the beaches of Santa Barbara. I hadn’t seen my family in forever, and for months on end I’d been living in a dirty, hellish, backward shithole—and then Iraq—which made me more anxious and grateful for the comforts of home than anything else I could do or anywhere else I could go.
The cliché about military homecomings is totally real, by the way. When I stepped off that plane, I did hug my parents a little tighter. There was lots of crying. I really was genuinely happy to be home with everyone. I felt like one of those suburban moms in Oprah’s audience in that glorious, carefree period between getting a free new Toyota RAV4 and learning that I would have to pay $7,000 in taxes on it. Even more than spending time with my family, though, what I was most excited about was going out and seeing everyone from high school, because I had changed…a lot.
If you’re anything like some of the people in my real life I’ve told about my high school botany and bass-playing experiences, I imagine it’s hard to reconcile the rock-hard instrument of swift justice and All-American handsomeness you see before you today with the idea that I was once a complete fucking dork. But if you think you’re having a hard time with it, just picture the reactions of the people I went to high school with when I walked into a house party that first night back home.
In my mind, I secretly hoped that the whole scene would play out like a Kid Rock video. Pot smoke surrounds me like it’s coming out of a fog machine. I kick open the door to every room I enter. People’s jaws hit the floor. Guys give me the ’sup, bro head-nod, not as a form of acknowledgment but as a way of self-consciously making their chins look stronger and their necks look thicker—like mine had become. Girls’ heads turn on a swivel. And all those “I don’t have the time of day for you” girls from high school seem to have found an open slot for me in their Google calendars. Possibly one of them faints.
As cool as it would have been to the sensitive ego and wild fantasies of that insecure high school kid to have the party stop rotating on its axis the moment I arrived, the reality is that the world managed to keep turning while I was gone, and it would continue turning the same way when I was home. People were happy to see me, sure, but nobody lost their shit over me. Well, nobody except a good friend of mine named Ryan, who ended up bro-ing out a little too hard that first night.
He was that buddy you haven’t seen in a long time who just keeps complimenting you like he’s trying to hint at some kind of personal awakening that you missed while you were gone. It starts with the nod, then the full-body check-down, then the step-back and double-take. Our first conversation was so odd and surreal, all I remember clearly now is it feeling like one of those Saturday Night Live sketches where they take one joke and beat it into the ground for five minutes until not only is it not funny anymore but you question why you still watch that fucking show anyway.
“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.