Folks are beginning to ask me what I’ll do once I retire from the Air Force in about nine months. I’ve given several people different answers because the truth is—I have no idea. During one of the last major elections, the media kept using the term “echo chamber.” It describes a closed information loop where people mostly encounter opinions that reinforce their existing beliefs, while opposing views are filtered out or dismissed.
Lately, I’ve realized my own echo chamber isn’t political—it’s cultural. Working with military maintainers has shaped the way I talk, joke, react, and even think. Air Force maintainers are a different breed. We’re irreverent… ruthless to one another… quirky… foul mouthed… and collectively possess a questionable sense of humor that would give civilian HR offices night sweats.
Practical jokes—especially when I was still active duty—were legendary. If someone couldn’t find their hat or overshirt at the end of the day, it was probably frozen into a solid ice cube in the snack bar freezer. Black shoe polish rubbed around the rim of our squadron hats left an impressive band of black across the unsuspecting wearer’s forehead. Cat food or sardines hidden in drawers or lockers? Standard fare. The creativity behind some of the jokes deserved an Oscar.
Vehicles weren’t safe either. We had thick black rubber gloves meant for harsh chemicals, but they doubled as fantastic noise makers when clamped to unsuspecting drivers’ mufflers. The resounding BOOM when the glove exploded always brought a chuckle to those in the know.
My Jeep—mine—with a manual transmission and no top could easily be pushed down the street and parked around the corner for me to hunt for after my shift. But I was small enough to squeeze through a rear truck window and strap a bungee cord from the driver’s door to the passenger door so tightly neither door could be opened. Paybacks are a bitch.
And cautious people always checked their vehicles for new bumper stickers or license plate frames with phrases like “Honk if You’re Gay,” “Gay and Proud of It,” or “Proud Sponsor of Bare Assets Strip Club.”
I never realized that the humor, foul language, and practical jokes that have always been normal to me could be considered offensive to the general population. Offensive! I learned this the hard way when, early in my Air Force civilian career, I found myself in an office with no previous Air Force members. None. I discovered this the morning I shouted from my cubicle to a lady three cubicles back, “Stop talking to my fucking customers!” That was the moment I understood the loudness of utter silence.
I survived in that atmosphere without any HR visits for five years. I didn’t completely curb my maintainer mouth, but I toned it down with creative phrases like “sunny beaches,” “what the frig,” and one of my favorites—“God bless America.” They never got used to me, but the feeling was mutual.
Eventually, the stars aligned and an old boss asked if I wanted to work for him again. I jumped at the chance and have been there since 2018. Once again, I’m surrounded by 100% maintainers. Now, if I tell any of them to fuck off, I’m met with gales of laughter instead of uncomfortable silence.
My work bestie, with his 12 year old humor, makes even rough days bearable. Things like pulling into the boss’s favorite parking spot after lunch just to annoy him. Other bosses might get bent out of shape. Ours just smirks and gets even.
The daily innuendos that amuse us probably drive folks in surrounding cubicles berserk. After face planting in the parking lot one recent afternoon and bruising the hell out of my ribs, I ended up with pneumonia from not breathing deeply enough. In a “normal” office, this wouldn’t be funny. In mine, it became a running joke to the point that I’m often held upright by my ponytail as we walk across the parking lot, so I don’t fall again.
The best part of that ordeal was the day I brought a spirometer to remind myself to take hourly deep breaths. The resident 12 year old saw me blow into the tube before inhaling and immediately said, “Aren’t you supposed to suck it and not blow it?” Completely clueless, I responded, “No. I blow it so the ball sits right here, and this other thing goes up as high as I can get it.” Snickers erupted from the cubicles in front and behind me. “Where does the ball have to sit?” someone asked. “Right here, in the middle—not too low and not too high.” More snickers. “I’m pretty sure they make ones you’re supposed to suck, not blow,” another chimed in. “Look—all I know is I blow here, the ball sits here, and this part rises.” General hilarity commenced, and I put the damn spirometer away, never to return.
On another day, a lady near my boss’s office asked if any of us had been hearing a super high pitched random beeping. Our boss immediately said YES! He had called IT several times trying to determine why his computer was making the noise. He took apart his laptop, docking station, and dual monitors multiple times. He even researched monitor settings and once thought he’d solved the problem—only to hear the beep again shortly after.
Turns out one of our teammates had hidden not one, but two tiny Printed Circuit Boards (PCBs) in his office a couple months prior to this. (If you’ve never heard of them, look them up on Amazon. I’m thoroughly intrigued by the ones that sound like crickets.) One PCB was in a ceiling panel, and the other was taped to the far back underside of his desk. My work bestie and I didn’t do it, but we knew who did. The more upset the boss got, the more we laughed. He threatened to cancel lunch, initiate mandatory overtime, even give us poor performance evaluations if we didn’t confess. My stomach hurt from laughing so long and hard. It was funny because it wasn’t meant to be mean—just to bug the hell out of someone super conscientious. And lordy lordy, it worked better than expected.
So yes, I’m living in a pretty epic echo chamber. Except for that five year spell, I’ve been part of it since 1985. Damn, that makes me feel old to say—but heaven knows I don’t feel old. I still feel young and ornery. I want to keep laughing about things like the young clerk asking me and my female counterpart for our Beaver cards when we stopped at Buc-ee’s on our way to Dallas for a work trip. Childish? Of course. But how many people get asked to show their Beaver cards and then have to admit they don’t have one?
So I’m realizing that when I retire, one of two things will probably happen. I’ll either find a new group of maintainers to hang out with—maybe through volunteerism—or I’ll pop my head out of my echo chamber and see if I can fit into the big world outside my comfort zone.
It’s nothing I need to figure out right away. I’m a strong believer that all things occur for a reason. Sometimes I don’t have to be the captain of the ship. Sometimes it’s better to ride the storm out and see where it washes you up.
For now, I’ll continue enjoying the safety and humor of my echo chamber. And when I’m fully retired and settled into it, I’ll experiment a bit to find my next happy place. No matter where that takes me, one thing will always remain true: in my heart, I will always be an Air Force maintainer. And for that particular echo chamber, I will always be eternally grateful.
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