Michael Thomas Ford - Full Circle (16 page)

"How did you feel?" I asked.

 

"Sometimes I was afraid of what might happen," she said. "Sometimes I was proud of America. Mostly I didn't think about it. I had other things on my mind, like marrying Frank Sinatra."

She patted my leg and stood up. "Unfortunately for him, Bobby Genovese got to me first," she said. "He was my first sweetheart. We went steady for two whole weeks, until he dumped me for Francine Putty because I wouldn't let him get to second base."

I couldn't help laughing imagining my mother fending off the advances of Bobby Genovese. She put her hands on her hips. "Don't you make fun of me, Edward Brummel. You're not so old that I won't give you a spanking."

"I'm not laughing at you," I said. "I'm just wondering how far he got with Francine Putty." "Let's just say she ended up marrying him," my mother said. "And not because she wanted to." "Too bad," I said. "I kind of like the way Ned Genovese sounds."

"I won't tell your father you said that," my mother answered, pretending to be shocked. "Now good night."

"Good night," I said. "And Mom."
"Yes?" she said, turning around.
"I love you."
"I love you, too," she said softly, pulling the door shut.

I undressed and slipped into bed, turning off the light on the bedside table and pulling the blankets up. Listening to the house settle around me, I realized how quiet it was. I'd gotten used to the continuous hum of the dorm, and without it in the background every sound was amplified—the furnace going on in the basement, the light tapping of rain that had begun to fall on the roof, the creak of the stairs as my father walked up them. Also, Jack wasn't there, and I felt the absence of him with some relief. The anxiety I felt about him, and about Andy, was still there. But it had coiled itself into a ball and settled deep inside, where it could wait until I had time to attend to it. The rain started to fall more heavily. I listened to it, aware of how much I'd missed it now that I lived seven floors beneath the roof. So many things had changed. So much about me had changed. The last time I'd slept in that room, my life had been uncomplicated, my biggest worry what to watch on television. Now I was bound with worries and complications: Jack, Andy, school, my life. And now the draft.

It occurred to me that, like Jack and myself, Andy would be eligible for the draft if deferments were suspended. I wondered if he knew and, if he did, how he felt about it. Many of the men in my class would be 19. I tried to imagine Penn State without us. How much would we be missed if we all left? I multiplied that by the number of 19-year-olds across the country. How many of us were there? I wondered as my eyes closed. A hundred thousand? A million? I had no idea. I fell asleep and woke in the morning, having dreamed nothing. It was still raining. The sky was gray, and the wind drove spatters of rain against the windowpanes. I could hear my mother rattling pans in the kitchen, and remembered that it was Thanksgiving. I looked at the clock beside my bed and saw that it was after nine. Jack and his parents would be arriving shortly. Reluctantly, I got up and walked to the bathroom to shower.

Despite everything, or maybe because of it, the day went smoothly. Dinner was the usual success, and I won ten dollars from my father when Minnesota trounced Detroit 27 to nothing. No one mentioned the draft or the war, as if neither hovered over us like a specter. If there was any news about either, we didn't hear it, as the television stayed tuned to football and then The Jim Nabors Hour . It was as if, by mutual agreement, we all decided to pretend Vietnam didn't exist. Jack and I, too, pretended. We pretended everything was fine between us. We pretended school was going well for us both. We pretended so well that I almost believed it, until I overheard Jack telling his mother about his new friend, Andy, and how nice he was. Then I remembered. I avoided being alone with Jack for the rest of the day, afraid of what I might say to him. When he left, we made no plans for the following day.

On Friday, the news came that the draft would be held on the following Monday, December 1. This was accompanied by an announcement from the White House that all men currently enrolled in college would be allowed to finish out their education. Upon hearing this news, my mother cried with relief. I, too, felt a sense of having narrowly escaped something, although I was also struck by the unfairness of the deferment. Why, I wondered, should those of us who could afford college or who had gotten there by other means get to stay, safe in the halls of academia, while men who either couldn't afford school or who had elected not to go for other reasons were conscripted? I imagined what Chaz would have to say when we returned to Penn. I could hear him already, his voice ripe with righteous indignation as he decried the burden being placed upon the backs of the poor and the uneducated. With the threat of the impending draft gone, the remainder of the weekend was free to be enjoyed as much as possible. Jack and I extended our truce, joining together on Saturday to help our fathers clean the gutters and bag the final leaf fall of the year. It almost felt like before, when we had no reason to question one another's loyalty. Only when Sunday dawned did I feel the uneasiness in my stomach stir again, as I contemplated the ride back to school and what we would, or would not, talk about. We left after lunch, so as to be there before dark. My mother loaded us down with Thanksgiving leftovers, our fathers with cash tucked into our pockets as we said our good-byes. We promised to call soon, then were on our way.

