Here I Thought I Was Normal: Micro Memoirs of Mischief

by Mr. Frank Rocco Satullo

  I thought long and hard, picturing my arm twenty years down the road. Could I live with this? I sat down convinced.

  “Maybe I’ll switch to a clean needle,” the man said.

  I was pretty sure he was opening with a joke he told every newcomer but I wasn’t certain.

  Afterwards, our shiny, colorful scabs were something to be proud of. We were men.

  Many years later, I was splashing my little kids at the pool. It was an affluent community. There were other parents with little ones all around us. I had had my tattoo for so long, I thought as little of it as I do a mole.

  That was until my daughter yelled, “Dad, your mouse is wet.”

  All eyes followed her index finger to my bicep sporting a mouse.

  “Why are there bubbles all around his head?” my son asked. “And what is he drinking?”

  Top Secret

  While I was learning to be a rat rig radio operator in Georgia, my platoon sergeant informed me and another guy I knew that the CID wanted to talk to us.

  CID stands for Criminal Investigative Department in the military. We wondered if it had anything to do with our weekend hotel parties. It didn’t. We were selected as candidates to move beyond the training for our primary MOS to become satellite communication specialists. We already had secret designations but this job meant we needed a Top Secret security clearance.

  As we waited with a few others in a holding room, buzz began. Some relayed rumors about the questioning they had been told to expect. It was stuff like if you ever smoked pot and that sort of thing.

  My friend asked what I was going to say and I said, “No.”

  He asked if that was the truth and I said, “Of course,” and smiled.

  He said, “Same here.”

  Well, when it was my turn to go into one of the small rooms to be interrogated by a CID agent, it started very conversationally. Once I was comfortable, he upped the heat quickly. I just answered question after question noticing some repetition. When he asked about drugs of all sorts, I just said no. He fixated on marijuana and wouldn’t accept my answer.

  He stood up and leaned over the table and looked me square in the eyes and said, “You mean to tell me you never even tried it, not at a high school football game, party, anywhere?”

  “No sir.”

  This went on for 15 or 20 minutes – just this question. I locked in and was not about to change my answer no matter how bad he tried. He was visibly upset with me. He read me the riot act and emphasized the penalty for lying to him. It was clear I’d be tarred and feathered and wished I was dead.

  Later, I ran into my friend and asked him how it went. He said that they broke him and he admitted to smoking pot once. But once he cracked, they forced open the flood gates and by the time they were done with him, he admitted to smoking pot something like 17 times. I couldn’t help but laugh my ass off. He laughed too, albeit uneasily.

  Together, we went to satellite school and then our separate ways.

  En route across Germany I was traded from one official to another and found myself at a base where everyone had been deployed to the field except for a couple of non-commissioned officers.

  “Wow, we can use one of these,” I overheard one say to the other.

  The place was like a ghost town so I could hear them in the other room. They were “doctoring” my orders to keep me there. When my next ride strolled in they played dumb but he would have none of it. When he caught them in their lies, he was pissed but forgiving. Everything was changed back and I left with him. That place just gave me a very bad vibe and I was happy I’d never see it again. I cringed at the thought of spending the next few years there. It was so isolated.

  When I arrived at my permanent post in Germany, I instantly felt at home because it was a larger base and had signs of life. I was to conduct satellite communication for short range nuclear missiles even though I was still not approved for my Top Secret clearance. It took longer than anyone else I knew. During that time, the CID took my initial 10 references and actually visited my hometown and interviewed each, getting more references from them. I did the math and honestly didn’t think I even knew that many people. It must have been a big deal for many because when I’d come home on leave – or even years after the Army – parents of friends, and people I’d barely know, would tell me about the time these guys from the military came asking about me.

  Our job was unique in that we could actually refuse an order from an officer under specific circumstances. It was an enlisted man’s dream. I wondered if it was more a fantasy. Then, one time while in the field, that specific circumstance presented itself. I was only a PFC (Private First Class) at the time and my superior on duty that night was just a Specialist. Our encrypted messages had a classifications system for importance. One classification was only to be used in true wartime. During a simulated exercise in which missiles were actually erected, one of the lieutenants wanted it to be as real as possible.

  Communicating with another base, the lieutenant said to assign it as a “flash” message. I was startled by the request because she should have known better. I nervously explained what that meant and that I couldn’t do it.

  She didn’t like the “backtalk” and said, “It’s an order.”

  I repeated, uncomfortable and worried in this precarious situation, that I could not do it.

  She was angry at my refusal, but I knew I’d be in a heap of trouble if I carried out her order. She shouted at my superior. He was sleeping just a few feet away on the floor. During the night, we’d take shifts at the controls. She told him to get up and carry out the order.

