Hannah Donigan

Spicy 

I clutch the lavender mace in the pocket of my wool coat as the 2 train screeches Uptown, flying by the local stops. As the train approaches 96th street and Broadway, I grip the mace again and slide the little protector tab back and forth with my thumb. There isn’t anything particularly threatening around me, I’m just always ready. Always anticipating what could happen. Anything is possible on the New York City subway, right?

Still, it is a little odd to clutch mace as if there’s a threat present when there isn’t.

It brought me back to five years earlier, when I was on Active Duty in the Coast Guard. I was obtaining my Boarding Team Member qualification, which is just Coast Guard lingo for law enforcement. It was mandatory I wear a belt with a service pistol, handcuffs, and OC pepper spray. I had to pass a training scenario with said pepper spray. It was meant to be a simulation of a non-compliant person erratically taking the spray off our belt, spraying us, then while we are blind potentially grabbing our gun and wreaking further havoc. It was important to know how to react to the pain and still defend our service pistol, defending ourselves, our shipmates, and our community. This meant I needed to be sprayed, and I needed to pass.

I could see my identity further dissolving before me. I was oblivious I would be required to do such things; the recruiter certainly left this part out of the brochure. This is when I felt the furthest from myself. Truly outside of my comfort zone.

The weeks leading up to me being sprayed were awful. I ruminated constantly, going over and over the scenario in my mind. Anticipation, fear of the horrendous pain I was forced to face, and a bit of anger and shame. Shame because this isn’t who I was. I wasn’t meant to be doing these things, I was meant to be in a classroom, in an office, not training for a qualification, a career I have zero interest in. I felt out of place in the Coast Guard. I felt largely I was wasting my time. I think everyone in their early twenties feels this way. Were all in a massive hurry to achieve our dreams, make things happen, so anything that seems unrelated is therefore a waste of precious, ticking time. It was daunting to stay motivated. I truly did not think I could do it. I believed I could get through the pepper spray part but defending BM3 Walker’s gargantuan 6’3” 230-pound ass when I’m a stumpy 5’3”, 130 pounds, no dice. But mostly anticipation and fear. It would hurt. Badly.

The anticipation of the pain is somehow worse than the pain itself. Adrenaline kicks in, and its physical. Mental is always another game. To make the anticipation and fear a thousand times worse, all my shipmates hyped up the experience. Constantly.

“Hey Macin when are you getting maced?”

“Aw can’t wait wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

I’d be sitting at the U-shaped watch desk, and all the guys would loiter in the watch room killing time and go on and on about their experiences. All of us looking the exact same in our navy-blue uniform and black combat boots. My hair slicked back into a neat bun, no makeup on.

“It’s the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. Even after a kick in the nuts,” BM3 Walker said in his deep southern voice. 

Then he shot me a sarcastic smile. This guy was the definition of masculinity. If he thought it was that bad, this was some serious shit.

“Fuck.” My dark brown eyes were as wide as saucers. I sulked in the worn brown leather desk chair.

BM2 Smith shouted back, “It’s like sticking your eyeballs into a deep fryer is the best way I can describe it." He flashed a devious smile.

They each got this sparkle in their eye when they talked about it. I was envious. They were all on the other side, they’d experienced it and were now free to joke and share in the banter.

“Jesus!” I shouted. “How long until it goes away?”

“Yeah, and you’re fair skinned which means it’s most likely going to be even worse,” BM3 Walker said as he nonchalantly itched his balls.

“Mine lasted for three days, my eyes were stingin’ like hell,” BM3 O’Malley said.

All I could do was listen and let the anticipation completely consume me. The anticipation honestly was the worst of the experience. The fear and uncertainty. The only certainty that it’s going to be extremely painful from the films and television you’ve seen where someone gets maced. Ouch.

Amidst the very daunting training, the day for me to be pepper sprayed arrived. This was such a treat for everyone at the unit. Everyone but me. Christmas morning at the expense of my peepers. I was ready to get it done.

It was time. My nerves were really setting in. I had no appetite the whole day, barely managing to get toast down in the morning. I dressed myself in the same baggy PT gear they issued us at boot camp. You didn’t want any of the spray to get on your clothes, and you touch your clothes later then accidentally touch your eye. So, I selected the ugly clothes they issued us at boot camp. I’d never wear them again. I anxiously skipped down the creaky old stairs of the station and went to the backyard where everyone was in position forming a loose semicircle. 

It was a cold, gloomy day in Rochester. I think it was November. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an orange bucket overflowing with water from a garden hose, and a yellow bottle of baby shampoo beside the bucket. There was an electric fan plugged into the outdoor wall outlet next to it. Ready for my recovery.

The certified Boarding Team Member, BM2 Meyer stood about six feet away from me. The other Boarding Team Member, BM3 Walker, was on the opposite of him, standing by to be the attacker in the scenario. He was dressed in the same PT gear on and a navy blue foam strike shield in his hands ready to go. It fit the guys much more flattering, since it was made for men. My service pistol was replaced by a plastic training one, my gun belt secured around my waist.