To my surprise, Jack was the one to speak first.
"That wasn't so bad," he said.

"No," I agreed. "It wasn't so bad." I said nothing else, deciding that if he wanted to discuss our relationship, it was up to him to do it.

 

"I've been thinking," he said after another ten miles had passed silently. "Maybe we should get different roommates."

 

Nothing he could say could have surprised me more. I stared at him, my mouth open. "You know, next semester," he said, speaking quickly. "They let you switch around in January if you want to. I read it in the student book."

"You want to room with someone else," I said flatly.
"Maybe," said Jack. "I mean, yeah, I guess. I think it would be good for both of us." "Just who do you have in mind?" I asked him.
He shrugged. "I hadn't really thought about it," he answered. "Nobody in particular." "So not Andy," I said.
"Andy?" said Jack. "Why would I room with Andy?"

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe because he's so nice ?" I emphasized the word so he'd know I'd overheard him talking to his mother. "Maybe because you like sucking his dick?" Jack started to say something, then stopped. He looked straight ahead, as if it took all of his concentration to keep the car on the road.

"It's not like we're married," he said finally.
"No," I said. "It's not. So do whatever you want. You're right, it will be good for us."

Everything was unraveling. I couldn't think, and I couldn't breathe. The car felt suffocating. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out into the fresh air, letting it wash over me until my skin was numb and I could barely feel my fingers when I touched them to my face.

CHAPTER 16

No American man born in the years 1944 through 1950 will forget where he was on the date of Monday, December 1, 1969. Chances are, he was glued to a radio or television set, waiting to find out whether or not he might be headed for Vietnam. The lottery system proposed by Lyndon Johnson and championed by his predecessor, Richard Nixon, was about to be put into effect only five days after being signed into law, altering the lives of millions of young men. Despite the promised deferment for college students, that day the campus of Penn State was eerily silent.

Although the voices of a handful of protesters rang out, mostly we were hushed as we went from class to class, if we even bothered to attend. Most of us, unable to think about our studies, congregated in communal rooms or wherever there was a television. The lottery wouldn't be held until the late evening, but we began gathering early, to talk and share what rumors and gossip we'd heard. Some of the men had brothers, uncles, or friends who were already in Southeast Asia. A number of these soldiers had returned with tales of atrocities committed on both sides and accusations of government propaganda being disseminated to mask miserable conditions, while others insisted the war was being won and that Communism was on the brink of collapse. Depending on their point of view, men were either excited or apprehensive about the coming draw, and most often were a mixture of both. Strangely, I remember no fighting between opposing camps. I think no matter what our political stance, we all simply wanted to know where we stood. Those of us in our first year would have three more of safety, while seniors would have only until graduation before becoming eligible. I hadn't spoken to Jack since he'd informed me that he thought changing roommates would benefit our relationship. Upon arriving at Pinchot Hall the night before, I'd opened a book and pretended to study, while Jack had left, saying he was going for a walk. I'd eventually smoked a joint and gone to bed. When I woke up, Jack was in his bed, asleep with his back to me, and I'd left before he rose. I hadn't seen him all day.

As night fell and the hour of the lottery drew nearer, more and more guys filled the fifth-floor lounge, which housed Pinchot's lone television set. In open defiance of university rules, joints and bottles of beer were in abundance. Some students were already partaking, needing the narcotic effects of alcohol and marijuana to help calm jittery nerves. Others kept them nearby, ready for either celebration or consolation depending on the outcome of the draw. Around half past nine, Andy appeared. He seemed relaxed and confident, as if he cared little one way or the other what transpired in the next hour or two. Drinking from a bottle, he sat down beside me on a couch and asked, "Anything going on yet?"

"No," I told him. "I think they're starting at ten."
"Cool," he replied. "How was your break?"

Again he was acting as if there was no cause for strain between us. He made no mention of Jack, or of how he'd been sleeping with both of us for who knew how long. He either assumed the matter had been decided between Jack and myself, or he didn't care. I wanted to hate him, both for what I saw as his two-timing of me, but more for his lack of concern. I'd even rehearsed what I would say when I saw him again. Now, though, the angry words died on my lips.

