Jason
Everman had the honor of being hired and fired from not just one, but
two famous bands. After drifting for a while with other bands, he
enlisted in the Army:
When he arrived for basic
training at Fort Benning, his hair was cut, his nose ring was removed;
he was as anonymous as every other recruit. At 26, he wasn’t an
old-timer, but he was close to it. Training had been going on for about a
month when Cobain committed suicide and Everman’s rock past was
discovered, which gave more ammunition to the drill sergeants. There was
a lot of “O.K., rock star, give me 50.” Everman insists he didn’t
expect anything else.
A fellow soldier named Sean Walker told me
that Ranger instructors begin by asking recruits to quit now to save
time. “You had to pass a 12-mile road march in three hours or less,”
Walker said, “run 5 miles in 40 minutes or less, complete the
combat-swimmers test, as well as other evils the cadre decided to throw
at you.” Half the recruits quit. But Everman refused to let himself be
left behind this time. He completed every last requirement.
Everman
became a Ranger and then made it into the elite world of the Special
Forces. He saw action in Iraq, Afghanistan and other places that he
can't talk about. In a way, he became a rock star again:
In
the war, Everman seemed to have found his place. The cloud didn’t go
anywhere; it just didn’t matter anymore. As one of his Special Forces
colleagues (who is still on active duty and requested that his name not
be published) told me: “He would get moody sometimes, but it didn’t
interfere with the task at hand. I would rather work with somebody who
is quiet than ran their suck constantly.” In Everman’s cabin, I saw
medal after medal, including the coveted Combat Infantryman Badge.
“Sounds kind of Boy Scouty,” he said. “But it’s actually something
cool.” I saw photos of Everman in fatigues on a warship (“an antipiracy
operation in Asia”). A shot of Everman with Donald Rumsfeld. Another
with Gen. Stanley A. McChrystal. And that’s when it hit me. Jason
Everman had finally become a rock star.
“The way I look at it,
life is meaningless,” Everman said the last time I saw him. “The
meaningfulness is what you impart to it.” The words sounded an awful lot
like those of a philosophy undergrad, which is the latest iteration of
Jason Everman’s life. He was talking about Jack Kerouac; he had to
reread “On the Road” for one of his classes. We were standing in front
of Butler Library on the Columbia University campus in New York. Everman
looked rested and content, a backpack over his shoulder. After he left
the military in 2006, he used the G.I. Bill to apply to two places:
Seattle University and Columbia University. He says he threw Columbia in
almost as a joke. General McChrystal wrote a letter of recommendation.
To Everman’s shock, he was accepted. “It’s almost like a dare that went
too far — and it keeps going.” At 45, he just received his bachelor’s
degree in philosophy.
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