For info on the Shy Man's Guide to Success with Women (or any of Terry Heggy's other writing), please visit www.shyperson.com.

Seeing the "Lord of the Rings - The Two Towers" movie brought back memories of when I read that particular book. Nineteen hunnert and seventy six, it was. Jimmy Carter's cat had not yet crapped on the White House lanes. Bill Gates hadn't even bought his first Rembrandt. Bachman Turner Overdrive were still stuttering on top 40 radio stations, b-b-b-baby. And I was wondering what the hell I was going to do with my life.

Our family's mantra during the 60's had been "to get a good job, you need a good education". Repetition had firmly cemented this axiom into my skull, but my youthful optimism had somehow transmogrified it into the statement "if you get a good education, you WILL get a good job". I figured that a sheepskin from a school like KU would open so many doors that I'd have to hire a CPA to sort and analyze all my job offers. (I later realized that for some strange reason, KU's tradition of basketball excellence did not necessarily translate into worldwide respect for its academic programs. Oh well...)

Not only did my degree NOT generate any job offers, but it wasn't even on a sheepskin. It was forty pound bond paper at best, and the Dean's signature looked suspiciously like a rubber stamp. Still, I displayed it proudly; I had a B.S. in Radio-TV-Film, and I wanted the whole world to know. Of course, about 90% of the people who learned this fact promptly responded by saying "Hey, my gramma's got a bustid TV set -- kin ya fix it?"

Sorry, I couldn't fix your TV set. Nor your damn transistor radio that you used to listen to Yankees games on back when Whitey Ford was pitching. But, you know, I'd be happy to direct a movie for you. Sure. Anything. Preferably something with a title like "Attack of the Well-Endowed Cheerleader Bimbos" or something.

Alas, none such offers appeared.

I was faced with the decision to take some crappy hamburger stand job, go back to school and attempt graduate studies, or... join the armed forces. Well, I was a college grad-u-ate, for gawshsakes, I didn't want to be flippin' burgers. (I did a few years later, and actually enjoyed it a lot. But that's a different story.) I had pretty much run out of gas academically, too; I'd taken as many athletic electives as they allowed (tennis, weightlifting, fencing, lifesaving, etc. -- I'd have taken advanced fencing, cuz the teacher was a total fox, but I'd already suffered too many chest cavity puncture wounds in the beginning course. Reflexes? I don't got no steenking reflexes.). I sure as hell didn't want to take your standard graduate classes such as "Man's Inhumanity to Man -- a Study of Feminism in Classical Literature" and "Freudian Symbolism in Mongolian Architecture". (I briefly considered signing up for "The Tao of Steve McGarrett", but decided not to when I saw the obese teacher. He was, like, whoa, fat. -- Get it? Har har har.)

So it's the Army for me. I suppose I could've opened the yellow pages and found out where the recruiting centers were for the other service branches, but hey, I already knew where the Army office was. Besides, it was their dazzling "Be All You Can Be" television commercial campaign that had given me the idea in the first place. You get to go to cool places, play with cool toys, and make tons of money. Beats the hell out of listening to some grad student talk about Gauss's theorum, lemme tell ya.

The recruiter wasn't quite sure what to do with me. I got the impression he'd never had a college boy walk into his office before. He kept saying things like, "Oh, yeah, the Army'll make you tough. With a couple months practice, you'll be able to whip any of those Navy punks in a bar fight." He also told me that chicks dig a man in uniform, and that with a little luck, I might even find one who had all of her original teeth.

"Gee, that's swell," I said, "but didn't the commercials say that with the All-Volunteer Army, I can pick whatever job I want?" Why, shore you can. Hell, just last week we had a feller what picked 'engine mechanic', and he's already got so much grease under his fingernails that he cain't even pick his nose without the boogers falling off.

Lovely. "Uh, I want to be in the film crew, or maybe a photographer." Why, shore. But it might be more fun to be in the infantry, doncha think? Shootin' a gun's way more fun than shootin' a camera, ain't it?

Well, of course it is, my good man. But that's not what I wanted to do. After another half hour of verbal wrangling, I got the Sarge to admit that he wasn't really the one with the authority to designate my personally hand-picked job assignment. First I had to take the written test to see if my IQ was high enough to kill people; if it was, I would then go to Kansas City to see if I could pass the physical exam. If all was well at that point, I'd talk to the Guru of Army Jobs and pick out my dream career.

As a suburban son of an upper-middle-class aerospace engineer, I'd let a somewhat sheltered life. Oh, sure, my dad would occasionally attempt some misbegotten wordworking project (someday, I'll tell you about the gargantuan wooden kite-string winder he made) or endanger the neighborhood by trying to hang his own Christmas lights...but for the most part, we hired people to change our oil, sharpen lawn mower blades, or unclog the drains. I had never lost a fingernail under the hood of a car. Therefore, I was quite dismayed to find that the majority of the Army's written test questions had to do with auto mechanics. Sheesh!

