CH. 1 — I Don’t Do New Well

I’ve never been what you could call decisive. I didn’t get around to applying for college until it was almost too late. Dad stepped in — as he has learned to do — and suggested Virginia Tech. I didn’t care what I majored in. Dad suggested economics. He thought if I studied moguls, I’d want to be one. That sounded no worse than anything else, so that’s what I put on the form.

In college, I’ve been the shit shoveler in the Saddle Club’s parade. Staying in the rear. Plugging along. Just going to class and doing my job. And it is a job. I’m not smart enough to nail the “A” and have my chest pinned by the parade marshal, but hard-working enough to score that “B” and earn the congratulations of the corral keeper. I only understand fragments of what the profs are talking about, and would flunk except for my ability to memorize humongous stacks of notes. I pack all the paragraphs in for the afternoon exam, spew them out on the test paper and forget everything by supper.

Quotient curves, market baskets, standard deviation — I hate you. I’m not going to make my living selling something to somebody, and I’ll not stand in some glass stall pulling inventory control on the crap coming down the conveyor.

So why don’t I change majors?

Silly, because I’d have to show some initiative. English, history, sociology — whatever I changed to would just mean new and different stacks of notes to memorize. It would be like getting hitched to another plow.

Better to ride it out until I graduate. Shake some formal-looking dude’s hand, collect my diploma and then toss it in the trash for all the good it’ll do.

What I really want to do is write funny articles for newspapers. I’ve done a bunch the past two years and several have been printed in the school newspaper. Socialites who hire hippies to punch up their parties. Bras that glow in the dark so wayfaring sophomores can find their way. Congressmen so old they could get a quorum in the Mayo Clinic.

Slim and Gino are always on my case about joining the staff of the Collegiate Times. I lie and say I’m too tied up with macroeconomics for such a massive time commitment.

Truth is, I’m too shy.

I went to the newspaper office once with a folder of fresh stories. The busy guy behind the news desk shot me a “What do you want?” look with a ferociousness that almost broke off the pencil he had in his mouth.

He left the room on some kind of urgent front page business. I resisted the urge to leave and hung around.

Good decision. I listened to the table talk and learned the newspaper shuts down a little after midnight and everybody retires to The Greeks to drink beer.

Now I know how to turn in my stories without having to encounter Pencil Man, or anyone else in authority. I wait in the bushes outside the Student Union with eyes aimed on the second-story window of the newspaper office. 12:05. 12:10.12:15. Lights out. I give the last staff writer a few minutes to clear the halfway before sprinting up the stairs, slipping my material under the door and making my getaway into the night.

I spend my spare time typing the cleaner stories and sending them to editors of large newspapers. I just know one of these guys will fall in love with my work and hire me.

So far, I’ve got nothing but rejection letters.

“The articles are in very poor taste and I would not like to seem them in our paper.” — Cleveland Plain Dealer.

“We don’t handle fiction here. As to the judgment you seek about your future, your best course is to continue as a business major.” — Cincinnati Enquirer.

“I regret to say we have no openings that we think you could possibly qualify for.” — Raleigh, N.C., News and Observer.

But I’m not discouraged. As soon as one batch comes back in the negative, I type a new cover letter and ship it out again. I’m positive some big-city editor will laugh himself silly over the bra-in-the-dark article and beg me to work for him.

Sixteen months ago, they had the first national draft lottery for men ages 19 to 26. Prime time TV. Little white balls with our birthdates were put into a hopper and swirled around. Some guy with a suit said a few words, and then they started pulling up the balls at random. Each local draft board has a certain amount of openings it must fill, but you’re relatively safe if your birthday was the 150th selected, and extremely safe if it was №. 200 or higher. My ping-pong ball was the 71st to come up. I will almost certainly have a military experience. I can wait to be drafted or sign up for the reserves or National Guard.

Everyone who gets inducted has eight weeks of basic training followed by another eight weeks of advanced individual training. Active duty is a much shorter commitment — as little as two years — but Vietnam is likely to be your destination. The Guard and reserves are safer, but you must agree to two days of drill a month and two weeks summer camp for six years.

