9137. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 316

316. WAR STORY

I have plenty of

memories, and

dreams too. Still do

-  even though all

that's running out.

There comes a time,

I guess, when the

memories far outweigh

the dreams, and the

sand  keeps running

down in the glass tube.

No sense ruing that

day, because at least

it's still a day. It'll

get here, in its time.

Some of them, these

memories that is, stay

with me. Others don't,

as much, but they easily

can be drawn up. I don't

know what it's like for

others, but it does appear

different for me. I put little

importance to the sorts

of things, apparently,

others value highly  -

childbirth, wedding,

career attainments,

money, station. Beats

me, all that. It's just

stuff that's around.

Things that stay with

me as 'vital' are much

different, and not

always good. I remain,

often, wounded and

still bitter, in my way,

about variants of things

which should have

occurred, differently,

but were hijacked and

twisted by systems,

and others  -  the fools

who play these systems.

I think many of these

people simply do NOT

think about what they're

doing, nor how they're

affecting, tormenting,

or disorienting, others'

lives by simply following

the rules and orders

they're given. It's

pretty hideous, and

no different in its way,

than any of the past -

those Nazi guys turning

up the gas sprays on

those nozzles and

saying they were

just doing their job.

I know, I can hear it

now, that big buzz  -

'no comparison, none

at all, you're way

out of line.' Yeah,

well I got news for

you, fella'.

-

The day the Draft

Board nabbed me

on 11th Street, that

was some beginning,

for me, of a systematic

hatred of the system.

That's sounds pretty

redundant, no? Well,

it is. I was supposed

to have signed up,

registered, whatever

it was. I laughed

it off for about a

year. Screw them

and anyway we

were, in that

apartment, running

a resistance. Constantly.

Moving people along,

like a mission hall

-  AWOL, renegades,

military criminals;

all on the run north.

(Some ten years later,

or more, I get to St.

George Press, and

who do I get stuck

working with? An

ex-MP who did his

'Vietnam' time stateside

as a base cop, rounding

up just the sorts of

people I'd been moving

along. Funny world,

and I never mentioned

a thing). It was like

an Underground

Railway stop for

Vietnam resistance,

at 509 e11th, and

here these draftboard

idiots thought I'd happily

step up to the plate and

start swinging my bat

for their shit? I wasn't

even religious and

they made me religious

-  I was fighting God's

cause of peace and

comity. There were

pacifist Quaker churches

all around there, plus

St. George's Church

over at Stuyvesant Square,

St. Mark's in the Bouwerie,

which was becoming like

a bomb-thrower's paradise,

and of course, never

forgotten, ever, Judson

Memorial Church, which

was the very best at

resistance I'd ever seen.

To these Draft Board

people, regular freaking

agents of the Selective

Service, like FBI

creeps even, a day's

work apparently was

to go around and

track people down

and nab them. I

wished I could have

shot them both, right

in the face. To their

way of thinking

'processing' was a

mere formality  -  

like disrobing, before

those gas showers.

When I was done,

I walked back up

Broadway. The

next time I was

'due' there, I took

my bicycle, down

Broadway  -  which

I remember then as

deep, dark, way

overbuilt and

crowded with

vehicles and trucks

and the like, as I

barely managed

squeezing between

things. (No one

rode 'bicycles' for

real purposes back

then; now there's

a weird bicycle

delivery or bike

messenger ever

fifteen seconds, and

they all look like

seconds from the

circus.)  -  I got

there and just slung

the bike down  -

no locks or anything

back then. I propped

it in the little alcove

in the big granite-stone

from of that miserable

building. (It too is

still there, undergoing

 perhaps its third major

renovation that I

can recall, in these

50 years anyway).

It sure needed one

then  -  it was a

bad-pea-green-colored

interior of warrens and

small dens, with automatons

for people, in attendance.

No one was even

alive in the place.

The females looked

like they hadn't even

 thought about sex

in fifteen years  -  not

that I'd give it to them.

My Studio School friend, 
Jim Tomberg, (I've 
(written here of him a
lot too, in some earlier 
chapters), he used to
call these sorts of females,
 'plaster-pussies', saying, 
'You can't crack 'em open, 
they break.' (Aw, c'mon,
you know what old Jim
was like).  A real shame.

I couldn't understand

how any one of those

females could allow

all this processing

and churning up

of young men, right

before their eyes,

to go on. Anyone

of us bastards

could have been

a wonderful husband

to any one of them;

teach 'em a thing or

two too, and maybe get

them out of that hell-hole

-  along with our own

selves, of course. But,

whatever. Maybe they

were all porking their

office manager guys to

keep their jobs, and

had been sworn to

secrecy and told

to say not a peep

and act morose.

Yeah, that's it.

-

What's a guy supposed

to do? Go willingly

to his death for 

some pip-squeak, 

bullshit cause 

about saving 

some yellow men, 

from, what, other 

yellow men often 

just like them? 

Excuse me, what 

was that again? It 

was nothing more 

than factory-death, 

and sign-ups were 

so needed they were 

made mandatory, and

called a Draft. Oh, sure. 

The draft place was 

miserable; so few windows

 you could gag. So high up 

you could get dizzy. So 

dark and dreary with 

bad air you could 

get sick. These 

guys were insistent 

that they wanted me, 

and that I'd been 

way out of line by 

not showing up 

there when I 

did (not). But 

they were wrong. 

And then, they 

realized anyway, 

I was still 'NJ' -

(I'd never changed 

any documents or 

references. My 

mother had given 

them my current 

location), and I then
should instead be in 
Newark, NJ, for that

Draft Board, not the
New York one. That's a
good example of how  
stupid these Nazi-clerk
types are. Yeah, OK  -  so 

those arrangements 

were made, and 

they took me there. 

It was like unloading 

a bomb that was 

ticking and that 

they no longer 

wanted around. 

Hello, Newark, here 

I come. I had about 

2 hours to think about 

it  -  I could flee, 

like the others, 

but I didn't wish to. 

I finally did get to 

Newark, and passed 

all the stupid tests  -  

which weren't tests 

at all, rather just 

to make sure I 

was breathing, 

could see, had 

a steady hand, 

walked OK, and 

had an anus and 

a pair. (I guess that 
was what that was all 
about). 'You're in.' 

At which point I 

insisted I wasn't,

asked for a shrink,

and was taken upstairs 

to an office with two

or three psych-doctors 

(I forget the number, 

to be truthful and just 

barely remember the 

scene). I talked nicely, 

and acted nuts and 

crazy too, and intense. 

Somehow it all worked, 

and they decided to 

just unload me, not 

fit, good-bye, see ya.' 

I went right back to 

e11th, and took up 

where I left off, 

never really saying 

a word about what 

had occurred. And 

then I was done. 

They could take 

their War, and 

their Resistance 

too, and shove it

 all where the sun 

didn't shine. I turned 

in my chips, checked

 over my wounds, and 

left  -  for the basement 

of the Studio School, 

which was actually 

a much-finer place. 

I had no war story, 

and I didn't 

want one.