I got my token and a letter from my shrink. This was the moment… at last I would find out what he thought of me. To those not living in New York City in the late sixties and thus unaware of the significance of the token to all draft age males, let me help you. The Draft Lottery was in the world, and I had dropped out of college. When the draft board called you for your physical, they sent you an official letter with a subway token or two - depending how far you lived from the induction center - so you could use the subway to get there. So you had no excuse. You had to go. You had to show. You had to tell your friends, “I got my token.”
Soon I am riding the IRT subway courtesy of the army’s largesse. My acid-and-analysis friends at Fisher have assured me I will get to read my shrink’s letter afterwards. “The army medical officer hands it back to you,” they say.
Entering the Army induction center, I am in heavy energy lines, with thick bars of massive sheets not unlike thick liquid glass appearing as I think, look, and ambulate about. Pictures shoot out from thoughts through my eyes to the horizon but it is impossible to perceive these images fully, only their shadows. I begin to wonder if others around me can see them and my paranoia eagerly entertains this psychotic assumption. While not ‘hearing voices’ in the sense that I’m hearing things others are not, as when voices in my head would be speaking only to me (that would come later), but am instead experiencing the birth process of that state. The voices of people around me appear to have emotional impact on me as if their words have something to do with me.
If one says to another “It is really a long fucking wait,” I feel somehow he is speaking about something that relates to me; his perception of me; or what he is expecting of me (and I am late – autistically speaking – in ‘delivering’). It is uncanny, and find myself slipping into a quasi-shell best described by that later Springsteen lyric to come of “a dog that’s been beat too much, n’spends half its life just coverin’ up.
Consequently, it is safe to say paranoia exists, but not about going to Vietnam. Considering the army might be an exciting change, and ready to go with such a change, I am ready to shoot at people and throw grenades and stuff, but I don’t like the sitting and waiting, and decide I really don’t want two years of this type of thing. The directions to wait on painted lines did relieve my anxiety concerning what to do, however. Follow the Yellow Line. If you have a shrink issue, you can speak to the Army Medical Officer, so stand and wait here on the Green Line.
The room for the army shrink held an Army Medical Officer behind a desk, and maybe two dozen chairs half filled with truly terrified young men. It was not private. You were called up to sit in front of the Officer, but it was easy to hear what was being said. Most were hippies with little more than truly pathetic notions on how to avoid the Army.
“I'm really freaked out on acid,” said one middle class momma’s boy, apparently mistaking the Army Captain for one of his parents. “I once gave someone a blow job,” murmers a tall skinny kid with greasy long hair, and I could see him stiffen at the idea of having to turn around and face all of us after his big admission. These pathetic admissions were all they had to offer in their attempt to extricate themselves from being tractor-beamed into the meat grinder. It was apparent to me that the army shrink might as well have said “B-o-r-i-n-g.” Nobody made a dent, and they were sent down the hall to continue their processing.
I didn't think at all about what I was going to say.
Sitting down with the uniformed army captain, I handed him my file and shrink's letter. He glanced at it, saying, “So what seems to be the problem?”
Thoughtfully considered his question as though I had never considered it before (for I truly hadn’t), the answer immediately appeared in the form of his assistant who came to his side with a cup of coffee for him. The gofer then vocalized an offer to get milk or cream for this hot liquid. He had something like MOO stamped on his name badge (I couldn’t read his name clearly), and the Captain says “No thank you, MOO” and I answer, “I’m not seeing reality correctly.”
“Like here, this soldier who just brought you coffee, I think his name is like MOO or something(?); and when he handed you the coffee, you said ‘no thank you, MOO’ as far as his offer of cream for your coffee.” Getting the officer’s full attention now, I add: “and he turned into a kind of cow.”
Putting my hands out while smiling a little in a “wait, I know what you’re gonna say” gesture, I continue, “I don't mean a REAL cow like you see in New Jersey, with flesh and udders and smelling. I mean like a commercial, like the cartoon of a friendly Elsie-kind of cow selling milk or ice cream on a billboard. But you said, and I lean forward excitedly to make sure he understands. “YOU SAID you didn't WANT any milk.”
