It wasn’t jus’ flash flooding that shuttered U.S. 95 from Tonopah to the Pahrump exit – it was a fire at a nuclear waste dump in Beatty. Drivers on U.S. 95 can often see the company’s trucks driving in and out of the desert.

The Beatty Dump, as it is sometimes called, desolate stretch in the Amargosa Desert. It looks harmless from the highway with the appropriately named Bare Mountains in the distance.

But they’re carrying hazardous chemicals and materials largely from California to the facility, made up of storage tanks and lined holes in the desert that range in the size from a sandbox to a few football fields. Next to the nuclear storage site, the company also operates one of eight hazardous waste and treatment facilities in the state.

The state, which leases 80 acres to US Ecology, charges the company a fee for every shipment of waste to the facility. The Nevada Department of Conservation and Natural Resources says that over the last five years, fees have totaled more than $10 million.

US Ecology manages 22 low-level nuclear waste trenches in Nevada, which were filled from 1970 to 1992. An agreement is in the works that would increase the Beatty site by 400 acres and extend the facility’s lifespan by at least 20 years as the current site is nearly full.

Environmental Protection Agency documents from 2012 showed the company is allowed to store up to 87,400 gallons of chemicals in tanks and containers and treat 137,000 gallons of chemical waste every day. It also disposed of at least 808 million gallons of waste there.

Sunday’s fire reportedly did not emit above-average doses of radiation. The blaze was allowed to burn itself out because crews couldn’t use water on the potentially toxic material.

Results from aerial surveys by the Department of Energy were negative as was monitoring by four Nevada National Guard soldiers, who walked within six-feet of the burn center to detect if any heavier radioactive beta or alpha particles were carried by the smoke plume and fell to the ground. Items buried in the dump include contaminated laboratory gear, medical isotopes, used-nuclear-fuel assemblies, chemicals and electrical transformers tainted with cancer-causing PCBs.

These are the same kinds of waste that Nevada’s state and federal leaders have been trying to prevent from being shipped to Yucca Mountain for years, proving their fight is more political economics than environmental. It also proves that Progressive voters are nothing more than useful idiots.

Rhonda knew I was unraveling, and I wasn’t hiding it well on the air. The ten-year anniversary of the Beirut bombing was eating me alive, and I had mentioned it not once but twice, like some broken record stuck on repeat.

After the second time, she called. She must’ve known. “Are you alright?” she asked, her voice softer than usual, but there was an edge to it, a subtle tension.

I promised her I’d call when I got home. Hours later, I was drunk—completely fucking wasted off my ass. Christian Brothers brandy, the whole bottle sucked down before I even dialed.

The liquid fire had numbed me and dulled the sharp memories. But the second I heard that voice, something snapped. “Why now?” I slurred into the receiver, half-angry, half-desperate. “Why do you care now?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she shot back. “I’ve always cared.”

“Sure. Sure, you have,” I spat, my words dripping with bitterness. “But you weren’t there, were you? Ten years, and you weren’t fucking there. You don’t get it.”

“I’m not your punching bag,” she said, her voice hardening, a cold edge cutting through the static. “I called because I thought you needed someone. Clearly, I was wrong.”

But I couldn’t stop. It was like the floodgates had opened. “Needed someone? Needed someone?” I laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “You weren’t there in Beirut. You weren’t there when we pulled pieces of them out of the rubble. You don’t know what it’s like to smell burning flesh and know it’s your brothers. So don’t tell me you give a damn now.”

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, her voice low, shaken. “I’ve always been there for you. But you? You’ve pushed everyone away.”

I don’t remember the rest of it. I don’t recall what I said, what insults I threw, what bridges I burned. All I know is that by the time I hung up the phone, I felt like shit. The brandy had done its job, leaving me numb but hollow inside.

I knew I’d crossed a line, but I was too far gone to care. We didn’t talk for weeks after that. Rhonda didn’t call and didn’t leave messages. And I didn’t have the guts to reach out. I could feel the silence growing, heavy as a lead weight in my chest.

Three weeks passed before she finally called the station, and the second I heard her voice, I knew it would hit hard.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Her words cut through the static like a razor. I’d been waiting for this, dreading it, knowing it was coming like a slow-motion train wreck. “You don’t get to treat me like shit and then disappear for weeks. Who the hell do you think you are?”

I stumbled over my apology, trying to make sense of the mess I’d made. But it wasn’t enough, and we both knew it. The apology felt hollow, just words clinging to the air.

