The Prophet Sarge

The Prophet Sarge

Occasionally I meet people who change my outlook on life. These people are rarely leaders, are generally not important by any common definition, tend to lack higher education and have questionable cognition or at least present with dubious mental health. These people inject meaning into my life on a much truer level than any motivational speaker or leadership training event that I have ever been privy to.

I met Sarge this summer during my mountain vacation at a seedy local tavern in rural Arizona. Initially, I only witnessed him. He was being called, “Blue” seemingly to mockingly compare him to the less than responsive octogenarian college fraternity pledge from the movie, “Old School.” Sarge was a primary participant in the Saturday night karaoke party being offered at the bar. He donned a baseball cap, unbuttoned shirt that exposed his amazingly fit mid-section, jeans and a cane over his arm. It appeared that he had not shaved in several years and perhaps had never visited the dentist. He attempted to sing along with the machine but the karaoke operator had to assist due to Sarge’s inebriated mumbling. However, Sarge effused happiness and the glow in his eyes let you know that he was truly living the life that he wanted. The crowd would cheer him on with hoots and hollers and Sarge would dance with the intermittent use of his staff. At times he seemed to transcend his surroundings and he appeared in a daze. Maybe he was just really drunk.

The following week my friends and I were back at the bar and Sarge appeared in front of us as we went to take a seat. We greeted him warmly and he began to hover over our table. “You ladies having a night with just lady talk?” he asked. I responded with, “Are you asking to join us?” He quickly sat down. Pleasantries were exchanged that I would characterize a sub-finishing school conversation and that is when I started the questions, “So, were you in Vietnam?” “I sure as hell was, that’s why they call me ‘Sarge’ I was a Sargent in ‘Nam. The Army loved me because I figured a way to detonate a whole line of explosives. It blew a bunch of Gooks straight up in the air. I killed a whole fucking bunch of them.” “Oh, wow!” was my puerile reply. “You don’t wanna hear this shit. You’re here to have fun.” One of my companions quickly chimed in, “It’s ok. We are used to it. We are all therapists.” No matter that we are all Speech Therapists.

He began to share with us his entire life while showing us every bit of identification he had on him and we learned that his real name is Edward. He had previously been married and has four adult children. He was estranged from three of them. One of his sons had half of his face blown off in Iraq by an I.E.D. His wife left him or he left his wife (this was unclear) because of his alcoholism. He had primarily traveled throughout the southwest United States and held various odd jobs throughout his life including selling sought after treasures at the annual swap meet in Quartzsite and foresting in Idaho where he killed a, “fucking asshole black bear.” He concluded his tale with a story of living with a, “whore in Elko, Nevada.” Apparently, “she would give me tune-ups.” And one night he was allegedly sexually assaulted by this prostitute and the interlude netted a child who is apparently now about 8 years old.

Within this conversation it emerged that he was previously diagnosed by the V.A. as a sociopath. My partners and I were curious about this diagnosis. “How did they come to that?” was our joint question. “Well, the lady psychiatrist, she was real good looking, well she sat down with her binder and she started asking me questions about the war. And she asked me, ‘Do you feel bad that you killed those people?’ And I said no fucking way do I feel bad about blowing those fucking Gooks up. She closed her binder and next thing I know they tell me I’m a sociopath and wanna serve up a whole tray of meds. You know the V.A. wants to put everyone one those fucking meds. Everyone is a guinea pig to them.”

My companions and I sat quietly and exchanged glances. We collectively agreed that he was not a sociopath. PTSD yes. Detachment disorder yes. Sociopath, not so much. I looked him in the eye and said. “When you killed those people, you were doing your job.” He stared back at me and for a moment truth was punctuated.

Then, he dropped a doozey. He said, “My Grandfather and I had an Internet before there was an Internet. You know a different way of knowing.” Oh shit! I questioned him to confirm my fears. My buddies knew why I prodded him for clarification and finally it was clear. He was an intuitive mystic. He could sense things beyond our realm of earthly existence. Here he was, someone with a similar experience with the spirit world that I have had and I could easily relate to him.  I wanted to call my priest who was in Ireland and tell him that I was right and that only crazy people have these experiences.

Initially, I was mortified and then I realized that Sarge was just another prophet in my life. He presented himself to me as an equalizer. Why would I think I was any bit above this man? Does my professional persona along with my quasi-intellectualism really outweigh his service to our country and his work-a-day blue-collar ethic? If I am truly a Christian he should go before me or at least be able to humble me. And this was Sarge’s gift to me; a reinforcement that all of God’s creatures deserve respect and not the clinical coolness that was afforded to Sarge by that Psychiatrist.

Who are the prophets in your life?