I might have told you already that I came from a very poor family here in Brooklyn. In fact, my mother had several crippling birth defects which made for an interesting childhood. I was a resourceful, brilliant and a scrappy young man, bored to death of school because I was reading on a college level since before 3rd grade. I skipped a few grades, 4th and 8th, and could have finished High School a year earlier if not for the city's educational rules, since I finished all the academic requirements in my junior year. My senior year consisted of 2 gym classes, band and and woodshop. I had already taken everything the school had to offer. At 15 and a half, I was off to college. Since I was having such a rough time in New York, I chose a school in SUNY about as far away from Brooklyn as I could afford, and went to a state school called Brockport somewhere west of Rochester and east of Buffalo. And while my reasoning might have been sound, I didn't take a few things into account. First of all, even at that tender age, I had spent a great deal of High School bumming around Bleeker Street, particularly Kenny's Castaways and The Bitter End, drinking beer, smoking stuff which I can't really identify, and doing other assorted inner city experiences which to this day I still look back on fondly. I was and still am a huge Jazz fan, had seen most of the greats, dabbled with a guy I met playing handball in Canarsie who some people remember as the late Joey Ramone, and did the CBGB's thing before the present tee shirt cult. So off I went to Brockport, without a nickle in my pocket, knowing really nothing about the school, and this was pretty much the first time I had left New York City. I'd supported my various passions in New York hawking News Papers, selling coffee and fruit, and working at newspaper stands. My mother was blind in one eye and could never drive. I never particularly missed a car, but when I get to Brockport suddenly I've come to discover that there are no newspaper stands, no Jazz Clubs, and for the first time I was confronted with an unknown species of humans which I'd never had to deal with too closely, the wealthy suburban Long Island breed teen, with credit card and Ford Mustang at their services. In addition to this strangely aggressive species of personage, I'm faced with another part of the landscape which I had never encountered, the small town cop, and something called a legal drinking age. Add to this that we had this terrible snow storm which started at about 2AM on October 12th, and didn't finished until that following March, I had found myself as disenfranchised from the rest of the campus as any ghetto kid from a Wall Street firm. I was very miserable, and packed up my stuff and got the hell out of there as fast as I could, winding up back home, and I entered Brooklyn College. But now I had no place to live, and the newly elected President, Mr Ronald Reagan, had eliminated most federal support for independent students below the age of 23, such as food stamps, PELL, and student loans. In addition to that, the good people at Brockport and myself departed company on such good terms, that they refused several attempt to transfer my transcripts to Brooklyn College. I was taken in by my gorgeous girl friend, Ms Lana Friedman, and Mr David Edelman and my Grandfather kept me fed for some time after Lana's father got got fed up with Lana taking in 'pets' such as myself. Everything finally collapses when I reach the age of 19, and I'm completely starving on the Streets of Brooklyn, with no means of pursuing a higher education, or even getting even a job skill. After trying my hand at selling fruit from a fruit stand on E59th and Madison Avenue, and having a terrible break up with a yet another girl friend (which is another interesting story) I face the fact that I need to do something dramatically different. Through these years, my Grandfather owned a beauty salon around the corner from Brooklyn College, near the room I was almost renting. And across the street is an Army Recruitment station. I drop in on my grandfather and we agree, that maybe joining the army is a way out of this mess. I was starving by this point, weighing about 117 pounds. I go into the recruiters office, and first a mindless infantry guy corners me and promises me the path to glory in the infantry, a 2 year commitment and $12000 for college. But I'm not the infantry kind of guy and I wanted a better skill. So a Homosexual Army Recruiter notices me and my girlish figure, and steers me into the Army Medical Corps, as a Pharmacy Technician. I sit for the Army Entrance exam, and, of course, score the highest mark in the nation, and suddenly I have West Point guys knocking at my door, the Navy recruiters were offering my $250,000 to sign up for a 6 year commitment as a Nuclear Engine Technician on the Nuclear Subs, and I'm having a great time getting all these guys to buy me breakfasts and dinners. But there is NO WAY, I'm going to West Point. I can't even fold my socks. And I'm not going to be trapped on a Nuclear Sub 6 months at a time. I learned ***something*** from Brockport. So I sign up for an 8 year reservist commitment as a Pharmacy Tech, take more dinners, and suffer a few offers for blow jobs from the homosexual army recruiter, and take a $4000 army college bonus. I leave for Basic training from Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn to Fort Jackson, North Carolina even less prepared for the events in front of me than I was for Brockport. They buzz cut my hair, and the West Point guys are constantly following me around, and harassing my Drill Sargent, My Drill was great soldier by the name of Sargent Trout. But I'm a terrible soldier. I mean I'm a mess. My buttons are always on backwards. I can't polish shoes, and I've become more interested in Judaism prior to this. I don't know how to shut up (big surprise there for you I'm sure) and I'm strangely attached to the chow hall. My buddies in my platoon really can't figure out what to make of this strange bird from Brooklyn. They nick name me "Shabeeb the Heed". I mean, if I ever thought that I'm unique, my experience in the army nailed it down. Nobody knew what the hell to do