Though not at all confident in my answers, I turned in my test to the Sergeant. He told me to stand there while he graded it. He had only looked at a dozen answers or so when he began to mutter under his breath. "Lordy," he said. "Good Gawd Awmighty!" and finally "I'll be double-damned." OK, I thought, I flunked. No biggie, I can still go back to school. Maybe I can take some classes on the "Genius of Buster Keaton" or perhaps a religion study on whether Calvinism is better than Hobbesism.

Finally, he wiped his brow from the exertion of grading my paper and looked up at me. "Boy," he said, "this is the highest test score we've ever had at this recruiting station." He stuck out his hand and said, "You're going to make a fine soldier, son."

Now, you'd think I'd be proud of my outstanding test performance, wouldn't you? But quite frankly, I found his statement and compliment, well, scary. I didn't know shit about cars, but I'd blown away my competition on a test concentrating on that very subject? Man, I thought, this does not bode well for the general level of competence within my peer group for this job.

Nonetheless, I got my bus ticket to Kansas City. This is where the Tolkien connection comes in. (Thought I'd forgotten that, didn't you?) By car, it was about a three-hour drive from Wichita to KC, but by bus it took seven. The bus route stopped in every Kansas town that was big enough to claim its own mud puddle, and at each stop the driver got off to smoke his Benson & Hedges 100s. I finished "The Two Towers" and got well into the final book in the series before we reached our destination.

Maybe it was the environment. Perhaps it's simply not possible to enjoy a book during a 7-hour ride next to a guy with Tourrette's syndrome who smells like the pig parts that weren't good enough to make it into Spam. It might have been the fact that most of the bus's exhaust seemed to have been re-routed into the passenger compartment and the fact that my seat seemed to be half rock, and half sponge. I was tilted to one side, eyes tearing up from the particles in the air, and more than a little annoyed with my odiferous seat-mate. Made it rather hard to enjoy the reading experience.

But then again, it just might possibly be that Tolkien is a crappy writer. I was unable to see what the heck everyone got so worked up about when they praised these books. Far too many pages of description of imaginary places that had nothing to do with the story. Droning on and on about who's related to whom and how many different kinds of crap happened in the past which has nothing to do with the current story. I dunno, I just found it boring. Oh, sure, I can get into bloodying up a few orcs and following the occasional mutant swamp creature around for a bit, but at some point, you gotta just end this thing, all right? Frodo, et al, take about 6 weeks to do what McBain could've handled in 1 hour and 50 minutes.

Anyway, we unloaded the bus at the fabulous Hotel President. At one time, this was probably a 5-star establishment, but the roaches had eaten most of those stars back in the 50s. We had to elbow hookers out of the way in order to gain access to the lobby, and I never was really sure whether the guy I had to step over was breathing or not. Let's assume so.

Now you might think that a 20-year-old virgin with a libido larger than King Kong would appreciate the ready availability of Ladies of the Evening. Well, you'd be right, if it weren't for the fact that these particular soiled doves were of the same quality as the hotel. Old, run-down, and smelly. Even though I felt as invulnerable and immortal as all 20-year-olds do, I was absolutely convinced that I would catch something fatal from these scags if I so much as let one breathe on me. I felt nothing but relief to be safely locked in my room with nothing but the rats and roaches.

For all I know, this hotel has since been restored to its former glory, and is currently hosting guests as rich and famous as Eric Estrada and Sally Struthers. But in 1976, I had trouble sleeping because of the vision that at some point during the night, the claws on the bottom of the bathtub would re-animate to creep over to my bed to smother me in a porcelain nightmare. Despite the horror stories I'd heard about how many rectal probes the Army physical involved, I was actually glad when morning came and I could throw myself on the mercy of the Army doctors and their cold steel insertions.

Prior to the exam, we were all herded into what had once been a ballroom, but now more closely resembled a warehouse. About a hundred young military hopefuls lurked about, each waiting his turn to be verified Grade A. Every branch of the Service would receive new recruits from this collection of nervous newbies. Some kids formed small conversation groups. Some fell deep into introspection. Some mumbled to themselves about how they had wasted an entire bus ride reading a piece of crap about some stupid hairy midgets and a telepathically evil piece of jewelry. Virtually everyone lit up a cigarette.

From the time my grandfather died of lung cancer caused by his smoking habit, I had possessed NO desire to ever smoke, or to hang out with people who smoked a lot. Yet here I was, surrounded by heavy smokers. I thought, "Hmmm, these guys are going to be my Army roommates. I'm going to smell like smoke continuously for years. No, not the good kind of smoke smell, like when you're roasting marshmallows over a pinewood fire in the mountains...but the kind where everything stinks like the time my brother hid his army men in the oven right before Mom decided to bake salmon cakes. Did I really want to spend the majority of my 20s hanging out with these guys?