“You hurt me,” she said, her voice quieter now, but the anger had shifted to something worse—disappointment. That knife-in-the-gut kind of disappointment, simple and sharp. “I don’t know if I can trust you anymore. Not after that.”

And that was it. That was the moment everything crumbled. I hung up the phone, the weight of those words pressing down on me like a goddamn boulder. I knew I’d fucked up beyond repair. It wasn’t the alcohol that killed it; it was me. My bitterness, my anger—everything I’d shoved deep down came spilling out, and I’d destroyed the only friendship that had meant anything.

It wasn’t like Beirut, the kind of loss that you bury under blood and chaos. It was different. It was a slower, quieter kind of regret that putrefies. It was the memory of everything I wrecked, everything I pushed away. And there’s no undoing that kind of damage.

You sit with it, let it haunt you, carve out pieces of your soul that you’ll never get back. Every goddamn bottle you drown yourself in sinks you deeper.

Eighty-six percent of the Nevada is owned by the federal government. Now, private land owned by the Sheahan family since Abraham Lincoln was president, and overlooking the ‘secret base’ at ‘Area 51’ has officially been taken from them and given to the United States Air Force.

In the remote central Nevada desert, the Groom Mine has been an island of private property surrounded by a vast government buffer zone. The buffer zone’s patrolled by security troops to prevent people from getting a look at the so-called secret test base at Groom Lake.

Last month, the U.S. Air Force condemned the Groom Mine property when the Sheahan family who owns it rejected a $5.2 million government buyout. On September 16, federal Judge Miranda Du signed the order in the condemnation case giving possession of the Groom Mine property to the U.S. government.

The Sheahan’s have battled with the federal government for more than 60 years, first when radioactive fallout showered down on their property from atmospheric nuclear weapons tests at the nearby-Nevada Test Site in the early 1950s and later when the CIA and the Air Force developed an old airstrip along the Groom Dry Lake bed in 1955 to test the U-2 spy plane. The only part of the fight left for the family now is compensation and what will happen to the equipment, the buildings, and family members buried at there.

At least 20 family members have stakes in the joint 400 acres of property and mining claims. The family’s ancestors have mined for silver, lead, copper, zinc and gold during various times throughout the land’s known history.

The federal government made its final offer to the family after concluding the security and safety of defense testing in that area made private land ownership impossible. The feds valued the land at only $1.5 million, thus making their offer seem ‘more than generous.’

Nevada is slowly but surely becoming a colony of the federal government and our so-called state and federal leaders continue to do nothing about it.

Every since House Majority Leader Kevin McCarthy dropped out of the race to succeed Speaker John Boehner earlier this month, plenty of names have been bantered about for the job. At present the only one that seems to be catching any news-time is Congressman Paul Ryan.

Aside from being Mitt Romney’s selection for vice-president in 2012, Ryan, as Chairman of the House Ways And Means Committee, was essential to ushering President Obama’s trade agenda through the House of Representatives. Similarly, on the issue of immigration — Ryan has a two-decade long history of sabotaging Conservative immigration reforms and embracing Progressive ones.

During the 2013 effort to push the Rubio-Schumer bill through Congress, Ryan held secret meetings with Democratic Senator Chuck Schumer to ease the passage of the mass amnesty plan. In fact, Ryan has often invoked the language of Progressive’s in order to smear his Conservative constituents who oppose his plan for mass immigration.

At an event with Democratic Congressman Luis Gutierrez in Chicago during April 2013, where the two were aggressively stumping for current Presidential candidate Senator Marco Rubio’s immigration expansion bill, Ryan declared that his Republican constituents’ opposition to large-scale immigration is because “ignorance.”

“We’ve had plenty of waves of immigration that have always been met with resistance in the past—the Irish wave is just but one of them. Each wave is met with some ignorance, is met with some resistance,” stated Ryan.

Furthermore, and to no one’s surprise, retiring House Speaker John Boehner said he supports Ryan’s bid to become the chamber’s next top leader.

“I think Paul Ryan would make a great speaker,” Boehner told reporters. “I think Paul is going to get the support he’s looking for.”

And believe it or not, Senator Harry Reid is claiming to be “a Representative Paul Ryan fan” and says he hopes Ryan will be the next GOP Speaker. Jus’ knowing this — that should kill Ryan’s chances entirely, however the Progressive wing of the Republican Party will do what it wants to help its left-leaning agenda.

