A Man Named Dave

for my fireman position, I knew by the distant look on the sergeant’s face that my goal was not meant to be. Without looking at me, the counselor rummaged through a stack of forms and mumbled, “Airman … there was a slight holdup in your specialty request, and, well, by the time it was rectified, well … don’t ask me why, but these things happen … so …” As the sergeant’s words trailed off, I could feel a sense of doom hanging over me.
    For a moment I thought my paperwork problems were due to my constant screw-ups and the ever-looming “psych eval”. I shook my head clear, praying that the sergeant was somehow toying with me and that this was a trick the career counselors played on young, gullible airmen. “Sir, I don’t understand. What is it you’re saying, sir?”
    The sergeant cleared his throat and stated that all firefighter positions had been filled.
    “That’s okay,” I said. “I can wait.”
    “Negative!” the counselor shot back. “There are no available positions. You,” he said, jabbing a finger in front of my plastic black-rimmed glasses, “are not, I repeat, are not, going to be a fireman!”
    Breaking all rules of protocol, I blurted, “But… that’s what I signed up for. That’s why I joined. I –”
    “I am sorry,” the sergeant broke in. “I truly am. But mission necessities come first –”
    “But, sir!” I interrupted, “it took me forever to get in … to fill out all that paperwork, passing the interviews…. This can’t happen. I mean, my whole life, all I wanted… . My father!” I shrieked. “He was a –”
    “At ease! Stand down, airman,” the sergeant snapped. “The air force couldn’t care less what you want! Listen,” he spoke in a softer tone, “I realize your position. I’ve got half a dozen other troops outside this office with the same problem. You knew when you enlisted that mission necessity has priority. So, for now, the air force dictates that it needs 622105.”
    “622105?” I asked as I leaned closer to his desk.
    The sergeant nipped through a manual, matching the coded numbers with the job description. I knew by his reaction that I was in for another shock. “Uh, food service specialist.”
    “Sir?” I asked, shaking my head.
    “A cook, Airman Pelzer. You’ll be a cook. Come on,” the sergeant said in a cheerful voice, “it’s a slack job. You go in for a few hours, then you go home – nine to five. Bankers’ hours. It’s a cakewalk. Hey, at most bases you’re in charge of the civilians; they’re the ones who cook, they do all the work. You’ll just supervise!”
    “So … in my off time I can go to college or get a part-time job?” I inquired. I had instantly accepted my fate and somehow was trying to formulate a plan to turn my negative setback into a positive outcome.
    “Listen,” the counselor said, “you’ll have so much time on your hands, you’ll be bored stiff – that is, unless you get assigned to a field unit. Then you’ll work your tail off in some godforsaken boondocks. But hey, I’ve yet to see that happen. Don’t sweat it. In three years, if you keep your nose clean, you can cross-train and then become a fireman.”
    “But if I stay in, I wanna fly. That’s why I gotta go to college,” I said.
    “Yeah, sure, whatever. Not to worry. Just sign this paper that I briefed you in this little snafu. And don’t worry, you keep pluggin’ away. Things have a way of turning up. Aim high!”
    Without hesitation I snatched a pen and scribbled my name, rank, and date. I found it strange that after my months of intense longing, my life’s course was again heading in a direction in which I had no control. I felt completely helpless. My childhood ambitions were instantly erased with a stroke of a pen. Afterward, I stared at the cheap, black ballpoint that had U.S. GOVERNMENT stamped on it and flung it on top of a stack of papers. I was so numb that I strolled out of the office without being dismissed, let alone saluting my superior.
    Weeks after graduating basic training and being transferred to my specialty training base, the shock of serving in the air force as a mere cook began to fade away. I was so ashamed that I didn’t tell my foster parents. I wrestled with the fact that I had, in a sense, failed my father. I knew being a firefighter meant the world to him, and he had seemed so proud when I phoned him days before I enlisted. I had wanted so badly to impress him, to surprise him that David Pelzer – the unwanted one, the child called “It” – would someday be entrusted with saving