The other thing that puzzled me was the general wimpiness of the group. I had always thought that only the most macho guys would enlist. In fact, before I had boarded the bus, I had assumed that I'd be the most candy-assed twerp among all the recruits. But as I waited and looked around the room, I honestly thought I could probably whip most any guy there. One guy was 6 foot 3 and only weighed 130 pounds. The ink in his tattoos weighed more than his flesh and bones did. The doctor told him to go home and start eating, and to come back when he'd gained 20 pounds. My opinion of the Army had already begun to change.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have the utmost respect for the members of America's armed forces. It takes tremendous character, guts, and fortitude to do what they do. I am in awe of what our military personnel can accomplish, and of what they are willing to tackle. But at that moment in time, my young eyes were beginning to see things in a slightly different light.

Finally, it was my turn. The physical exam was not nearly as horrible as I had expected. Step on the scale. Cough. Breathe deeply. And again. Any known brain tumors, missing kidneys or leprosy? No? You didn't touch any of them hookers, did you? No. All right, son, you pass. Now you can go talk with the job counselor.

Whoopee! I'd made it. I was now mere moments away from embarking on my dazzling career as a cinematographer. In a few short days, I'd be directing training videos on how to destroy an enemy squadron with nothing other than your pocket comb and a gum wrapper. I'd be telling guys when to dramatically leap off the cliff, and if the shot didn't work...I'd tell them to do it again. I'd soon be... all I could be.

The job counselor seemed like a nice guy. "Impressive test scores," he said. "A college boy like you should be in the Intelligence Corps. You're a natural-born code-breaker." He pushed some papers my way. "Here, just sign this, and we'll get you all set up."

"Sorry, sir," I said. "I want to be an Army filmmaker."

"No such thing, son. Don't worry, you'll love the code-breaker units. They always clean up in the bar fights. Just sign here..."

"You don't understand, sir. I want to make movies."

"Well, I'll have to look at what all is available. We can get to that as soon as you sign the paper."

"With all due respect, sir, I'm not going to sign anything until you confirm that I'll be making films...you know, like the 'Be All You Can Be' commercials."

"Hell, boy, we hire some damn ad agency for that crap. Ain't no jobs here for filmmakers. Besides, you've been to college. You'll wanna do college-type stuff. Ciphers and such."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. "I guess I'll just head back to the bus station."

At this point, the nice man became an upset man. "What! That damn Wichita Sergeant told me you were all ready to sign up. He guaranteed me that I'd have me a top-notch code man. What in the eight levels of hell is going on here!"

"I'm sure that I don't know, sir, but I'd like to respectfully request that you take the Wichita recruiter and the entire code corps and shove them up your butt!"

OK, I didn't really say that. I politely expressed my gratitude for his time and quickly backed out of the room. He was still cursing the pinheaded moron of a dickbrained recruiter from that scumsucking podunk hellhole town...or something like that. I really didn't want to listen to much more. As quickly as I could, I returned to my room, brushed the silverfish off my suitcase, grabbed my Tolkiens and boogied to the bus station. I had a bit of a wait, since my ticket assumed that I'd have finished the recruiting process and would only be returning home long enough to kiss my non-existent girlfriend goodbye.

The hookers at the bus station were far more appealing than those at the hotel, but still reeked of ptomaine and lungpox. I avoided them and hunkered down in a corner and warily watched the seconds tick by until my bus was ready to depart. Luckily, I was able to procure a window seat, and didn't have to sit next to anyone. The woman behind me spent the entire trip doing and re-doing her lipstick, complete with obscene smacking noises, but even so, it was a much more pleasant trip than the first ride had been. My seat actually had a functional cushion, and while I had to face the thought that my failure to enlist had disgraced me and my entire family...it was still more pleasant than thinking about evil lord Sauron and his frickin' orc armies and mountains of fire.

I knew that Sergeant Barfight would be waiting at the bus station to ream me a new one for bailing out of his well-laid plans to transform a perfectly good filmmaker into a hardcore spy supporter/infantryman -- so I pulled the emergency bell wire when the bus got as close as it was going to get to my house. I walked the two miles home, had a Hershey bar and a Dr. Pepper, and wondered anew what the hell I was going to do with my life.

The following Monday, I went down and got a summer job filling cans of Coleman fuel. When summer ended, I went back to KU intending to get a Masters Degree in Film History. I figured that I'd write my thesis about how Popeye was more important than Mickey Mouse in the grand scheme of cinematic art. But that, my dear friends, is a story for another day.

Keep smiling. Terry