“Holy shit, Mat, you’re fucking ripped, dude,” he said.
“Aww shit, thanks, man. Fucking military, right?”
“Yeah, man, definitely. Milk does a body good up in this motherfucker. You look strong, man.”
“Thanks,” I said, now feeling a tad uncomfortable.
“Hell, yeah! Like, really fucking strong, man. It’s almost like you’re a different person. You’re like the Incredible Hulk now! I’m not even going to try and make you angry,” Ryan shouted as he lifted his arms up above his face.
“Yeah, the military kind of molds you into great shape.”
“No, I get it, be all you can be. I’ve seen the commercials, bro. It’s just, damn, man, you look big. Like, defined, man.” He reached in and started to squeeze my biceps. Not in a gay way. More in the Gold’s Gym bro “your glutes look amazing” way.
Nope. I grabbed Ryan’s hand and squeezed a pressure point. “We’re all good on that,” I said.
“Okay, man. Okay. Let go. I’m just playing an’ shit.” He laughed that kind of laugh where you’re in legitimate pain, but you don’t want to show the other person, because perversely, you still want them to like you.
In truth, the nature of Ryan’s reaction wasn’t all that unusual. I noticed it when my brothers came home from boot camp, too. It’s a certain look you get from people—a mixture of admiration and apprehension. In one moment they’re thinking, “Man, this guy has put in some work.” In the next: “Man, I wouldn’t fuck with this guy.” Now it was happening to me, and it was weird, because when you’re in the military, you don’t really see your body changing that much. You’re too busy being tired and getting yelled at to notice. And besides, every other dude looks like you, so nothing you see in the mirror seems all that impressive. It’s not until you step away from it and you’re back in civilian life that you have the opportunity to look around and notice, “Holy shit, I could probably kill everyone in this bar.”
It’s a nice feeling.
Where I really felt the change wasn’t in my physique as much as in my attitude. That was my real problem in high school. I tried so hard to get laid when I wasn’t flipping botany burgers or slapping bass that I acted like a total pussy around girls. My utter lack of self-confidence made me terrified of saying the wrong thing or doing anything that might overtly sabotage my chances. Little did I realize that all my worrying was the biggest cock-block of them all. No girl wants to fuck a guy who can’t make a command decision. Now I didn’t care one way or the other. I just wanted to have fun.
Two minutes into my conversation with my touchy-feely friend, one of the hottest girls from my graduating class, this smoke show named Anna, came up to say hello. I knew Anna enough to pick her out of a lineup, but back in the day our interactions never went much beyond a “hello” from me and a nice cold shoulder from her. It was time to repay the favor.
“Hey, didn’t we go to high school together?” she asked.
“I don’t know, maybe,” I said as I turned back to Ryan.
“You’re from here, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, almost annoyed.
“Well, there’s really only one high school in our town, so we had to have gone to high school together.”
“Oh, cool. Then yeah, I guess we did. Small world or some shit.” Sick burn. In my head, I was lecturing Anna like this was a public shaming on Twitter. Two hundred eighty characters of fuck you. How does it feel to have the shoe on the other foot for once, huh Anna? You’re not in control of my happiness anymore. It was like an awkward class reunion, except I was third-grade Billy Madison after failing to spell Rizzuto in cursive: I hate cursive and I hate all of you! I’m never coming back to school! Never!
“Do you want to get out of here?” she asked, interrupting my train of thought.
Excuse me, what was that? Did this girl who iced me out all through high school just walk up to me out of nowhere and ask me to leave with her? But…why? The “cool guy” Mat Best façade dropped and the navel-gazer on the inside started to pick his head up. I almost didn’t know what to do.
I took a sip of my beer and attempted to regain my composure.
“Where do you want to go?” Great question, Mat. Why don’t you just ask her which hole the pee comes out of while you’re at it?
“I literally could not give one single fuck,” she said without missing a beat. “Wherever you’re going, I’m going, so you get to decide.”
Now that is patriotism.
The one thing Ranger Battalion drills into your head more than anything else is putting your thoughts and feelings aside in order to get the job done. This girl had just given me a mission. Screw tasks, conditions, and standards; I just needed to go hard on the “objective.” It was time to execute. I chugged the rest of my beer, took her by the hand, and walked her right out of the party and into my car. No goodbyes, no fist bumps with old friends, there was no time for any of those pleasantries. There was only one objective now.
Within five minutes, we were driving down the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) in the old family Buick in search of the perfect place to park and stare up at the moon and the stars over the vast Pacific Ocean. And to get naked. But first, that awkward stop at the gas station along the way to buy some condoms.
In the movies, this scene is always full of anxiety. The main character isn’t sure which size or brand to get. He’s worried that someone from his mother’s church group might see him. Hopefully he has enough money. None of those were my issue. My problem was the stoner clerk behind the register.
“Fuck yeah, man. You getting some?” he said as I dropped the box of condoms on the counter. “I like it. Hey man, didn’t we go to high school together?”
Fucking Santa Barbara. Everyone knows each other. The city is eighty square miles and has more than 80,000 residents, but late on a Saturday night when you’re trying to get your fuck on, you’d think this place was Casterly Rock and I was Jaime Lannister.
“Cool, man, probably. Nice to see you. How much do I owe you?”
He peered out the window to get a look at Anna in the front seat of my car. “Oh shit! Are you fucking her tonight?”
“HOW MUCH ARE THE FUCKING CONDOMS?!”
I’d had enough of this shit. It was time to take control of the situation. I hastily opened my wallet, threw down a ten-dollar bill, and bolted out of there. Correct change was the least of my concerns at that point.
Along the PCH, there are a bunch of places to park by the beach, and at night they are virtually empty except for a stray camper or two that belong to surf bums and road-tripping retirees. I drove for a couple of miles until I found a spot that felt isolated enough and pulled in. I parked the car and fumbled with the radio. Anna grabbed my hand to stop me on the first station without static. It could have been Mexican ranchera music full of accordions and she would not have cared. This was the first moment I really paused to take a good look at Anna. She was still blond and five-foot-seven like I remembered, but she was also impressively fit and weirdly confident. There was no trace of the petty high school insecurities. She knew what she wanted.