I Didn't Join the Army, Either

"Captain Lou Albana. Never heard him? You two are identical. Except he's got a rubber band in his beard."

"Rubber band...?" He strokes his beard and lets out "that's some crazy shit."

Two weeks into college. Two weeks in, and all my senses are filled to the brim. It is two weeks of not wanting to fall behind, reading ahead in my text books, exploring where the best places are to get a clear head and study. But fascinating and ruined people keep singling me out to share their opinions of the world. To share the twists and turns by which they arrived at where they got. To share their dance moves. Normally, I wouldn't mind a wild-eyed, greasy long-haired and devil-bearded man dancing on a table in McDonald's at 6:30 a.m. Just not the table I'm already studying at.

"You ever heard of Cindi Lauper? He was in her music video." Since he joined me in the back of the bus, the caboose, the pit: Cap'n Lou has warned me we will be going to war with Iraq "You just watch!". He has informed me, between sips from an oil can in a brown paper bag, that he is a Viet Nam veteran: "The shit I've seen; I know what I'm talking about here." He has let loose an explosive fart: "You got to listen to your body, kid." He is not the first wrecked vet I've met who predicts the U.S. is always on the verge of going to war. Like a preacher sermons on the end days. Like the big event that will make the futile investments in your life worth it. But I don't tell him how inconceviable it is, a war in this day and age. This civilized age. Not going to happen. Kuwait sounds like a country that didn't plan ahead, and they probably got what they deserved.

"Heard of her. But that's not real music." The bus makes a stop on Eastlake, and Cap'n points to a tavern across the street. "You want real music? That place rocked back in the day. Saw Jimi Hendrix there." Cap'n jerks as the bus resumes, and we are joined by a third in the back. "Hendrix. There. For Real." I say it with a humoring urgency, an encouragement to tell me more. To tell me more and get him talking - even though I know it will all be lies - while I sum up our newcomer.

He looks white collar. Executive white collar. Perhaps in his mid-thirties. Wearing cufflinks, and the republican suit with the blood red tie. A pinned tie. I see many three-pieces on the bus, but they usually have a sense of style. A sense of flair. This newcomer is exhibiting an old-money, wall street conservative look - reserved for people who drive their own cars or who own people to drive them about in them. I feel like he deserves a name, just like Cap'n Lou, who is already drawing this polished man in.

"Hey Square, d'ja know Hendrix played there?" The tavern he nods towards is retreating, and Square makes no effort to look or stretch or put himself out in anyway to look at it. "I've heard of him. Not my kind of music." He does, though, seem to put himself out to make no eye contact whatsoever with the Cap'n...who is too boozy to care: "Well, what do you listen to? Everybody's got a thing."

I smile. I can't stop it: this promises to be entertaining. All three generations of us. The 70's loser vet, the 80's financial success, and the student with all the promise for the future. "I prefer classical. The Opera." But he says it directly to me, as though it is my turn to answer. And I try so hard to please: "I like some of it, but I like to listen to a little of everything. Mostly punk. But I like chamber music too. No opera, though."

"It's hotter'n Georgia asphalt!" Cap'n Lou stretches his arms over the adjoining seats as though staking territory or defining a comfort zone. I have to admit, he does look comfortable. "But its a dry heat. Not like jungle humidity. That shit makes you sick breathing it. But the worst is napalm."

Square quietly clears his throat. Seemingly importuned by the other, he stares intently at me. "So. Are you learning to become a biochemical engineer?" motioning to a book on my lap where only the word Calculus is predominantly displayed.

"Biochemical Engineer? Funny you'd get that from this..." holding the book up. "But an electrical engineer, maybe. I just started. I'm not passionate about this. Hoping by the end of the first year I'll know for sure what I want to do. And then there's the war coming, too."

"You just watch!"

"Really. I haven't been following current events; my passions rest elsewhere." And the Square says it like a thespian, with a sigh and withdrawing shoulders. "You should look into biochemical engineering. There's a future in it." I tell him I'll keep it in mind. Cap'n Lou breaks into guffaws.

"Look at you, in your suit. Talking big words. Ain't you burning up?"

Something I hadn't noticed. I feel sorry for this Square; he is obviously out of place here. And he has a heckler, already. I'm curious what put this man so far from his element, but not that curious. And my stop is coming up in a few more blocks. I give Square a sympathizing smile and a roll of my eyes: crazy drunk. I pull out my wallet to retrieve change, and my girlfriend's photograph is exposed.

He leans forward, inquisitive: "Is that your beloved?"

Cap'n is less interested in my photograph - but echoes in mock condescension: "beloved...!" And I show the photo to the Square: "I don't know if I would say beloved. But this is my gal. Selena."

He reaches towards his attache. "The Goddess of the Moon. She is very beautiful. You are a fortunate one." Cap'n Lou now wants to see; he flicks his fingers with a give it here motion. I lean towards him but do not hand over my wallet. He nods in appreciation. Square has removed a slight stack of white business cards and is motioning to hand one to me, and as he leans forward all three of us make an odd huddle.

"This is my beloved."

The card I hold in my hand is a business card, a grainy photo on the left and a paragraph of names - a jumble of pseudonyms - on the right: Miss 666. Wife of Baphomet. Diana. Arbitrer of the Moon. Na'amathe. The Cunt Goddess. And more. The woman looks mostly normal - perhaps forty, with a busy Ogilvie home perm and a secretary's employee of the month photo-sitting smile. The only occult thing about her is the mascara application, upward egyptian curliques where crow's feet begin their advance. Without the resume, I wouldn't have pegged her for Satan's Mistress, but apparently she is - and pretty proud about it. Square is looking excitedly at me, eager for my response. Too excitedly, though: the hand holding the remaining cards, bending the ends between thumb and forefinger, loose their hold.

Dozens of cards burst blooming into the air like a firework, coming to rest over the floor of the back of the bus. Square is befuddled, a self-disappointed look of shame curtains his face. He catches himself, and is down on his knees picking up the cards. In his suit. It is a sight.

Cap'n Lou grabs one as Square is reaching for it. As he takes it in, he stands up: "You're kidding right?" And he throws it down at the humbled Square. He walks and wobbles as far as the rear entry. "A Satan Worshipper. You're kidding, right?" And as he turns to us to say it, he is white as a sheet. Like he will be infected by either one of us. He dismounts at the next stop, only a matter of seconds, and I'm happy that his moments of discomfort are brief.

I'm having my own conflict absorbing the moment. "So, have you been together for long?" It is all I can manage as this suited man scrambles over the floor. There might be an issue about his idol being facedown on a surface so readily tread.

The bus isn't moving. The Cap'n is outside, pointing to the back of the bus, and the bus driver is trying to interpret this commotion: the excited drunk outside and a man at the distant opposite of his vehicle, doubled-over as though he took one to the stomach. I mutter under my breath: "You don't have to answer". And I go join the Cap'n. When I join him, we have nothing to say to each other.