Holiday Flashback, Episode I

It isn't often that I have very detailed, strong memories of a particular day or event. I personally count that as a failing of mine, yet I chalk it up to my dissociative nature and the way I bounced all over the place (literally, geographically) as a child growing up. But a conversation at work today triggered a memory that I knew I just had to put in black & white as soon as possible, if for no other reason than the hilarity of it all.

It was late 1995, and I had been at Camp Lejeune for a whopping nine months, and had two years in the Corps under my belt. I was beginning to feel a bit experienced, though God knows I certainly wasn't at that point. In point of fact, I was working in the Company office for a few weeks since my particular style of heavy equipment operation didn't quite jive up with that of my supervisors. And yes, that's putting it very mildly.

One afternoon in early December, the Company Commander was hanging out in the office doing routine Captain-type stuff. I vaguely remember him asking those of us in the office if we wanted to "help out with some things for the Battalion Christmas party". Being the lowest-ranking Marine in the office, and not seeing how this could be anything but helpful anyway, I offered to pitch in.

Had this been a Star Wars movie, someone would have told me otherwise.

So, cometh the day of the party, and I'm already a bit cheery. All units aboard the base were being released at noon for a four-day weekend (a "96" as we call it) to go home for Christmas - everyone except the recently-returned 24th MEU. They were to stay an additional day so that the President could come down and personally award them the Presidential Unit Citation for their efforts in rescuing a downed Air Force pilot in Bosnia.

I arrived at Goettge Memorial Field House about a half-hour before the scheduled 1000 kickoff time for the party, dressed in camouflage utilities since that was the prescribed uniform. Within literally 90 seconds of walking through the door, Mrs. Company Commander swooped in on me and said "Ohhhhh, you must be the Lance Corporal that William told me would help us out! Thank you for being here a bit early! Here, take this, and I'll see you over by the Christmas tree in a bit", as she hands me a brown paper grocery sack. "You're going to be helping Santa!"

Well, thought I, no biggie. I got a sack of toys or candy or some shit to hand out to some ankle-biters. But lo, my friends, I was mistaken. So very horribly, irreversibly, catastrophically mistaken.

As I peered down into the bag, I saw parts and pieces. Parts and pieces of a costume, that is. Among these parts and pieces were a green, felt, pointy hat - complete with feather. There were also green, felt curly-toed boondocker-style shoes, complete with little dingle bells on the tips of the toes. There was a green felt skirt-lookin' thingy, as well as a pair of tights. TIGHTS, I tell you! Red-and white hoop-striped tights, no less! Topping it all off were some pointy rubber ears. Some sadistic bastard had, apparently, thought of EVERY last detail for this particular holiday soiree.

Resigned to the fact that I 1) could not back out since I was the proverbial minion, and 2) that I'm a complete retard for ever volunteering for anything in my life, I trudged back to the locker room which, thankfully, was completely empty.

After laying out all the goddamn Elf parts on the bench beside me, I began to disrobe, unblousing my trousers, kicking the boots off, and sliding into a near-suicidal state of depression, hatred, and resentment. The icy coldness of the hard wooden bench registered clearly when I sat my bare ass down, as I haven't owned a pair of underwear since 1993 (due to a painful lesson learned in Boot Camp, which story is told another day).

I had just gotten the goofy red & white tights on, as well as the culry-toed dingle-bell shoes, and was getting ready to put on the Elf-uniform-cum-dress that was provided when, unexpectedly, the door to the locker room slammed open with authority.

I stood there, completely bare-assed and balancing on one leg, trying to slip on that horrendous costume, and glanced up ant the entourage that had suddenly appeared. There was a tall, good-looking Marine Colonel (and God alone knows why, but I recognized him as the Assistant Chief of Staff for Intelligence [G-2] of the 2d Marine Division) standing about eight feet away from me, flanked on either side by two or three tall, good-looking, well-dressed gentlemen in three-piece suits with slight bulges on the left side of their ribs. Apparently the 2d Combat Engineer Battalion Christmas Party coincided with the 24-hour advance site survey and security assessment being conducted by the US Secret Service for Mr. Clinton's visit to Camp Lejeune.

There was a moment there - a very brief moment, hamd'allah - where everyone's eyes were fixed directly on the poor, half-naked 21-year-old Marine. Once it was abundantly clear that I posed no threat, they moved onward, sweeping through the locker room and checking all the details that security teams check before wandering farther off into the field house and forgetting about me completely.

To be quite honest, the rest of the day was a hell of a lot more embarrassing for me personally. In hindsight, though, I knew at that very moment that I would never apply - or even be eligible for - a job with the Secret Service.

To this day I wonder if there's a note somewhere about my naked ass and whether or not it posed a threat to the President. Maybe that's just me my own personal shame talking, though...