  He rubbed his eyes, processed in his mind what she was saying to do and then flat out said no as well. He kindly explained as I did but she was hell bent on doing this her way.

  Another low ranking officer was brought in and he threatened both of us with punishments if we did not obey his order.

  The situation escalated one more level and that’s when higher brass put the lieutenants in their place. I managed to conceal my smile at the same time worrying about repercussions down the line.

  The ranking officer sternly stated to the lieutenants, “Next time, know this when you want to play general, know that those boys carry live ammunition for a reason – this is not a game!”

  The Human Chain

  We were teenagers serving on a NATO base in Germany. We often walked several miles from base to a small town. It had a great place to eat, another to party and the only video store around. We used a shortcut that didn’t connect to the road leading to base. It followed a pathway behind the British housing outside of the main gate. The path led to a narrow, rural road squeezed between crops.

  One evening, we were on the back road and saw a group of British chicks in the distance behind us. A slight hill gave us the cover we needed to disappear from their sight, if they even seen us at all. Slipping into a chest-high corn field, we lay low and waited for our prey. We aimed to scare them, expecting they’d scream and run. We had trouble concealing our unmanly giggles just thinking of how hard we’d soon be laughing when they ran away, scared.

  The girls were in their late teens, pretty, bubbly and ripe for our practical joke. They neared, chatting, walking and having fun.

  Showtime!

  One of us made a deliberate, low, hoarse cough trying to sound as if blood was gurgling out.

  Nothing.

  We grimaced at one another and gave the nod.

  Out came another gurgling, “H-e-l-p …m-eeee.”

  One girl stopped and looked into the field, “What was that?”

  “I heard it too,” another validated.

  They all stood there, motionless. We froze, too, but with ear-to-ear grins, proud of our achievement. It was working and any second, they’d run away screaming and we’d roll on the ground laughing.

  After a moment, they started to say something amongst themselves.

  So again, we brazenly threw out another, “Ple-ase, he-lp,” fol
lowed by faint choking noises.

  Our hearts skipped.

  Instead of running away, they left the road, arms outstretched at their sides, clasping hands and methodically combing through the short corn like a human chain.

  That was not the plan!

  “Retreat,” we whispered to each other.

  We put our low-crawling skills into action and quietly wormed our way deeper into the field, and angling away from the path of the girls.

  Proud of our stealth success, we paused to direct another, “H-e-l-p …m-eeee,” in their direction.

  “I heard it, it’s coming from over there,” said more than one of the girls.

  They turned the human chain toward us again and dragged through the short corn stalks, head and shoulders above.

  The hunters were now the prey.

  Dusk grew darker and low and behold, a flashlight beamed. Our adrenaline kicked in, the cat-and-mouse game proving more fun than we imagined. How far will these Brits be willing to go?

  We went through a third cycle of “help” and retreated again.

  We were in so deep, in more ways than one, there was no turning back.

  Which way was back?

  There was no longer any flashlight to be seen. We became concerned. Someone suggested we keep going deeper figuring we’d plow through to the other side of the field where it may eventually hit the main road to base.

  What nobody wanted to admit was we were lost and the girls were gone.

  “HELP US!”

  Hit Man on the Island

  I befriended a tour guide on the ferry from the Italian mainland to Capri. The conversation was fluid despite the teenagers taking turns to beg for smokes once Nicolo lit up. He seemed used to it. Every handout was done non-verbally on his part and with hardly a conscious effort.

  The boys were milking it. Once the first kid returned to his friends, smiling, inhaling the carcinogens like he owned the boat, chattering away in Italian, another boy came forward. This cycle played out three times.

  Then, without warning, the gravy train stopped.

  Nicolo made eye contact with the boys for the first time. He didn’t look at the kid standing before him. Rather, he looked through him at the others. He merely shook his head, deliberately, to the left and then back, once. With that, the boys disappeared into the crowd. Nicolo never broke sentence, speaking to me the whole time.

  Upon landing at port in the harbor, our tour group sifted through the sea of people and boarded an awaiting bus. It was small, windows open, sending a much welcome breeze through my hair as we shimmied uphill to a villa and stopped.

  Whap!

  The bus driver and Nicolo babbled away in Italian then we sped off. And I mean we sped with reckless abandon all the way to the next villa. Although it was hot outside, Nicolo seemed to be sweating a lot more than just a moment ago. The fella he smacked with the opening bus door was hottest of all. He, no doubt, was shouting obscenities and threats as we sped away.

  Leaning out my open window for fresh air, I saw what happened. I didn’t understand the fear induced panic that ensued. A group of several well-dressed middle-aged men were chatting curbside when we rolled up. Nicolo, meanwhile, was chatting to us over a microphone system. Funny, after the door smacked one of the fellas at the curb, Nicolo’s voice amplified even louder without the microphone.

