One of the staples of air travel is selling out to a corporate giant: every refreshment napkin received on this trip prominently featured Coca-Cola. Delta’s napkins could’ve even come from a restaurant, as the airline had no presence on them whatsoever. Instead, two red coke bottles bordered by fireworks bursts and the words “open happiness” attempted to bait travelers into consuming the carbonated syrup. It’s a fucking shame.

Bronze busts of dead war men look out over a memorial ground covered in white powder. The snow blowers weren’t brave enough to defeat the metal post barriers and trespass onto pedestrian-only paths.

As our length of stay drags on, a sense of confinement grows stronger. Classmates with cars are targeted for superficial friendship. Soon, leaving the base daily becomes the norm. One night, we dine at the high noon, a quintessential, rustic, all-american feed-barn. In the bar on the other side of a separating wall, the evening’s entertainment is karaoke. An unfortunate majority of the people with wheels are enthusiastic for the stage, so after plates are cleared we embark on a short migration and take new seats in the smokey, loud dive. One after another, serious amateurs predictably dismiss most of the available karaoke tracks in favor of crooning only those belonging to the country genre. While in the middle of a verse, one gentleman belches into the mic, an action that receives applause and nicely summarizes the ambiance.

Unwilling to shout above the noise, and aware that sitting quietly without participating in any sort of activity would draw annoying inquires regarding my well-being, I order a cocaine shooter to look after. In the interest of prolonging my drink’s lifetime, I allow minutes to pass between taking sips gingerly. It tastes fine but could’ve used more coke. I stir it occasionally with the pair of narrow, red straws. Melting ice cubes dilute the top layer and keep it deliciously cold.