And finally — where the hell is the stalwart Conservative Texas Congressman Louis Gohmert when needed? Back in January 2015, he was all hot to trot about ridding Boehner of his job and setting American on the right path again.

“I am still supporting Dan Webster,” says Gohmert.

Disappointing to say the least.

A storm on Sunday created a mess on U.S. 95 leading to a 140-mile stretch of roadway being closed between Tonopah and State Route 160 in Nye County, Nevada as flooding washed out sections of the highway. Unfortunately, I got caught in the storm.

The rain seemed to hit all at once. Even with my trucks wipers going full-tilt at the water — I couldn’t really see out of my wind shield.

The road took a beating. It rained hard for about five to six minutes.

Then like that it was over and I could see again. But that’s when the real trouble began.

Hot and humid, I rolled down my windows. In the distance I could hear the faint roaring sound of water on the move.

Without much warning that faint roar grew to a crescendo. Beyond, in the cloud-shrouded distance, water was cascading from the steep hillsides towards U.S. 95 and my truck.

As quick as possible, I cranked my front wheels towards the flow hoping to cause the water to rush around them and prevent my truck from being pushed into the ditch on the other side of the highway. The water still managed to turn my truck sideways.

Soon it was inches from entering my cab. There was very little to do but sit out the torrent and pray as I snapped photographs, which I accidentally took in black-and-white, having misset the camera’s programming in my haste.

In less than three minutes the flooding had come and gone. I watched it decrease from more than a foot in-depth to less than an inch washing over the asphalt to the west of me.

Thunderstorms in the high desert are fast-moving. After turning my truck so it was no longer across both lanes, I noticed the hills — which had been clouded-over — were now cloudless.

Finally, after several hours of waiting, the Nevada Highway Patrol started turning drivers around at the entrance of SR 160, which leads to Pahrump and which was also severely flooded.  There would be no traveling on U.S. 95 until further notice and I’d have to wait out the closure or find another way home.

As I headed back towards where I had jus’ been, it surprised me to see the residue left in the wake of the flooding. U.S. 95 remained closed until Monday evening.

No one died or was hurt, one man did have to be rescued by helicopter after he got trapped in the mud, atop of his SUV. As for me, I eventually found another way home.

Stop worrying so much.
Worry will not strip tomorrow of its burdens, it will strip today of its joy.
One way to check if something is worth mulling over is to ask yourself this question:
“Will this matter in one year’s time? Three years? Five years?”
If not, then it’s not worth worrying about.

Today, signs placed northbound along U.S. Highway 101 near the Dr. Fine Bridge over the Smith River and southbound near the Oregon border mark the nine mile stretch of highway dedicated to California Highway Patrol Office Ernie Felio. And every time I see them, I can’t help but think about the night of September 7, 1980.

It was a Sunday evening and I was about two and half hours into my air shift at KCRE, in Crescent City, California. I was supposed to still be training, but instead I was filling in for the guy who usually worked the shift had called in sick.

Not only was he supposed to be working the shift, he was supposed to be training me to do the overnight weekends. I was a little more than stressed because I had only been in training for two nights prior to this, so I was operating by the seat of my pants.

That’s when all hell broke loose across the street from the station. The window was open to the studio and as I looked out it, I saw several deputies come pouring out of the sheriff’s office across the street – including three who jumped out the open window of the break room and rushed to their patrol cars.

Since the song I was playing was nearly over, I waited to begin a new one. Once that was done, I got up and walked across the hall to the production/news room and turned on the scanner hoping to hear what was going on.

It became clear from the radio traffic that something ‘big’ had gone down. I heard Sheriff Tom Hopper being called out, his call number being 231, and responding officers calling in saying they were en route and were so many miles from Smith River.

At the sheriff’s office, I could imagine the dispatcher clearing the radio, calling for officers to respond to a radio check. One call sign, 95-3, never answered.

Then – an eerie silence. Soon that was followed by a nerve-racking, “beep-beep-beep,” and the words, “All units prepare to copy a BOLO (be on look out,) on a 187 of a peace officer in the Crescent City area.”

PC 187: Homicide. The willful taking of a human life without justification — and this one was compounded as the life taken was that of a law enforcement officer.

That’s when I decided to call the station manager and ask him what I should do. He suggested I call the news director which I did.

The news director walked up the stairs to the newsroom about 20 minutes later. Eventually, I gave up my seat so he could make the announcement that California Highway Patrol Officer shot and killed during a traffic stop in Smith River.

