Michael Anthony - Civilianized: A Young Veterans Memoir

I was visiting my brother Keith in San Diego, and we were getting drunk at some crappy rundown sports bar. It was your typical hole in the wall that attracted parole violators, dingy prostitutes, and college kids. Paint was peeling off the walls. Someone was puking in the bathroom, and even though smoking indoors was outlawed, everyone was doing it anyway. Id been in bars like this before: the lights were dimmed to keep people from noticing the roaches, and the heat was turned off so people would drink to stay warm. In this case, only the latter worked.

Mingling with the bugs and rodents in full view, men and women were dressed in outrageous Halloween costumes. There were nurses, vampires, police officers, gladiators, aliens, and even a Jesus. In the corner of the room, at a wobbly, broken-down table, I stood with my brother, just watching. It wasnt the crowd youd expect to be excited about Halloween, but the bar offered a cash prize, so everyone was into it.

The costumes were interesting, and the girls cute, but my mind was someplace else.

Two weeks earlier, Id returned home after twelve months in Iraq. I was addicted to sleeping pills and painkillers, I was drinking and smoking too much, and itd been two years since Id even kissed a woman.

Heres what I think, Keith was saying, after chugging the rest of his beer. Being in the army is like having sex, but with someone you hate

I laughed.

Its not great, but its still sex, so how bad can it really be?

It didnt seem quite that simple to me, though. Id always heard that the hardest part about returning from war

Ill be right back, Keith staggered from the table. Tell the waitress to bring me another Corona. Im gonna change into my costume

The hardest part is adjusting to the changes that happen while youre away.

the competitions about to start.

The world goes on without us. Before I went to Iraq, Keithmy second oldest brother and a non-combat army vetdrank Budweiser and lived in Massachusetts. Now that I was back, he drank Corona and lived in California.

Two Bud Lights, I yelled to the waitress as my brother lurched his way to the bathroom. It was only 10 p.m., and I was already drunk. The real kind, too. The kind where Id be slamming my fists on the table in a minute. And if Im being honest, I was also high on Vicodin. In Iraq, everyone had aches and pains, and since Vicodin was the most prescribed painkiller, it was hard to avoid some level of addiction. I had popped two before the bar, and Id had four shots and six beers; I could barely feel my arms and legs. In fact, there was only one thing I could feel, the only thing on my mind besides drinking and taking pills: anger. An anger that surged and subsided, but never disappeared.

In Iraq, I felt alive. More alive than I ever had before. The rush from constant near-death experiences was like no other. Running for my life toward a cement bunker. Looking Death in the eye and saying, Not today. It made me feel. That intensity, that passion, that adrenaline, I wanted it backand the only way for me to get even a fraction of that feeling back was to fight. I had to fight someone big, someone ferocious, someone who would make me feel fear at least.

I lit a cigarette and a cloud of smoke dropped into my lungs; it was my fifth in a row, and my stomach twisted as I inhaled. I felt like I hadnt eaten in days, and as I looked around the bar, contemplating whether to order a sandwich

Hey. Move it, asshole! someone yelled.

I whirled around, expecting some preppy college kid dressed as Captain Kirk, but, instead, a massive Hells Angel stood in front of me. The man was built like an ox, and right away I knew he was legit: the sleeve tattoo, the chain wallet, an enormous Hells Angel patch on his leather jacket, and three cronies and two girls standing behind him, dressed the same way with the same patches. This was no costume.

The biker slapped his hand on my shoulder. I glanced up at the ceiling. Thank you, I silently prayed. It was time to fight.

Get your fucking hand off me! I said to the biker, not because I expected him to move his hand, but to expedite the confrontation. I took a quick drag of my cig, puckering my lips like I was going in for a kiss, and blew smoke in his face.

His eyes narrowed. Listen, he snarled, like an old drill sergeant. This is our table; so take your shit and leave! He puffed out his chest, as alpha males have done since the beginning of time, and looked me in the eye. Our faces were inches apart. I stared back and he smiled; it was the quick, effortless smile of a wolf enjoying the hunt. I studied the retinas of his beady eyes. He was either on crack or coke. He leaned forward, and I smelled burnt hot dogs and tequila.

Lets just leave, Jack, one of the women said.

Yeah, I turned my back to him and spoke over my shoulder, Why dont you hit the road, Jack.

Standing at five-foot-nine and one-hundred-fifty pounds, my gangly frame was nothing compared to Jacks. He was masssive. He couldve broken me.

Jack said something to his cronies, and then turned around and started leaning backward. He pushed the full weight of his body into me. The studs on his leather jacket dug into my spine while his ponytail tickled my neck. (Id never been tickled by a biker before.) I pushed back into him with all of my weight, leaning as hard as I could, but he didnt even budge. I had thoughts of giving up and walking away, but those quickly faded as I looked over at one of Jacks palsthree hundred pounds of filth, with a separate beard for each of his four chinsand he was laughing. I looked over at the girls; they were laughing, too.

Thats it, I told myself, and chugged the rest of my beer. No one laughs at me, Im a goddamn veteran. I took a final drag of my cig, then moved out from under Jacks weight, grabbed an empty bottle by the neck, and flipped it upside down. I closed my eyes, and I heard my drill sergeant telling me about first blood.

Just let your thoughts disappear, hed say. Clear all thoughts and then follow through with pure action.

I turned and focused on the back of Jacks head. Silence rang in my ears. I was ready to fight, to kill even. But before I could raise my arm to bring the bottle down on Jacks head, I saw a pair of pasty, sandal-clad chicken legs sticking out of a bright yellow banana costume. The ghastly banana suit ended just above the knee, and it was easy to tell that my brother Keith was stark naked underneath. My gaze went from Keith to the back of Jacks head.