“Why not just buy a decent strap instead of fucking with that 550 cord that you keep insisting on using? Or better yet, you're playing football. Just go hit the motherfucker not wearing a black jersey,” I say, yanking my tie loose. Gotta hand it to West Point. The rest of the Army might be catching on to the fact that people have modernized and that the military is now a ninety-nine-percent field uniform service, but West Point keeps its traditions. Whether it's the twenty-seven pound, all-wool long overcoat we wear for the Army-Navy game, the parade uniforms that date back to the 1800s, or the 'as for class' uniform that I'm pulling off now with its black nylon shirt, black tie for fall and winter, polyester blend gray pants that come straight from the seventies, and black dress shoes, we keep our damn traditions.
Unfortunately for me, I keep another one of my personal traditions as I yank my tie off. My name tag, the same black plastic that officers use, catches on my tie and rips away from the metal pin backing, flying across my desk to bounce off my bookshelf. “Goddammit! That's four times this semester!”
“At least there are only two months of classes left this semester,” Cho notes, chuckling. “You spend more money on supergluing those damn name tags of yours together than you would if you just took the extra two seconds to take your tie off right.”
Cho and I have been roomies before, back when we were plebes. We tolerate each other, so at least I don't have it as bad as the girls on the floor below. The Corps of Cadets always tries to room people together in the same year group, and a few of the women in my company just hate each other. Seriously, I've thought of going downstairs a few times and telling them to shut the fuck up. Sarah and Jordan go at it like an old married couple, and the only thing stopping me is that Sarah's my squad leader, a year ahead of me in rank. I don’t need her on my dick. But you try concentrating when shit's being thrown at the walls downstairs.
“Nah, I'll just put in another order online,” I say. I go over to my footlocker and pull out my clothes for sports. Being on the triathlon team has its advantages, the main one being that I don't have to dress like everyone else does. Instead of the loose jogging pants or standard shorts that everyone else wears, I pull on the full-length padded cycling tights that make sure I don't snag any fabric in a sprocket or chain. “By the way, you got any glue?”
“Yeah, you can use it when you get back,” Cho bitches before pulling on his glasses. “How do the BCGs look?”
Cho insists on calling the glasses by their nickname, BCGs, or birth control glasses, because nobody has ever, ever gotten laid wearing a pair of them. I bet you could put one of those Instagram girls in the middle of Washington Plain buck ass naked except for the glasses, and she'd get no play at all.
“You look ready to go fuck shit up. Who are you guys playing today?”
“H company today, man. We win, we go to the playoffs. We lose, season's over. We get to the playoffs, and Captain Larson said he's giving the intramural team a week of PMI. Fuck, I could use a week of relaxed room inspections,” Cho says with more passion than he normally does. He catches a lot of flak from the Tac Department about his cleanliness, which I don't think is all that bad. He just seems to have the worst luck in the world of having that one item left out or that one thing out of place when the TAC comes by. “Still, some of the smacks are bitching, saying they're getting too busy for football. Except for Yeager. That guy's a goddamn psycho. God help whoever the fuck he goes against when boxing comes around.”
“Well, good luck,” I say, grabbing my clip-in riding shoes and heading out the door. I jog down the stairs and out the door, clearing the last three steps to the quad in a jump and taking off. While every member of the triathlon team has an assigned bike, I want to catch the good weather and be well on my way before five o'clock, when the cannon sounds retreat and you're supposed to stop, face the direction of the flag, and salute. I don't really have a problem with it except that it can fuck up a good training ride.
I get to the room and check in with Captain White, our Officer-in-Charge, and grab my bike. “Where you headed today, Aaron?” Captain White asks. That's a good thing about him—he's willing to treat us cadets like regular people. “Remember, you've got your race in April and that lead-up sprint tri next month.”
“I'm going to go out to Bear Mountain Bridge today, sir,” I reply. “Figure it'll be a good ride, and then on the way back in, I'll do some hill laps from Gillis around Michie and back a few times.”
Captain White nods. “Do those hills in as high a gear as you can. You need to work on your anaerobic power. All that hockey muscle hasn't transferred to the bike as well as I'd like. And if you need more time than that, I've got the static rig ready here for you, too.”
That's Captain White. He knows our times and splits like the back of his hand. I pull my running shoes off and do the Velcro on my bike shoes, borrowed this semester, but I'm hoping to get my own pair next semester. “Hooah, sir. I'm off.”