Soon the teletype in the hallway began ringing – alerting us to the same information the news director had jus’ put out over the airwaves. I pulled it from the machine and handed it to him, saying, “For your scrap-book.”

Smiling, he wadded it up and tossed it in the round file, replying “I don’t save them – if I did, I have a thousand of them by now.”

As soon as he left the studio, I retrieved it knowing that it may be someone I knew.

The following day, the shock of the murder was hitting Crescent City hard. And yes, I knew who the officer was as I had graduated from Del Norte High School with his daughter, Carol, in 1978.

Ernie Felio, an 18-year veteran of the CHP, died while making a “routine traffic stop,” around 8:20 p.m. An hour later, Josephine County, Oregon sheriff’s duty Larry Michaels stopped a car in the Cave Junction area, fitting the description of a car seen at the time of the shooting and arrested its driver, Ronald Chester Hawkins.

My father and I were sharing my small apartment on Elk Valley Drive and we were listening to the radio and upon hearing the words, “routine traffic-stop,’ Dad shook his head and sighed.

“What?” I had to ask.

“You know the saying, ‘Familiarity breeds contempt?” Dad continued.

Having heard it before, I nodded my head.

“Well, it sounds like Ernie got careless and treated this pull-over like every other pull-over and that’s what got him killed.”

“How was he supposed to know he had a gun!” I heard myself exclaim, thinking my old man, an ex-cop himself, was blaming Ernie for his own death.

Nodding, Dad sensed what I was thinking, “All I’m saying is Ernie should’ve approached the guy in the car as if he were armed and dangerous.”

For me, the light-bulb went on and it was burning bright, because I knew that aside from domestic calls, pulling over a driver is one of the most dangerous things a law enforcement officer can do. The realization brought a chill to my body and I shivered.

For the next few months, very little was reported about Ernie’s death and by the time something did break, I had left the radio station because I didn’t want to work for free.

It was May 28, 1981, when Hawkins’ murder trial began with Del Norte County District Attorney Robert Weir telling the jury that the murder had been done “execution style.” It was obvious that Weir was aiming for the death penalty and was pulling no punches about it.

By this time the trial had been moved to the Shasta County Superior Court. Hawkins’ defense attorney Jere Hurley had argued successfully that his client wouldn’t be able to get a fair trial because of all the publicity.

Mike Luttrell, who worked in the Smith River Lily fields with Hawkins, testified that he was present when both Hawkins and Ernie pulled up into the drive way along Westbrook Lane. After an exchange of pleasantries with Luttrell, Ernie walked around his squad car and was confronted by Hawkins, who fired twice at the unsuspecting officer.

At hearing the first two pistol shots, Lutrell said he ran from the scene, fearing he’d be next. The farmhand also described hearing Ernie shout, “No, not me!” before two more pistol shots rang out.

Meanwhile, Hurley argued that Hawkins couldn’t be responsible for first-degree murder because he was an alcoholic with a diminished mental capacity and therefore incapable of premeditated murder. A few days later, Hawkins brother and girlfriend were in court trying to convince the jury of the same.

Bonnie Orton, Hawkins’s girlfriend, testified that she witnessed Hawkins drink seven to 10 cans of beer while they drove from Southern Oregon to Smith River the day of Ernie’s murder. She also claimed she’d seen him drunk on 15 to 20 occasions, “and possibly more than that,” in the two months she had known him.

Hawkins’ brother, Ed Hawkins, testified that the defendant had a history of drinking problems and appeared to have been drinking when he saw him several hours before Ernie was slain. Hawkins’ eyes were glazed, he was jumpy and tried to pick a fight with him, the brother claimed.

A psychiatrist said Hawkins might have “blacked out” during the slaying, meaning he didn’t remember what had happened. However, David Pike testified that Hawkins bragged about killing Ernie and expressed regret that he hadn’t killed Lutrell, too. Pike and Hawkins had shared a Del Norte County jail cell after the shooting.

It was Monday, June 15, 1981, when a jury found Hawkins guilty of first-degree murder in the shooting death of a California Highway Patrolman Ernest Ray Felio. The following month, and the day after my 21st birthday, Hawkins was formally given a sentence of death.

During the penalty phase of the trial, Superior Court Judge Richard Abbe also fined Hurley $500 and gave him a day in jail for sending an investigator to contact a juror during the trial. Evidently, while enough to piss off the Judge; the illegal meeting wasn’t enough to warrant a mistrial, which is what Abbe suspected Hurley was trying to get.

