in his face when describing boot camp, but there was no concrete realization of the horror of it.

Carl and I sat there terrified, listening to him speak of Marine boot camp.

The shit they demanded of them was humiliating and painful.

We both wondered why any human would put themselves into that situation and why they would not leave that situation if they made the mistake of getting into it.

My childhood friend came out of boot camp a completely new person.

First his body was turned into pure muscle, which he was very proud of.

He used to be proud of his paintings and the songs he made up, but now he was proud of his muscles.

His brain took a turn for the worse. He became very nervous, high strung, in a constant state of tension.

If things were not exact, he would freak out.

For example:

Carl and I drove him back to Ohio, and at a gas station I pumped like $22.64 of gas into the tank. I didn’t mind not hitting an even number because I knew I was gonna buy some snacks and something to drink while I was in there.

But my childhood friend had a freak-out. “You’re supposed to hit an even number when getting gas. Why didn’t you just stop at twenty-two dollars?”

He looked at me and sounded like he wanted to punch my face in for that.

There were other little incidents but I don’t remember them.

He was so used to sameness and everybody doing the same thing.

If someone didn’t do something exactly the way he did, he freaked out.

Marine boot camp doesn’t break a person down and rebuild them as a Marine.

No, it breaks them down and teaches them to keep themselves down.

It makes them terrified of those different from them, and makes them terrified to make their own choices.

Some of the most terrified and broken people I’ve ever met in my whole life are Marines.

They usually are separated into those two groups.

The broken.

The terrified.

There are the terrified ones who spend their whole lives placing everyone they meet into neat little categories.

Beating up people in bars and their family members and usually being racist and just a dick.

The broken Marines are different though.

They grew to hate the Marine Corps.

All the sameness and the turning of humans into objects pissed them off.

A lot entered combat and realized what humans are capable of doing to other humans.

A lot of them still call themselves Marines, but it is only to give some definition to their identity and to get the free breakfasts at the local veterans club.

I’ve met a good amount of broken ex-Marines and most of them are pleasant and fun to be around.

There are a good amount who are really broken though. My childhood friend is now a schizophrenic, cuts his own hair, is a drug addict, carries an umbrella around with him when there is no chance of rain, and has told people that he is the messiah, and he eats raw ground chuck because he thinks it is good for him.

In the winter of 2002, I took a trip to New York City.

I was in the Bowery.

It was five in the afternoon.

I was dressed in a cheap leather brown coat.

Had a hooded sweatshirt on with the sleeves popping out from the arms of the coat.

Unshaved.

Had on a cheap stocking cap and blue jeans.

And a pair of worn-out Reeboks.

I had two hundred dollars in my pocket.

I walked into a bar to get a drink.

You can drink all day in New York City because taxis will drive you everywhere.

I liked that about the city.

I had to piss so I went straight to the bathroom.

The bartender saw me and rushed from behind the bar.

He caught up with me and said, “You can’t use the bathroom unless you are going to buy something.”

I looked at him funny.

I was wearing what everybody in Youngstown wears and he thought I was homeless.

Then I became angry.

I said, “I’m gonna buy something. I have to piss.”

Then the bartender gave me a rude look and went back behind the bar.

I clogged the sink with toilet paper and pissed in it.

Then went and sat at the bar.

The bartender came up to me.

I put a fifty on the bar and said, “Give me a Black Velvet and Coke.”

“What’s Black Velvet?” said the bartender.

“It’s whiskey. You got Wild Turkey?”

“No, we don’t have that either.”

“You got Old Grandad?”

“No.”

“Well, I guess I ain’t drinking here.”

I picked up my fifty and left.

Noah Cicero grew up in Youngstown, Ohio and later moved to South Korea. He is back in Ohio for now. His novel

GO TO WORK. DO YOUR JOB. CARE FOR YOUR CHILDREN. PAY YOUR BILLS. OBEY THE LAW. BUY PRODUCTS.

will be published by Lazy Fascist in August 2013.