It was different during World War II. There was an enemy that wanted to take over the world — an enemy you could put an evil face on. If you couldn’t get pissed at Hitler, there was something seriously wrong with your anger coefficient.

Vietnam isn’t like that. The enemy is north of a line on the map that wants to take over the corrupt land mass south of the line on the map. There’s no Hitler, just squirrelly VC who live in holes in the ground. If they want both sides of the line, what’s it to us?

Not worth getting shot at. Not worth dying.

If we’re going to praise the Lord and pass the ammunition, give me an Iwo Jima. Give me Panzer divisions. Not a Hill 16-A.

Carl, a friend of my roommate’s, joined the Army Reserve last year after getting out of school. He dates a girl who goes to Tech. Tonight he said he’d cut it short and give me a primer on what happens when the Army has its way with you.

There’s entirely too much stress in my life trying to get through labor economics, and typing enough stories to send off to the Dallas Morning News by the weekend.

I don’t need the Pentagon, too.

And on top of everything else, I have to live with the fact that the Army came up on me and I did nothing about it. Other guys who didn’t want to be part of the war machine fled to Canada, or ate 37 bananas on the eve of the physical to make their blood pressure go into uncharted territory. The most I could muster was to pretend not to hear anything during the auditory exam. I passed with better marks than a listening device.

I just did what they said. Did nothing to influence the outcome. Pretended it was happening to someone else. Just plugged along.

Last month, I got a rare telephone call from my father. We exchanged pleasantries for about two seconds, and then he got right to the point. My future.

“You just gonna sit there and let them draft you?”

“Gee, Dad, I’ve been real busy with tests and everything.”

“You wanna go to Vietnam, or get your service hitch over with stateside without being shot at?”

He’s been after me to call Army Reserve and National Guard outfits to see if they have any openings. I’ve done what I’ve always done when faced with a stop along life’s highway. Come to a gradual halt and stay in a fixed position for as long as possible. Don’t dare be a participant. Be an observer instead. Even if it’s my balls that are on the line.

Dad dropped the news.

“The reserves. You’re in.”

“Really?”

“I knew you wouldn’t do anything, so I did. The fourth unit I called had a slot open. You come in Friday after your last class to sign up.”

He said I’ll be joining a light equipment unit in Marion, Va., about 30 miles from my home town of Abingdon. I ship out September 3 for basic training at Fort Leonard Wood, Mo.

I should have been out of my head with joy, but I wasn’t.

If I had been any where near a grownup, I would have taken care of this myself. But I just see what’s in front of me.

The student body president advocating locking the president of the university in the administration building and charging him with trespassing. Newton writing fake letter after fake letter to Dear Abby, hoping to make her nationally syndicated column. In his latest missive, he told the lady he is recovering from an industrial accident that required partial removal of his penis. He asked Abby if he should tell his girlfriend about the surgery, or let the lady find out for herself. Osgood charging money to stand motionless outside the dorm in sub-freezing weather. Wearing only a jockstrap, he must not move for 10 minutes. The idiot forfeits his fee if he gives even the slightest indication that he’s cold. We watch through the fogged-up window as he turns red and then sheet-metal white. His nipples could cut rock. The only way we know he’s not unconscious is his frozen breath. Osgood has absolutely no athletic ability, but in the sport of sidewalk standing in Arctic weather, he’s an overpaid superstar.

As bad as college is, it’s mucho preferable to what’s in store for me.

I don’t do new well.

And that’s the Army. A wide-eyed stranger in buttons and brass.

Biding its time. Waiting to take me away.

Fifth-floor Pritchard is Rumor Central.

There are stories that the drill sergeants will make it extra hard on us because we used the student deferment to delay going in the service, and spent four years getting high and doodling pictures of Nixon with a ponytail.

That they will march us day and night until our minds are right, and we swear to God we no longer care who performed at Woodstock.

I have to find out from someone who’s been there. Someone who knows what a platoon looks like. Someone who knows the percentage of basic trainees who don’t survive boot camp.

Suddenly I hear a loud, “Hut-one-two-three-four” from the hall followed by laughter.

I look out the door to see a shrimp of a guy in an Army uniform looking at room numbers.

“It’s a lone sentry,” Gino shouts.