Abbe, following the jury’s recommendation, ordered Hawkins to death row at San Quentin Prison. Hawkins, however, committed suicide by hanging himself on January 17, 1983 using a bed sheet he had tied to a wall ventilator.

Ernie was also posthumously honored in December 2010 with the California State Employee Medal of Valor for his efforts in saving a teenage boy from electrocution. It was March 8, 1969, when Ernie, who was off duty at the time, came upon the scene of a traffic collision.

A vehicle had collided with a power pole that was carrying several 12,000 volt electrical lines. As a result of the collision, several live wires were hanging across the roadway in disarray and at varying heights.

The teen lived across the street from the accident and came outside to see what was happening, but because of the darkness, the black power lines, and no street lights, he walked into a live wire. Ernie saw a bluish flame leap from the boy’s head and shoulders as soon as the kid made contact with the wire, then saw him fall to the ground.

Realizing, the boy would die, Ernie raced through and around the wires to help the teenager. When he reached the boy he found him rigid, unconscious and not breathing.

Ernie was able to open his airway and begin mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and after several minutes, the boy finally began to breathe on his own and was transported to the hospital. The boy was released a few days later and made a full recovery.

Not even while in formation, marching from class to the barracks was I able to keep from pissing someone off. This time it happened to be one of my classmates behind me by the name of Bob.

We had one civilian in our class. His name was Tom as well.

He had no idea how aggravating it was to be forced to march back to our barracks in 100-degree heat. All he wanted to do was lighten the mood of the 50 or so sour-pusses as we trudged in lock-step down the road.

So to that end he started pretending to be a Drum Major, leaning way back, high kicking as stroking the air with an imaginary baton. I found it irritating and more a mockery of us than funny.

“Knock it off, Tom,” I shouted as he high stepped past me.

He immediately stopped, saying, “Oh, sorry.”

Tom dropped back and returned to walking normal. Meanwhile Bob yelled at me.

“Shut the fuck up, Darby!” he said, “You ain’t in charge of him!”

Technically he was right – but I was in no mood to put up with Tom’s antics. Now it was Bob’s turn to catch my wrath.

“Mind your own business, Bob,” I countered.

“You think you’re the shit ‘cause you got that rope on your shoulder,” Bob shot back.

Now I was really pissed off and I wanted to rip him a new asshole. I waited a minute so I could calm down before I said anything else to him.

“You’re going on report!” I finally hollered.

I could feel Bob’s glare burning a hole into the back of my head.

Less than 15 minutes later, our formation formally broke between the chow hall and the post office. As everyone scattered to do whatever, I shouted for Bob to stop.

“I wanna word with you,” I demanded.

“Fuck you,” he responded.

“Oh, is that what you think?” I asked, as he continued to walk away from me, adding “we’ll see how you feel about it by tomorrow morning.”

With a seething anger raging through me I walked along the outside of the barrack, to the outside door closest to my room. I didn’t want to hear the snide remarks made by anyone as I passed through the hallway about how I couldn’t make anyone do anything I ordered them to do.

Later that evening, Frank dropped by to ask me how everything was going. I unloaded on him about how disrespectful Bob had been to me and how I couldn’t control any of the a-holes in the flight.

“We’ll do you want to place him on report or not?” Frank asked, boiling the entire conversation down to one question.

I didn’t hesitate, “Yeah.”

“Fine,” Frank replied, “Consider it done.”

He left soon afterwards. That left me alone in my room to ponder and worry over whether I was doing the right thing or not.

“Dammit!” I said aloud as I turned off my light and dropped into bed, “I hate my fucking indecisiveness!”

The following morning we once again fell into formation, marched up the rise to school and fell out. Before we had a chance to take our seats, Bob was called out of the room.

He returned a few minutes later. I could tell he wasn’t happy.

Before long though, I realized I was the one being considered the son-of a-bitch, as most everyone was avoiding me. It was Mike Gorsline who finally broke the stalemate by sitting next to me in the chow hall.

After a few minutes of silence, he stated in a matter of fact tone, “Sometimes you gotta do the hard thing to make others do the right thing.”

I looked at him for a few seconds and finally responded, “Thanks, Mike, but I still don’t feel good about it.”

After lunch and back in the classroom, Bob was called to the Commanders office; he was going to be formally placed on report. By now my anger had subsided completely and I was feeling sick to my stomach, realizing this all was happening because I yelled at Tom.