  Throughout the day, some on the tour periodically asked Nicolo about the incident. Each time he shrugged it off by giving non-answers if he didn’t outright ignore the person asking. The tour continued without interruption.

  It was dark when we settled on the last ferry leaving the island. Tired, we sat in silence, mostly. A new group of boys scored a few smokes off of Nicolo before being cut off with that half shake of his head.

  Then I half-laughed, asking, “Is it often you hit pedestrians with bus doors?”

  “It’s the first time I hit Mafioso.”

  CHAPTER 4:

  GROWING UP BUT WITH RELAPSES OF IMMATURITY

  Wrestling a Bear

  We were minding our own business in a back room of a bar, shooting pool. It was on the western edge of Avon Lake. We were celebrating Steve’s 21st birthday. Both of us were fresh out of the Army and our other best friend, Mike, was home from college.

  A stranger walked in and casually asked if we wanted to wrestle a bear. No’s quickly turned to contemplation quickly turned to hell yah, as long as we’re all in.

  We were led to the parking lot to sign our “rights” away on some forms. Years later, the same owner of Caesar the Wrestling Bear would be in the news for one of his bears mauling a man to death. It doesn’t take much imagination to understand how a captive bear trained to bar fight night after night would turn. On this night, we were wrapped in a cocktail of invincibility that combined bravado with ignorance.

  We needed to capture this life experience, or death, for the record so we called – of all people – my mom. She agreed to drive across town, bringing her camera. Later, we’d get grainy copies of a video tape shot by a neighbor’s friend who was there that night. The neighbor thought he was just watching a bunch of crazies on film until he recognized me, so he dubbed a copy of the tape to give to us.

  Caesar was a full grown black bear. He looked enormous, especially when he stood. Plus, he had his teeth and his mouth was not taped closed as some anticipated. He also had massive bear paws and claws that were not restricted at all. The smell of real danger began to seep in as we were introduced to Caesar and given some pointers. Sudden movements, loud noise and over aggressiveness by any of us could make the bear “defensive” and not “playful.”

  Oh, and one particular pointer stuck with me, “Just make sure he doesn’t accidentally hook you in the corner of the mouth with a claw because he’ll rip your cheek straight up without knowing it.”

  The handler sized us up and looked at Mike, Steve and me saying, “Usually, smaller people have a better chance of pinning him down because he is more playful with them.”

  The reward for doing so was something like a cool grand – certainly incentive to give it our best shot. The pecking order went Mike, Steve then me.

  Mike was a tall guy with a pretty solid build. He entered the closed off mat (a.k.a. dance floor) and definitely had a serious look on his face. The bear must have gotten a bad vibe from Mike because he got rather aggressive. The trainer separated the bear from Mike and gave Caesar a firm reprimand. Meanwhile, Mike looked at us as if to say, I want out. But he was in – up to his neck in. The match continued. Mike tried hard, maybe too hard, and the bear got all crazy again – even rearing up on his hind legs. They ended the match and took the bear out to the parking lot to calm him down.

  I was so happy Steve was next and not me. When that thing came rumbling back in, it was ready for business. Steve’s a scrappy fighter and wasn’t fazed by much in those days, but he quickly hit the mat, hard, and looked up …fazed and then some. You could tell there was nothing to be done once that bear had you. Its weight and strength determined your range of movement. It wasn’t up to you what happened in there, it was entirely up to Caesar. Moving Caesar would be like trying to move a brick house. It wasn’t going to happen unless he allowed it to happen. He wasn’t allowing Steve to do much. When Steve came off the floor, he was dripping in sweat, exhausted by the energy he expended.

  My turn came. I had tried to learn from observing Mike and Steve plus remembering the pointers the trainer gave us.

  Once in the ring with this beast, a voice popped in my head screaming, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I wasn’t fairing much better than Steve and Mike. The bear used one paw and swatted me down like a rag doll. Before I knew it, he was on top of me and I couldn’t budge. It took every bit of strength I could muster just to move my hand an inch, even then I could only manage to do so because Caesar allowed it to happen. I talked with a friendly, playful and calming voice. I moved slowly and didn’t look him in the eyes.

  That’s w
hen the unthinkable happened. We were both on our feet. I moved in and he went down – because he was playing and took himself down. In an instant, I was on top of this massive creature.

  Now, let me slow this description down and zoom in. I went from not knowing what happened to staring at powerful jaws inches from my face, breathing in the animal’s hot, stale breath. I slid one hand over and Caesar let me press his paw to the mat. To get the other paw stretched out and down meant I’d basically have to get close enough to kiss Caesar on the mouth, my neck fully exposed.