The captain was with me now, he’s Ghost Ridin’. “I don’t think I’m really seeing things; reality, correctly,” I went on, “because cows give milk.” I nodded. “I mean some of these are archetypal,” I add as if to whisper out of the side of my mouth, “It’s kind of like some of these bills are hundreds...” you know, I laugh a little with relief cause I realize how nervous I am as I continue to pour out what the problem is. “So, to line up with reality, where he gives you milk for your coffee, he turns into a cow, right? I mean he should. That is reality. But when he doesn't give milk, then he turns into a, well, what?!”
My voice starts to get a little raised, a little more annoyed, my head turning to the left and right quickly as if to shake cobwebs which prevent me from seeing the symbolic alternative correctly.
“An uhh, what d’ya think? A shriveled old Indian tit from some old Harold Robbins novel, a desert scene? Yeah, yeah!” I add loudly, my hand bobbing up and down with a ‘call-on-me-teacher-I got it!’ attitude: “With the sun-bleached steer’s head in the desert cowboy movies! I mean, that’s what I should have been seeing! What do you think?” I look straight at the army officer questioningly.
“I think it's time for you to go,” he says.
Scribbling some lines onto some forms, his hand carries out the authority vested in him by the most powerful organization on earth. Stamp! Stamp!! Stamp!!! I am bureaucratically authorized more years on earth. More open paths of tree and rock appear next to my running stream, as my angel, my fate, my destiny, my plan continues to unfold outside the Russian Roulette of Vietnam.
“You're classified 1-Y. Take it easy,” he intones, (a bit) sincerely, I thought. A warm feeling flows through me with the realization I could receive pity from this stranger trained to have no pity. I should thank G-d for this ability, I think with, admittedly, no small amount of pride. Wait a minute… maybe that’s not a good thing…’
“So you don’t think you’ll be calling me? I ask redundantly, just to hear him say it again, so my ego can roll in it, savor it, suck every possible nutrient of victory there is from it.
“We’ll call you if we need you,” he says, and with facial body language indicates again that it is indeed time for me to go. The dismissive and sarcastic quality of this remark detracts from the sweet boost I was seeking, but I rationalize the pain from his implied sarcasm a small price to pay for being released from the army’s grasp. In spite of my visions to up the ante from my pillow case saddle and air-rifle childhood fantasy days with Ghost Rider’s in the Sky playing on the turntable to real guns and shooting, I conclude I am happy and relieved not to be going into the army. He gives me some papers and the letter from my shrink.
‘G-d, those acidheads at Fisher really know what they’re talking about,’ I think. ‘I got the letter!’
As I get up, I feel like I have just emerged victorious where many others have failed and I turn to view those preparing to engage the army officer in their own battle for what may be their lives. I am very paranoid that the captain will see my self-satisfaction and reverse his decision (what would the neighbors think if they saw that smirky attitude?); but assuring myself that not only was my back to him, but at the very least I needn’t be ashamed of attaining my objective, I look up at the other supplicants.
Their eyes are full of wonder as for a moment they forget their own travail and are lost in their admiration of the Marty, the crazed mountain-king they would like to be at this moment. I am their sudden rock-star, and for a moment I dig it; but am immediately struck by the image of a cell full of condemned men with me walking out having been granted a pardon. Despair and desperation written on their faces make me somewhat ashamed of my mad freedom, but I quickly replace the guilt with the thought that my room at home is full of drugs and music. I can go home and escape into these comforts, jump on the phone and tell everyone what happened...
Death was in the room as well. In one teenager’s persona of helplessness and despair, I will always remember his face as ‘my Vietnam.’
Brooklyn, Punchball and the Catholics A glimpse of another lifetime in another America. Nobility, family honor and courage were normally not what comes to mind when thinking of "punchball."
