Dos Equis
On the Fourth of May, 1985 - 7305 days ago, for those of you playing along at home - I
woke up on the ground outside the barracks of Bravo Company, 1st Battalion, 67th
Armored Regiment, of the Second Armored Division in Fort Hood, Texas.
The night before, my first sergeant had thrown me out of the barracks, as I wasn't fit
to live with human beings. I had gone outside with my sleeping bag - per his instructions -
and laid down on the cool, wet grass. I had been drinking all day long, but I couldn't get
what I considered to be DRUNK - I couldn't make the pain stop. I couldn't make the wheels
stop turning around. I couldn't even pass out. And when he put me out of the barracks, out
onto the cold, wet grass, something frozen inside of me began to crack and warm and open,
and I gave up. For the first time in a long time - maybe in my entire life? - I actually felt peace.
I could give up. I could let go. I could stop trying.
Trying hadn't done me much good. I had lost my family, my home, any chance at a military
career. My wife was married to my old next door neighbor. My car was in the city dump with
the wheels all pointing in different directions. I had gone into the Army with advanced rank,
but I had been busted - yet again - all the way down to buck Private. My net worth consisted
of some blue jeans, a few T-shirts, my uniforms, a few books, a second-hand boom box, and
two cassette tapes - Bonnie Tyler, "Total Eclipse of the Heart", and "Willie Nelson Sings Kris
Kristofferson's Greatest Hits". That was it - that was where my wonderful brain had taken me.
And the peace that giving up gave me was wonderful. It was the best moment of my life.
The first sergeant came out and told me to put up a pup tent - "dress right dress, three feet off
of the sidewalk". I didn't explain to him that he couldn't just tell me to move out of the barracks
into a pup tent - that they had to take some action. I didn't say "You can't do this - you have to
give me an Article 15, you have to pursue a court-martial". I didn't say anything of the sort.
I just put up the pup tent, and I sat down in it. I was through fighting. I was awaiting instructions.
Then one of the officers - maybe the platoon leader, maybe the company commander - came
to me and said "Private Puckett, this pup tent is your AO ("area of operations"). You can't leave this pup tent except to go to your duty station, to meals, or into the barracks to go to the latrine or to
change clothes."
I didn't say "You can't do this to me! I want to see the Sergeant Major! I wanna speak to the
Chaplain! Lemme talk to the Judge Advocate General! I'm gonna write my congressman!"
I just said "Yes, sir." and sat in the pup tent.
Just then, a fellow walked up behind the officer and said "Sir, you can't restrict him to that pup
tent. I have to take him to an AA meeting."
That was twenty years ago today. I haven't had a drink since. But I was in a meeting yesterday -
and I'll be in one today, as well.
Thank you, Father, that I was allowed to hit such a bottom without having to die. And thank you,
Richie, that you had the guts to tell that officer that you were going to take me to a meeting.
This morning, KimPuckett whom we choose to call Ethel gave me her twenty-year chip; it must be
a good chip. It worked for her, and she's got twenty-two years now. I'm going to pick up a chip at
my noon meeting today, just so's folks can see that it does, indeed, work. Folks will say "Happy
Birthday" and I'll say "Thanks!" - some folks will say "Congratulations!" and I'll cringe. You can
congratulate someone on an achievement; the only thing I 'achieved' was to mess up my life to
the point that only a miracle could straighten it out. Richie provided a motorcycle; God provided
the miracle. I've just been trying to respond to the miracle for twenty years now.
For those of you who have heard this pup-tent story before - I'm sorry for the repitition; however,
I can say with all sincerity that I hope you have to listen to it again :)
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