"It was good," I answered. "How about yours?"
"Great," he said, offering no further details.

Andy began a conversation with the boy next to him, and I settled into tense silence. Finally, shortly after ten o'clock, the lottery began. Jack still hadn't appeared as the television cameras, broadcasting direct from the Selective Service National Headquarters in Washington, showed us a room filled with people, both civilians and government officials. On a table in front of a podium sat a tall glass jar perhaps two feet high. It was filled with blue plastic capsules.

We watched as the ceremony began with an invocation in which God was asked to lend his wisdom to the proceedings. I couldn't help but feel that the organizers were invoking God as a way of assigning blame for the results to divine providence. I scanned the faces of the government and military representatives, most of them much older than the men whose lives they were playing with. Behind them sat a number of neatly-dressed young men and women, some of the 650 state delegates from the Youth Advisory Committees founded by President Nixon to provide a voice for America's next generation. I wondered what they were all thinking, or if, like those of us watching, they were simply waiting for it all to be over.

When the first capsule was drawn, by New York Congressman Alexander Pirnie of the Armed Services Committee, we waited anxiously as it was opened and the slip of paper inside removed. "September 14," the announcer said. "Draft number one goes to September 14."

There was no sound from the men in Pinchot Hall, but a woman in the television audience screamed, whether because she was proud or terrified that her son would be one of the first ones drafted, we couldn't tell. None of us, it seemed, had the chosen birth date. Again we waited, as capsule after capsule was removed from the jar by a member of the Youth Advisory Committee and its contents revealed. The general consensus was that any number below 100 was a guaranteed ticket into the war, so the greatest reactions came from men in the 1 to 99 group. There were a number of them, and as their birthdays were called they cheered or groaned. For those of us who had yet to hear our dates called, the tension built with each successive pick.

Having the YAC representatives draw the capsules was another brilliant marketing ploy used to sell the draft, and the war it fed, to the American public. Young people choosing for their peers was the ultimate symbol of support for the action in Vietnam, particularly as some of them surely would be going to Southeast Asia themselves. What the cameras didn't show, however, were the delegates from Michigan, Alaska, and the District of Columbia who refused to draw, and were therefore excluded from the televised proceedings. Also unknown is how the years affected the consciences of those who chose early on, knowing that the men whose date of birth they drew from the jar would almost certainly encounter the risk of death.

At the time, I had other concerns, in particular listening for the announcement that August 11 had been drawn. The first dates to be chosen were taken heavily from the later months of the year (eight of the first ten fell in September through October), and I knew that, statistically, my odds were increasing. Years later, it would be argued that the lottery system, rather than providing an equal chance to all, was actually weighted against those born in the last quarter of the year, as the capsules were placed into the jar chronologically and, even though they were stirred up, those from the final four months remained largely at the top, and therefore most easily reached by the choosers. The first date in August to be selected corresponded to draft number 11. Hearing the month read, my heart stopped for a moment until the date—the 31st—followed. I then had another respite until the drawing of the 21st number. It was August 10. For a moment I congratulated myself on escaping by one day. Then I remembered that the 10th was Jack's birthday. He'd been chosen, and early. We'd always joked about how he'd come into the world only a few minutes before me. Now, those few minutes might mean much more than who got to blow out the candles on our shared birthday cake first. I wondered if Jack even knew, if he was watching or listening somewhere else or if he'd forgotten about, or decided not to witness, the lottery. Momentarily forgetting my anger at him, I was tempted to go find him. But I had to push this urge away and stay to hear my date called. Jack would have to wait. So would I. As the roll call continued, I heard many other birthdays announced. One by one, the men in the room learned where they stood in the luck of the draw. Some sat grim faced, comforted by those around them. Others claimed excitement at the prospect of fighting, declaring their solidarity with "the boys in Nam." Beer flowed freely, and a cloud of pot smoke hovered above our heads. As the number reached, then passed, 100, the mood of those of us still waiting to hear lifted perceptibly. Knowing we were not likely to be called, we relaxed a little. In sympathy for those already called, we were not overly enthusiastic, but I sensed that I was not, by far, the only one whose heart had slowed from its earlier thundering beat. Free to consider the future, we did so with much more optimism than we had an hour before.