This is for NAPSTERS everywhere. But, of course, anyone and everyone is invited.

Yesterday, my former roommate Farlin W. Arrington – Far-Snatch to me – posted a page out of our NAPS yearbook, vintage 1962. Brought back floods of memories. Great time and experience for me – although not in love with the ending.

The photo of one Jack Balter brought back a special memory. It went like this …

Holley and I are leaving the base on one particular Friday. Trying to catch a ride to Route 40 so we can thumb a ride to Philly for the weekend. And here comes Jack Balter wheeling up beside us. Pretty sure he’s driving a Chevy. He stops.

“You guys need a ride?” he says.

“Thanks, Jack.”

We squeeze in, cuz he already has a couple NAPSTERS inside, and he drives us down to Route 40. But as we’re arriving, he announces to everyone: “That’s five dollars each.”

Are you fucking shitting me?

We’re flabbergasted. Never asked him for a ride. He offered with no mention of charging his “buddies.” If so, I woulda said “no thanks” and kept walking. Never crazy about that prick to begin with, my esteem for him plunges straight into the shitter right there and then.

Under the circumstances, we pay him. But refer to him as a motherfucker as he drives away. Make a mental note on the spot. Someday, an opportunity will present itself to even the score.

Couple months pass.

Now it’s a Sunday with a big test coming up Monday.

Holley and I and a couple other guys – don’t remember who – are heading to the chow hall for evening meal. As we walk down the hall of the barracks, Jack pops out of his cubicle in skivvies.

“Hey guys, can you do me a favor?”

“Sure. What?”

“Can’t afford to stop studying. Can you guys bring me back a sandwich, or something?”

“No problem.”

Opportunity knocking.

The chow hall served some sort of steak that night. The kind with a thick slab of fat on one end. So I get everybody in the group to cut off the fat from around the edges and give it to me. And then I get two pieces of bread and make the thickest fat sandwich on the face of the earth. Smells scrumptious. And wrap it just so to ensure a nice presentation.

When we get back to barracks, Jack hears us coming and steps out to meet us.

“You guys didn’t forget me, did you?”

“No way, Jack.”

“Made a sandwich just for you. Hope you like it.” And, somehow, we all keep straight faces as I hand the sandwich to him.

Then back to the cubicle to study.

Hour or so later, I make a piss call. On the way down the hall, I say “Hope you liked your sandwich” as I’m passing his door.

He mumbles something indiscernible as I continue to the head.

For you non-NAPSTERS who read this, NAPS is the acronym for the Naval Academy Preparatory School. At the time, housed at the naval base in Bainbridge, Maryland.

We lived in barracks that were remnants from World War II. But the school itself was the old Tome School near the edge of the base. Overlooking Port Deposit and the Susquehanna River.

Tome School had been an expensive private school in its heyday. And it reminded me of Scarlett O’Hara’s mansion every time I stepped inside the door.

NAPS eventually relocated to Providence, Rhode Island.

Barry Bowe stands for Truth, Justice, and the American Way.

He’s also the author of Born to Be Wild.