“Disarm him,” Slim chimes in. “We’ve had enough civilian casualties this semester.”

“Tell him the front is that way,” Newton hollers, pointing to the duck pond.

Carl ignores the insults and makes his way to my door. I size him up. Except for his glasses and red face, he looks like a leafy vegetable.

“Had a drill,” he explains. “Didn’t have time to change out of my fatigues.”

I try his cap on for size.

“So this is what I have to look forward to.”

“Yeah,” Carl replies. “Steel helmet, pistol belt, bayonet — they dress you for success.”

I pour him a Southern Comfort. It lasts as long as it takes Audie Murphy to draw a bead.

Clearly, Carl is bugged about something more substantial than showing up in a college dorm wearing OD green.

“The reserve meeting today. I really blew it.”

“How.”

“They’re trying to make a truck driver out of me.”

“And it’s not taking?”

“Yeah. I’d call knocking the roof off the motor pool not taking.”

“With dynamite?”

“No, with a truck. You ever been around a bunch of Army guys?”

I shake my head. And I don’t want to either.

“Some will tell you the truth. Some will mess with you. You never know who is who.”

I pour one of my own and sit back in the chair. This is my first dose of military lore and I want to drink it all in.

“I’m driving the dump truck, right?” Carl says. “There’s a ton of shit in the back. Ropes, shovels, spools of cable. The sergeant of the motor pool tells me to back the truck in the bay.

“Here’s where you gotta understand the military. The sergeant wanted to have a little fun. He knew I had only driven the truck a time or two. There’s maybe three inches of clearance on either side of the door. He was positive I’d bang into the side and everybody would have a big laugh.

“Somehow I managed to get the truck inside the motor pool without hitting anything. They didn’t get their har-de-har-har, so he told me to raise the bed and empty the load.

“Here’s where the trust thing comes in. Some of the guys wanna see you do good. If they see the truck bed getting near the ceiling, they holler at you to bring it down. Other guys get off on chaos and lie out the ass. When the bed gets up to the ceiling, they scream out that you’ve got plenty of room and to bring it up some more.

“So here’s what we’ve got. The Amateur Night truck driver barely knows how to work the dump levers. He hears the advice from both sides, tries to process the information, can’t, gets flustered and does nothing. With no one to tell it otherwise, the back end goes onward and upward and smashes through the roof.

“The ceiling came down in chunks. Some guys were laughing and some were running for cover. I felt like a piece of insulation. All I wanted to do was get blown away.”

I don’t know what to say.

“So you want to find out how you’ll do in the Army, is that right?” Carl asks.

I already know. That could easily have been me in the dump truck.

“This is the biggest thing right here. Do you have any common sense?”

I’ve known this person less than 15 minutes and already he’s nailed me. As a child, I was told I didn’t have any common sense. Time passed, and I proved it. More time went by, and I would put it on my business card if I had one.

“You know how it is when you have to figure something out on the spur of the moment, and you just stand there with your finger up your ass?”

I nod.

“The Army eats up guys like that.”

Oh, God.

“Ever shoot a rifle?” he wants to know.

“No.”

“Ever fold laundry well enough to please your Mom? In the Army, that ranks right up there with overrunning the enemy.”

“No.”

“Ever report to the commode first thing in the morning and clean shit stains with a toothbrush?”

“No.”

“Prepare to be a casserole, amigo.”

Oh, God.

“Do you know where the battery is on a dump truck?” he asks.

“Under the hood,” I reply. “Isn’t that a rule?”

“Not in the Army. It’s two hours after the ceiling incident, and the word is out that I’ve become the company fuck-up. I’m supposed to be pulling maintenance on my dump truck. Captain hasn’t had his afternoon chuckle, so he comes around and wants to know if I’ve checked the battery. I lie and say, sure, first thing every morning. Then he calls my bluff. Wants to see a demonstration.

“I’m cool because I know it’s just a simple matter of looking under the hood. I swagger to the front of the truck and pop the top. I’m not a complete idiot. I know what a battery looks like. A square box with little covers over the water thingies. I look everywhere. By the engine. By the belt. By the radiator. Nothing.

“Out of sight, not in the truck, right? So I tell the guy the vehicle must not have one.

