A Time To Cry...

We looked around nervously. The small building at the head of the line might as well have been the gateway to hell, or maybe a dentist's office; I always get those two mixed up. As we stood there, a hundred of us, we checked and re‑checked the object over our faces. We tugged at the straps behind our ears for the fiftieth time, maybe even the fifty‑first. We couldn't risk a leak. We sealed our masks again and again, all the time hoping the person in charge wasn't ready until we were. I double checked my sleeves and made sure they were pulled down as far as they would go. They said it burned the skin and I believed them. Even though it was a cool day, the sun hidden by clouds, I was sweating. Then the drill sergeant gave the word, and the first ten men entered the tear gas chamber.

I waited patiently in line, my eyes never straying from the door. A small wisp of smoke floated out through some unseen crack in the building. It seemed like those men were in there for an eternity, even though in actuality it was only about a minute. The sergeant had explained to us that we were to exit the building from the other side, so what happened next did wonders for any amount of deluded self‑confidence I had built up. Vinnie Armstrong, one of the "tough guys" in the company, and also the loudest, came bursting out of what I had dubbed in my mind as the point of no return. "I can't breathe! I can't breathe!" Over and over again he screamed, tears streaming down his face. He was partially running, partially flying; or so it would have seemed by the way his arms vigorously flapped in the air. He ran up to some of the drill sergeants, who looked at him impassively, not really interested in his problems. The ninety of us were laughing rather jovially, although our protective masks were somewhat muffling the noise. However, We didn't laugh long. The other nine men come into view from the other side of the building, throwing reality right in our faces.

The men were coughing, with tears streaming down their anguished faces, their noses running profusely, their bodies doubled over as they staggered along the path away from us. Immediately, ours eyes locked back on the now infamous doorway as the next victims hesitantly shuffled inside. It wasn't fun anymore.

As I awaited my turn, I kept trying to convince myself that it wasn't going to be so bad. After about five minutes, most of the men had almost recovered. "I can handle this," I told myself several times. But when I lifted up my mask to get a quick breath of fresh air, I realized what had caused Vinnie Armstrong to temporarily lose all of his dignity. The scent in the air was faint, but it was enough for me to quickly re‑seal my mask. Stinging my nostrils, it was like sniffing pure alcohol combined with a week’s worth of dirty socks. The skin around my face and neck was slightly burning. At this point, I decided that maybe I should have gone to college instead. I moved up in the line.

Eventually, it was time. To this day, I don't remember any light penetrating the open doorway. The command was given, and all my life's wrongdoings were about to come back and haunt me. I took a step and asked God to forgive me for every time I hit my little brother. I took another step and begged forgiveness for the time I stole that candy bar. "Forgive Me!" was my unspoken cry as I entered into purgatory.

The room's only luminescence came from the light filtering in through semi‑painted windows, giving the room a burnt yellow tint. In the center of the room, a man wearing a protective mask was standing over a small table where a canister was spewing forth a horrendous fog of death. We stood in two lines, our protective masks serving as our rock of Gibraltar. Then the unknown soldier at the table told us to discard our masks. I was not having a good time. Immediately, the fumes attacked mercilessly, causing every neuron of my sinuses, every optical fiber, and every inch of exposed skin to scream as one. I was supposed to stand there until he asked my name, rank, and serial number, and I wasn't first. Hours passed until he asked me the question that offered salvation. I answered in one incoherent blurb and started to bolt for the door. There I was stopped and told to slow down. If it would have been possible to laugh, I would have. Instead, I waited for my captor to allow me my freedom.

Fresh air has to this day never been more welcome. Not being allowed to touch my face (this irritated the skin even more), I walked out, arms poised in front of me as I tried in vain to protect the cheeks that Aunt Louise loved to pinch. I coughed, cried, sneezed, and burned all at once for the next two days. When I had finally recovered, I was placed back into normal time by some unseen hand. Only several minutes had actually passed.

There hasn't been a time either before or since that seemed as grueling as my trip to the gas chamber. Even now, whenever I am asked to do some strenuous activity like moving a piano up three flights of stairs, I think back on those ten minutes and cheerfully grab a leg.