Everyone from the station was gathered to watch. I mean, how could you not? This was not an everyday occurrence. I prayed I would pass and not humiliate myself. Or more importantly have to do it all over again. Yes, being pepper sprayed twice because you failed the scenario which is nearly impossible to begin with. Yet everyone passed on their first try and carried that mace on their waist on patrols daily. I was only being sprayed once.

BM2 Meyer asked everyone to quiet down. “Alright, Seaman Macin. We are here for your OC spray training scenario. You understand you must gain compliance from the subject, BM3 Walker, and you must pass in accordance with the Boarding Team Member Training Manual.”

I stood there fidgeting but managed, “Yes”

“Okay. Have you removed any contacts you may use?”

“Yes”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes”

“Okay.” He lifted his right hand with the pepper spray in it. “Close your eyes” he instructed.

I closed my eyes tight. They didn’t go as far as squirting into our open eyeballs(how generous) but after waiting ten seconds or so, it seeped right into them getting the job done.

“OC. OC. OC. OC. You’ve been sprayed,” he repeated as he sprayed my eyes twice with the mace. I clenched my entire body when I felt liquid hit my eyelids.

Here we go.

I stood paralyzed waiting for the pain to begin. Nothing yet. After 5 seconds I could feel the burn. It was other worldly.

“Okay. Open your eyes”

I tried to open my eyes but they refused, so I took my left hand and pried my left eye open, my right one trembling. As I caught a glimpse of BM3 Walker charging towards me at full speed, I placed my right hand over my pistol and kept my left index finger and thumb on my left eye, spreading them as far as I could with my eye quivering.

“OC OC! I’VE BEEN SPRAYED!” I screamed as I kicked the strike shield to keep BM3 away. I backed off and kept my left hand on my eye and my right on the fake plastic pistol.

“OC OC! I’VE BEEN SPRAYED!”

BM3 charged me again and I kicked the shield once more, my hands still in their respective places. I couldn’t see shit. The pain unbearable my mind wondered how much time had passed. BM3 Walker charged me again and I managed another kick, my combat boot hitting the center of the strike shield.

After 30 seconds of fending off BM3 Walker, BM2 Meyer instructed, “Okay. Thirty seconds have passed, now gain compliance on the subject”

I kept prying my left eye open as my right hand reached in to grab my pistol. I found BM3 Walker out of the corner of my eye and drew my pistol and pointed it right at him and screamed

“GET ON THE GROUND. HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK! GET ON THE GROUND NOW!”

BM3 lowered to the ground with the shield still in his hands, my practice pistol pointing right at him. It was done. Before I knew it two of my shipmates were escorting me over to the water to cleanse my eyes.

“Great job, Macin, you did it!” BM2 Meyer exclaimed.

BM2 Meyer and BM3 Walker helped me stumble over to the bucket with the running hose water. Both my eyes squinting shut harder than ever before.

“Ahhh, fuck! This hurts so bad!” I screamed.

“Here, pry open your eyes let’s get some water in them” BM3 Walker said. I could hear the adrenaline in his voice. We secretly loved this shit. I tried to open my eyes, but they squeezed shut every time. Relief washed over me from passing, making the pain tolerable, humiliation would have stung even more. I held both my eyes open and stuck them into the water, it burned even more.

BM3 Walker said, “Here, open your hands, take some baby shampoo.” He squirted a generous amount into my open palms. I could only hear his deep North Carolina accent. Everything was dark and spicy.

“Wash your eyeballs. Gently scrub them with the shampoo,” he instructed.

I took the baby shampoo and applied it to my open eyeballs. It stung even worse. I scrubbed for a moment and then rinsed. And then rinsed again. They still burned like hell.

“Okay good. I think you got it. Let’s take you over to the fan”

They escorted me over to a picnic table next to the electric fan. As I plopped down into the seat BM2 Meyer approached me

“You killed it, Macin. You did so well. Congrats. How do your eyes feel?”

“They fucking BURN!” I said with a chuckle, my face and eyes destroyed by redness.

“Here, pry them open in front of the fan, it dries out the remaining capsaicin.” BM2 said.

With both index fingers and both thumbs, I forced my eyeballs open and let the air blow into them.

“Smile Macin!” BM2 Meyer said as I sat there looking absolutely ridiculous. “Awww that’s a keeper. Going on the station Facebook page.” He grinned.

“Fuck you!” I laughed.

I sat there for a half hour or so letting my peepers dry, pondering why I’m always surprised when I can do something. Making it through boot camp, adapting to a completely new, demanding job and lifestyle. I could do all of these things, but I could never believe in myself. The uncertainty I mentioned earlier was certainty I would fail, be humiliated, and it would be painful, and the anticipation of that is what ate me alive for weeks.

The pain was finally subsiding and my eyes only felt a little irritated. I didn’t care. Nothing was more important to me than not failing.