8326. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #92

92. BROADWAY 

So, how it went was this:

they just let me walk out.

I had some notification of

violation, folded in my

pocket, and on it some date

and time written in the guy's

hand. The place itself,

'Whitehall Induction

Center' was an OK tall

building down towards

the middle end of

Broadway, which just

then happened to be

teeming with traffic.

I can't remember when

all that 'alternating' of

the one-way north-south

avenues took place; this

may still have been a

two-way street. No

matter, I know it was

crowded and honking.

The place was a sort-of

office slum inside; just

all pale, really bad green,

walls, like in a school

or maybe a hospital,

corridors and glass-door,

with names and titles on

the frosted glass, in gold

leaf, some. Big deal

government shit, I guess

-  it looked like maybe

three or four floors were

Selective Service offices.

Like an old police station

you see in old movies, drab,

dull, trying for a serious

efficiency. More like prison

or a dungeon. I really felt

for those lousy people inside.

You know how, the crummier

the job is, they sort of get more

and more fancy about giving

out bogus incidental titles and

category-designation; people

get all proud of being like 'Asst.

Sales Associate, NE District,

Industrial Metals', stuff like

that. It had that kind of feel.

And then, as I walked along

back uptown, I started thinking,

like 'what did I expect, some

nice, enlightened place where

angelic people went about with

grace and worked together?' No,

these were evil sons of bitches

at work every  day on killing

people  -  making sure the

numbers were met to have

enough killers, and being

sure to always remain

aware that there were

surely always enough to

be killed. And then

these bastards, besides,

got paid at the end of

the week and went

home satisfied. Drove

around. Took their wives

out to a restaurant, and

then back home where they

power-slammed the distance

out of each other and slept

it all off. 'What did you do

today, dear, at the office?'

'Me? Oh nothing; sent

about 40 kids off to their

deaths, picked on a few

more, the queers and the

homo bastards coming

in looking to be exempted,

talked one or two idiots

down, went in the back

and jerked off, and

came home.' How nice.

-

I had no intentions of any

of this getting any better, or

at least by my own making

it 'better'  -  which would

have been the Orwellian

double-speak in use if I'd

agreed to just go ahead and

become their Vietnam

shit-meat cannon-fodder.

Wasn't gonna' happen.

First off, every fiber of

my being knew it to be an

immoral quest. Godless

bastards do stuff like that,

not me  - I had no quarrel

with any Vietnamese and,

besides, probably knew

more about the origins of

that war than did any of

those cracker barrel

cum-suckers in the green

offices. 1954, French

imperialism, Ho Chi Minh

Dienbienphu, Diem, the

Kennedys, John Foster

Dulles, any of those killer

guys sitting in their big

chairs making mental

mincemeat out of a

peaceful war. Officer

Joe Bolton and the rest of

those societal dervishes

could go fuck themselves'

I wasn't their smiley

property anyway and

kid-days were way over.

-

I walked past all the small

storefronts and businesses

along the way as I walked,

just wondering about what

I saw : the little plumber

shops and one-off sole

proprietor places : shoe-stores

and gloves  and briefcase

sellers, second and third

floor manufacturing lofts

with small sales offices and

stuff attached. Nothing I

knew much about  -  carpentry

and wood-finishers and 
cabinet-makers. Daytime guys

hauling boxes or pushing

crates, big trucks rolling
backwards into loading docks.
Back in Avenel even we'd had
some of that  - down the end of
my block. Monarch Cabinets,
and the other woodworking place
and the nuts and bolts guy. I
wondered if maybe once they'd
begun in places just like these,
grew a little, and then moved
out. The reverse of me, for
sure. I was pretty rattled.

All this stuff was piling up

on me, one thing on top of

the next. I didn't want to die,

I was just getting started. I had

no freaking 'ideals' to uphold

either. I couldn't have cared less

about any of the gung-ho

America crap, let alone go

off to fight for it while my

friends and others were

dying around me. No way.

Now the lobster-clawed

bastards, however, had

finally gotten their claws

around me. It was going to

be a struggle to get free.

I stopped into a corner store

to buy  pack of Gauloise. At

that moment, it seemed the

only right thing to do  -

smoking those thick French

existentialist cigarettes in my

moments of anxiety. They

were grand old things, those

Gauloise; unfiltered, thick, with

with a nice blue softpack. It all

just felt right  -  I made a left,

went down to the piers and docks

along the westside, and just sat,

staring out, for all the hour it

took to get my head straight.

And a million things went

through my head. Get a gun.

Shoot myself, or shoot others.

Get a girl. Wear a beret. Get

angry, find some sloe-eyed,

dark beauty to walk through

all this with. Smoke and drink

together, and go out, somehow,

in some mad, crazy blaze of

infamous fury. Yes, yes, but

not yet, maybe, not, now, no.

I could kill somebody, and

disappear. Except, weirdly

enough, only unless I was in

the fucking Army, it wouldn't

be right.