“The captain gets a load of that and hollers for everybody to come over. Officers, enlisted men, merchants from their stores, farmers from their fields — every living soul within a square mile reports to my truck.

“Captain announces in loud voice that Carl here drives the only truck in the Army that magically starts himself without a battery.

“Thigh-slapping all around.

“Then dozens of people — probably all Teamsters — point to the step leading to the passenger-side door. I open it and there’s the battery, bigger than life. I thought they’d never stop laughing. This has absolutely been the worst day of my life.”

I didn’t cry at “Love Story,” but “Battery Ballad” rips my guts out.

“Assholes gave me a nickname. Wanna guess?”

I can’t imagine.

“Jumper cable.”

Carl looks at his watch.

“You say you’ve got some questions for me.”

“Will I die in basic training?” I blurt out.

“Probably not, but you’ll think you will. That’s the part of boot camp the Army likes most of all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Spreading a bunch of crap that isn’t true. Getting you all worried. Like the time they told us we’d have to pair up with somebody and actually give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Refuse to do it, the DIs said, and you’ll flunk first aid. Flunk first aid and get recycled.”

“What’s recycled?”

“Your worst nightmare,” Carl replies. “That’s when they make you start basic training all over with another outfit. I’d hear that word and do anything they say. Kissie-kissie with some fairy from New York City with canker sores, I don’t care.”

“Did you really have to put a liplock on another guy?”

“Hell, no. We just had to look at a glossy photo and pretend. But that’s what I mean about stressing you out. They see us all afraid and going from squad to squad trying to find a guy we can stand to kiss, and they get off big-time.”

“What does it feel like when they cut your hair?”

“Like all of a sudden I had this big breezeway on top of my head. It bothered me for a day or two, but then I realized everybody at this god-forsaken place looks like he’s got the mange. I fit right in.”

“That’s going to be weird,” I say. “I’ve grown accustomed to my comb.”

“Flush it when you get out there. One less thing to think about.”

I tell Carl I’ve been running a bunch of laps around the drill field. How important is it to be in shape?

“It’s not unimportant, but the physical part isn’t the hardest thing. Ever get up at 4:30 in the morning?”

“Roll over, yes. Become upright, no.”

“Every stay on the go for 16 hours a day?”

“No.”

“Doing stuff you don’t want to do?”

“No.”

“With people you don’t want to be with?”

Carl is wrong. I am going to die.

“Gotta go. Here are a few things to remember: Don’t let them catch you with your hands in your pocket. Don’t be first at anything or they’ll expect it all the time. Don’t be last for obvious reasons. Your best bet is to stay in the middle and be as anonymous as possible. Act sincere and you can get an hour off on Sundays. Tell them it’s your religion. The Joint Chiefs don’t want to take on the church. The DI would wave me off and I’d go back to the barracks and read Playboy. And don’t steal any ammo. Then they probably would kill you.”

A mock salute and Carl is gone.

If I thought talking to a real soldier would reduce my anxiety, I thought wrong.

I’ll get drawn and quartered during basic training. Then at reserve meetings, they’ll run over my remains with dump trucks.

Osgood runs down the hall and bangs on doors.

“Jock time, boys. Special 9 o’clock show. Osgood’s Famous Water Torture Test. Same jockstrap. Same 10 minutes standing outside in horrible weather. Only this time I take a cold shower immediately before. Double the risk, double the fee.”

The crowd files in the bathroom and Newton sets the shower on stun. Osgood stands in the icy water like it’s Acapulco in July, tilting his head from side to side and opening his mouth wide like the chicks in the shampoo commercials.

Then the Pied Piper of freezer burn leads the way to the back door. Within 60 seconds, you could balance a dinette set on Osgood’s nipples. He stands silently and unmoving. Give him a parka and an icepick and he could be one of Robert Peary’s men at the North Pole.

I look around at my fellow students who can’t find anything better to do on a Sunday night than watch frozen stilettos form on a guy’s chest.

Stupid behavior? Yes. An immature waste of time? To be sure.

But safe from flying bullets and the colossal uncertainty that is Fort Leonard Wood.

Of course they won’t let me.

And I don’t have the gumption to ask.

But I’d keep it right here if I could.