A few minutes later Bob reappeared in class. He went to Frank and spoke to him in a whisper – then Frank pointed at me and then the door.

He stepped outside it along with Bob. I followed seconds later.

“You’re requested to make a formal statement to the C.O.,” Frank instructed, “That means both of you need to get there, pronto.”

With that we walked towards Captain Smith’s office. It was Bob who broke the silence.

“Man, I’m sorry for acting the way I did the other day,” he said.

I was stunned.

“I got two kids and wife and I can’t afford to be fined the hundred dollars a paycheck Smiths going to impose on me,” he said mournfully.

I stopped.

“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry this has happened, but I can’t back out now because I’ve been pushed too far by some of the others.”

“I know,” he replied.

“I’m not blaming you for their actions,” I continued, “rather I’m jus’ trying to get everyone to understand this ain’t high school or a college frat house.”

“I hear you,” Bob said.

“I don’t wanna see you get busted,” I commented, “so here’s what we’ll do.”

I explained my idea as we returned to our fast pace walk to the Captain’s office.

Within minutes we were both standing in front of Captain Smith, who was seated at his desk. To both Bob and my surprise, Frank was standing against the wall as we entered.

“So you think its okay to disobey someone I’ve placed in command?” Smith started as he spoke directly to Bob.

“No, sir” Bob answered, “it isn’t.”

“Then why did you do it?” the Captain asked.

“Because I let my temper get outta hand,” answered Bob.

“What do you have to say about all this Darby?” Smith questioned.

“Well, Captain Smith,” I replied, “Since this took place he and I have talked it out and come to an understanding…”

“Really?” Smith interrupted as he looked at Frank.

“And…” he said.

“We both agreed that we were angry and each did and said things that made the situation worse than it was,” I continued, “and sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like to chalk this up to a learning experience on both our parts.”

Smith glanced back and forth at the two airmen standing in front of his desk. Then he looked again at Frank.

“Tech Sergeant,” he stated, “what do you think?”

“Sir,” Frank replied, “if they say they worked it out, we ought to wait and see if it’s so. I’m sure if it isn’t we’ll know soon enough then we can revisit the subject then.”

“Very well,” Smith agreed, “You two – get out of my office!”

Both Bob and I saluted, pivoted and exited the way we entered. I couldn’t believe it had worked.

“Thanks, man,” Bob said as we continued back to class.

“I had no idea you had kids,” I said, “let alone were married.”

He pulled out his wallet and showed me pictures of his family. Bob and I got along from that point on and he eventually helped lessen the hostility some of the others in our flight felt towards me and the other ropes.

Hillary Clinton shaded the facts about her use of a private email account while she was Secretary of State. And Democratic Socialist Senator Bernie Sanders of Vermont wrongly placed the U.S. as the world’s leader in wealth and income inequality.

Clinton, whose defense of her private email server has shifted repeatedly over time, said during the debate that what she did was “allowed by the State Department.”

However, using a private account for all her work emails was inconsistent with long-established policies and practices under Federal law. Clinton was also supposed to turn over her personal emails to the Department at the end of her tenure, not two years later as she did.

Sanders, whose net worth at $528,014 is nearly 8 times larger than the net worth of the average American, claimed the U.S. “should not be the country that has…more wealth and income inequality than any other country.”

Someone ought to tell the that U.S. ranks 42 in ‘income inequality’ according to the World Bank. And in terms of wealth, we’re number 16 out of 46 nations.

So in the end, the truth was a casualty.

We were the third class housed in the barracks at the time. It would be another couple of weeks before the “Senior-flight” would graduate and the “Junior-flight” would advance, followed by the “Baby-flight.”

Initially, I was housed with a member of the “Senior-flight” class. The young man, not much older than me, spent much of his time at the Enlisted Man’s Club, drinking.

One evening the young man came into the room completely intoxicated. He had with him a mirror that he promptly hung on the wall behind the door to the room.

The next day it was discovered that one of the mirrors from the restrooms across the hall was missing. A fast search of the barrack was made and the mirror was located.

At first I was blamed for the theft; however it was quickly pointed out that I still had a shaved head from my days in basic training. However my roommate had enough hair to need grooming.

I figured he was so drunk he didn’t remember doing it.

It didn’t take long for me to be moved to the ground floor with the majority of my classmates. The other airman graduated a couple of weeks later and I never heard from him again.