“There are still careers in combat, my son,” the suit said to me. His head was leaking like an ice cream cone down the lapels of his cornflower blue shirt. He extended his hand out towards me, but it was also melting, so when I took his hand it split mine into halves. “I’m so sorry, Master Cheese,” I said in utter embarrassment. “It’s all right, my son,” he said. “Puberty hits everyone at different stages.” I was 26 years old that day when I left for my career. I never forgot the ice cream cone-headed man. He was a spitting image of a father figure I never had. Dejected, I climbed to the top of a tall building and yelled at the top of my lungs. My yelling attracted attention from the suit. I could see the look of disappointment on his face. “Son, I understand cutting someone’s hand in half, but yelling off a rooftop is too far.” He gave me a milky warm embrace, and I am not ashamed to admit, I cried over the thought of this exchange years later. When I am alone counting my collection of cornflower blue shirts, is when it hits the hardest.

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