-

Well, I made it back, did go

through all those cigarettes but

never really got hooked. Too

much of that gaseous stuff just

running into my lungs; made

little sense to me. That weird

taste and sensation, I can still

recall it to this day. A week

or two went by, and as the day

approached for my return visit,

I tried to think of a few things.

Go crazy, act totally gay (It

was still an Army induction

no-no, even if now they call

you in, gay or not), but I

couldn't even pull that off.

So, I just decided to go, play

it all by ear, and see what

happened. No new clothes,

no nothing, just me. I took

my bicycle down there this

time. It was the day when you

could still just leave a bicycle

out, without really locking or

chaining it. Just nobody wanted

bicycles  - they weren't any

sort of adult sport or interest

yet then, and certainly no one

thought of them, for whatever

reason, as urban transport. Plus,

you probably really needed a

gas mask to really ride in traffic.

Actually weird, the bike just

stayed there, propped against

the side of the building, at like

a little walk-in area. [Sidebar

here: this was at 39 Whitehall

Street, when it was still the

functioning Selective Service

ass-beast headquarters. In 1969,

the place was blown up. I claim

no knowledge. You can look

it up yourself if you want. War

times were tough in those

Vietnam days.]  -  so, I entered

and went to my designated spot.

I figured they'd be waiting for

me  -  arrest, evidence, bookings,

handcuffs, the whole bit. Not a

thing. Like they had just crawled

out of a rock, every landlubber

in the place was groggy, dazed,

stupid or sleepy. Even the creeps

in uniforms. I saluted no one, and

I simply stated 'Hello, I'm here to

register for murder and death.'

The lady looked at me like she'd

just gotten her period in one big

load. A fierce hostility ensued,

and I was told to sit. Some guy

came out soon enough, and

walked me into an office. Then

the usual questions and profile

stuff : a big long back and forth

with him and another guy. I

figured they were trying to

feel me out, or waiting for me

to say something incriminating.

I also thought they must already

know everything about me, the

germane stuff anyway, so why

should I tell them more. I was

very coy, threw my little attitude

around, and generally, I thought,

acted like I was NOT, most

certainly, anyone possessed of

any qualities they'd want. The

guy stares me back, and simply

says, 'Look, Gary, we know

what you're doing. The point

of the Army, you ought to

understand, isn't to just take

people in who fit. Believe me,

son, once you're in, we'll make

you fit.' Silence. Then, 'However,

we see by your paperwork, you're

really not even our property. Son,

everything here says clearly, 'New

Jersey', so we're sending you to

Newark.' End of conversation.

That sucked, I thought. Last thing

I wanted was to be thrown back to

any lame-ass'd New Jersey operation

with all those small-town, suburban

geeks I'd just gotten away from some

time ago. At least, even it this was

trouble, it was my own, big-time,

big-city trouble, like a 'Man' has.

-

Thy put me in a car and drove me

to Broad Street, Newark. Like I was,

almost, some famous, important cat.

More like apprehended draft dodger,

maybe. I'm not going to belabor all

this, and go over it again : suffice it

to say, it was as drab, and as stupid

as Whitehall had been. Worse. It

seemed like half of Puerto Rico,

Watts too, attended military class

here. They filed me, scap'd me up,

and put me in some line, a

pre-induction physical line, to

be exact. We were instructed to

disrobe, told where to put our

clothing and how, and then

incongruously instructed on

how to continue holding onto

our paperwork, while otherwise

naked, for the doctors. Great

stuff. No wonder everyone

wanted to be gay. I slipped

sideways, to a desk, and asked

to see a psychiatrist. Speaking

of balls in a row, it took some

to do that. Bold move on my

part. I was still dressed  -  none

of that naked shit for me  -  and

ready to bolt, if need be. They

acted like I'd simply asked what

time it was. 'Third floor, Room

312' or whatever it was. I got

there, 3 head-docs met me, and

sat me down. I'm telescoping this

here, so you don't get bored. Asked

what I would do in the Army, and

why I objected so, I  -  acting my

best, deranged, intense, crazy person

routine, inching towards the row

of windows as I spoke, said 'If I

am taught how to use a rifle, I will

turn it, first on the person who

taught me, and then on anyone

else around me. I will take everyone

down. Madman stuff. (In fact, by

the end of the war that was called

'fragging', and in the pot-fueled

fields of Vietnam, by that time,

frustrated and maddened enlisted

men were shooting their superiors

and officers, in confusing

circumstances, by the dozens.

And by that time, everyone was

a madman, not just me). Anyway,

these gentlemen took me

downstairs, classified me as 4-F,

'unfit for military service' and -

incredibly - asked me if 'd be

able to get myself home OK

and without assistance. Saying

yes, I accepted the bus pass

they gave me. I went back to

NYC my own way, and never

used their bus pass.
-

.....tomorrow, the follow-up.