Explain to me how this works: Four weeks ago, my brother served Little Cousin with an ultimatum. If he's going to live in this house, he needs to go back on his medication and see a therapist. Little Cousin whinges on aboout how unfair we are, how we're trying to ruin his life, how he knows I'm the one that put Sam (my brother) up to this, ect. (Damn straight, I did. If I don't put my foot down around here, no one will.) Eventually, he conceeds. He goes to said therapist, but comes back without a perscription for his meds. Why? Because he's been off the regimen for over a year now, and he's decided he's going to join the Army!
That's a threat I've heard before, so imagine my surprise when two Army recruiting officers show up at my door. They talk to Little Cousin in the kitchen, and I slip down to the laundry room which, due to the way our heat vents are situated, allows for crystal-clear carrying of sound. The officers give him the Big Sell-- they are "leveling with him", "man to man" about "the straight-up facts". And oh, by the way, if he gets someone else to sign up with him, he'll get bumped a degree in rank and enter boot camp as Private E-1. They throw financial figures at him. Little Cousin is greatly enthused, but concerned about his history of ADHD. He's been off the medicine for a year, but he was also 'unofficially' diagnosed with depression when he was in highschool.
The officer says, "You never had ADHD or depression."
"What!?", I think, giving up all pretense of folding towels. Little Cousin, for once, echoes this sentiment.
The officers say that Little Cousin needs to "learn to play ball". If he's off the meds, there's no need to disclose that he ever took them. He doesn't need to mention his little involuntary trip to the therapist. The Army will never ask for a civilian doctor's opinion anyway-- what Little Cousin must do is fly under the CMO's radar and "not find Jesus" when it's time to sign the papers.
"Find Jesus?" Little Cousin echoes, mystified.
"You know, sing like a bird."
Now, I'm sitting down there in the laundry room, with the heavy smell of powder soap and the general damp the prevades a basement thinking, "Did the Army just tell my little cousin to lie?"
I go upstairs, stack of towels in my arms, because I want a look at these men. Little Cousin is at the kitchen table with them, talking about taking the ASVAP. The officers greet me politely, and I do the same. They actually stand when I come in the room. One of them spots the pairs of shoes all lined up by the door. (No one wears shoes in the house around here-- there's just a little Japanese-style line of them on a mat just inside the threshold.)
"Who's the little guy?" one of the officers asks, pointing to the very small pair of combat boots on the end.
"Oh, those are hers." My cousin points to me, I wave.
This gets some raised eyebrows. "Your female cousin wears combat boots?"
"There's a joke in there somewhere," I reply, pleasantly enough, about to leave the room.
"She's a lesbian," says Little Cousin, bold as the brass on a bald monkey.
Am I embarrassed? Yes, by the way this young man treats me in my own home. Never, under any circumstances, am I ashamed of my sexuality. I smile the "oh-I'm-a-nice-hostess" smile I stole from my mom, while the officers look at me. This little Jewish woman who can't make 5'4 without previously mentioned combat boots. Long hair in a braid, long blue dress that reaches the ground. One officer coughs, and there's a protracted moment of silence. The other finally asks, "Really?" His superior officer gives him a look that shuts him up.
"Yes," I say in my best 'customer-service-is-our-number-one-prio
"That'd... be great."
I set the drinks out on the counter, and go upstairs to put the towels away. Downstairs, I hear the lead officer tell Little Cousin that's not the sort of thing he ought to discuss openly. His side-kick meekly adds that DADT might be going away in October.
"Doubtful," says the CO. They move on to discuss Little Cousin going up to Columbus to take the ASVAP. Later in the evening, I will field several phone calls from family back in RI. In particular, Little Cousin's mother thinks I am an evil bitch whose one goal in life is to get her son killed. Also, she can't believe I made him go to the therapist.
"We don't air our dirty laundry in public like that."
Oh, you bitch, I think. You bitch.
Things really haven't gotten much better since. *sigh* You know, I don't want Little Cousin to join the army, but it's becoming increasingly clear that he can't live here, either.
I think I've nattered on enough. I'm sorry if I haven't been as supportive or helpful to my friends as I usually am, or should be. *hugs*