with me because, frankly, I was just a whole lot smarter than the whole officer corps, and figured out pretty quickly how to play the system, often pushing things to the edge, but not a step beyond, to get the things I wanted like kosher food and such. Meanwhile, until the end the West Point guys are on everyones ass to talk me into going to West Point. But I can hear Sargent Trout, who I actually develop a very strong emotional bound with, shouting at the commanding officer and the recruiter, "I'm telling you boys that there is no damn way West Point can survive Safir". The one thing about the Army, though, is that everyone absolutely has to shoot a rifle. There are no exceptions. I can be a pain in the ass and be constantly in trouble with minor infractions from here till tomorrow, but everyone has to pass the marksmanship test. There are 40 pop up targets and and you must knock down 21 of them, or your out. And out for me means starvation and death, something I'm really trying to avoid. Now, I don't know what your know about rifles, but the M16 is a high powered machine gun. And, despite the violent reputation of Brooklyn, I had barely ever seen a pistol, let alone a rifle. But I'm surrounded by all these fine gentlemen from the back woods and the south, and these guys love to shoot. I've never picked up a rifle in my life. So the first time I shoot the weapon, I've learned too important things. First, it goes bang, not pop pop, like in the movies. The damn thing explodes in your hands. And I'm shaking like a leaf on the target range after firing off my first round. And the second thing I learn is that I'm left handed. Now I had known I was left handed for a long time, but I had learned that day that unlike right handed people, most lefties aren't true lefties. A right handed person is right handed, right armed and right eyed. But most lefties are left handed only, and right armed and right eyed. I had finally figured out why I could never hit a baseball well. I'm left handed, but right eyed. I can't hit a damn thing with a rifle either left handed or right handed. I'm either using my weak hand or my weak eye. Rifle training is about three weeks, and for some reason, my platoon is a platoon populated with a huge number of screw ups, me being the lead screw up. And the day before the big test, we go down to the riffle range and I shoot a 15 out of 40. I seem to be getting worse with more practice. But others in the platoon are even worse, embarrassing the hell out of poor Sargent Trout. One fellow named Doyle shoots that afternoon a 7 out of 40. Trout is livid with the results. He is freaking out. And he is balling out the whole platoon. "Doyle how the fuck does anyone shoot a God Damn 7. My grandmother can come here and shoot a damn seven." And he goes down the list, picking out every soldier he could, and digging into them. But he skips right over me. I'm astonished. We fall in and march down to chow, and just before we leave, I ask Sargent Trout, "Sargent Trout, can I talk to you for a moment." Trout refuses to look at me, and says, "What do you want Safir!" and I reply, "Sargent, I only I shot a 15, why didn't you ball me out, Sargent" Trout looks over at me and says, "Private Safir, I'm not worried about you. You pull yourself out of the ditch every time." He then turns away and shout "Fall in!", and off we march back to the Buillets. So Trout has this great confidence in me, but I'm shaken to my core. I spend that entire night praying, saying the Shama (Shama Yisreol) and making all these promises to god, (which I mostly kept I might add). And that next morning, I had no sleep and I'm exhausted. We get to the firing range that day. This is the high point of all basic training. The first group is made up of volunteers to help and they get on the line that dawn morning, and start shooting. These first soldiers on the line are really the best trainies in the company. Their done in minutes, and I'm now up, in the first real group to hit the line. I dig myself into the foxhole, and there is an announcer giving instructions and doing a play by play of all the positions on the line. I'm in position 14. And the whole thing sounds like Coney Island. He shouts 'GO!" and the pop up targets start to fly. And the first one comes up and I hit it. I knock it right down. The second comes up, and I knock that one down. By the 5th one, I've knocked them all down, the announcer starts shouting over the intercom. "4, 7 9, 14 25, 40, your all 5 for 5." And he continues to give a play by play of the results. "9, 14, 40, your all 8 for 8", "14 your 10 for 10", "14 your 15 for 15", "14 your 20 for 20." Half way through and I've hit every target, the 75 meter ones, the 300 meter ones, the 450 meter ones which theoretically you shouldn't be able to hit using normal aim because of the physics of the riffle. I'm one shot from qualifying and saving my ass from the pit, as Trout had said. Not only that, but I'm one of only 2 with a perfect score. I hit 21, 22, and 23. I'm qualified with 2 to spare. The announcer is going nuts, "14, your 23 for 23, you hear that Safir!" That brings laughter to all the Cadre which is there. Evidently, I've become a legend among all the Drill Sargents in the company. I don't hit another damn target after this. Not a single one. Before that, I could have pointed straight up at the sky with the riffle, and the bullet would have come down and hit a target. After that, I couldn't hit the IRT as it was passing the 32nd street from the platform. But when I get off that line, everyone is grinning ear to ear. Trout looks at me, "Get in formation Safir." And I was done. Basic training was an easy run from that point on. We were so conditioned, and so trained. You can't imagine the experience. The satisfaction of being more today than you were yesterday. I've been searching for that sense of satisfaction ever since. Sometimes I get lucky and it comes. In the end, I finished basic, finished the advanced training, met my ex-wife in the army in San Antonio, took a few detours in duty, and saved myself. Anyway, in my experience, some things can't be ignored. Things are too much of a stretch to believe everything is just random.