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bookishwenchEvery time Steve tries to join up, he worries this is the time it will actually work. For his first try, Steve told the truth on the forms: name, background, age, and a list of medical conditions that slapped him immediately back out the front door with a look from the officers in charge that suggested they thought he needed a psych exam for even attempting to join the army.
The next six times, Steve lied like a dog.
Everyone thought Steve was a goody-goody little angel, and yeah, he sort of was, except when he wasn’t. If it was something Steve did as a point of honor, like covering for him when he came home late with his mom or when that bigot Anderson’s car mysteriously caught fire after he got the Ishikawa family on the next block over thrown in an internment camp, Steve could more than rival his own ability to lie, cheat, hustle, or bend the law until it snapped like a toothpick. But only when he considered it justified.
Then Steve went to confession, said about thirty rosaries, and did it all over again.
Steve’s face had fallen when his friend was drafted, knowing he would be left behind, so he kept trying. But Steve had a list of enemies he couldn’t defeat: asthma, scarlet fever, palpitations, bone deformities. For crying out loud, Steve was so passionate about the old red, white, and blue that it was adorable, but it didn’t make him any less literally colorblind. He’d silently root for every single one of those diseases and problems, like blessings that sealed the deal Steve wouldn’t be slapped into a unit and sent to die in Europe, which he undoubtedly would do within the first three days after he landed.
Come on, diphtheria, knock him out on this one. You nearly killed him; now save him. Stupid astigmatism, do you have any idea how hard it is to be an artist when you can’t quite see right? Now, make sure he isn’t squinting down the barrel of a rifle. That damn scoliosis that twisted his spine into a question mark and made it ache on winter nights, you answer that form with a giant “Hell, no!” when he tries to go.
For a while, he was safe, but he knew it would only be for a while. Steve was too determined for his own good.
The next six times, Steve lied like a dog.
Everyone thought Steve was a goody-goody little angel, and yeah, he sort of was, except when he wasn’t. If it was something Steve did as a point of honor, like covering for him when he came home late with his mom or when that bigot Anderson’s car mysteriously caught fire after he got the Ishikawa family on the next block over thrown in an internment camp, Steve could more than rival his own ability to lie, cheat, hustle, or bend the law until it snapped like a toothpick. But only when he considered it justified.
Then Steve went to confession, said about thirty rosaries, and did it all over again.
Steve’s face had fallen when his friend was drafted, knowing he would be left behind, so he kept trying. But Steve had a list of enemies he couldn’t defeat: asthma, scarlet fever, palpitations, bone deformities. For crying out loud, Steve was so passionate about the old red, white, and blue that it was adorable, but it didn’t make him any less literally colorblind. He’d silently root for every single one of those diseases and problems, like blessings that sealed the deal Steve wouldn’t be slapped into a unit and sent to die in Europe, which he undoubtedly would do within the first three days after he landed.
Come on, diphtheria, knock him out on this one. You nearly killed him; now save him. Stupid astigmatism, do you have any idea how hard it is to be an artist when you can’t quite see right? Now, make sure he isn’t squinting down the barrel of a rifle. That damn scoliosis that twisted his spine into a question mark and made it ache on winter nights, you answer that form with a giant “Hell, no!” when he tries to go.
For a while, he was safe, but he knew it would only be for a while. Steve was too determined for his own good.
