11,622. RUDIMENTS, pt. 630

RUDIMENTS, pt. 630

(my best shake n' bake slice of life story ever)

There was always a difference,

a difference in everything. It

was in how people talked, how 

they carried themselves, how they

looked, and what they came across

as. I never cared, and that probably

showed  -  but time was slow, so my

degeneration never materialized

'quickly,' hence one of the benefits

of it all was that it came on just

gradually. That was happening a

lot in 1967  -  all these oddball

business types and movie stars

and all  -  just like that, all you

started seeing was the stupid

end of things  -  sideburns, beads,

turtlenecks, even Nehru jackets

and all that. It went nuts, just all

at once. There were useless people

all of a sudden brandishing their

hip disguise. Robert Goulet; Sammy

Davis, Jr.  -  really, who'd ever

wish to see that? The world was

beginning to stink.

-

One of the benefits of staying 

clear of the Army  -  even though

they were after me  -  was that

I was able to remain as loose as

I wished too  -  none of that

military-issue slave-boy crap

for me, and, I felt, if I wanted to

look like a concentration camp 

victim I'd just go back to 1940

and be done with it. Why in the

world would you 'fight' for Freedom,

as was said, while being forced to

look like a regimented pap-smear?

If you were truly 'Free,' and fighting

to defend that idea, shouldn't you

be looking like a wild-man Viking

marauding killer? Nothing made any

sense. Regimented thinking always

has been a real kick in the groin to

me. So, as it went, there was some

sort of Selective Service bullshit

registration or something I was

supposed to have done  -  they

needed cannon-meat, evidently,

for Vietnam. I wasn't about to

partake of any of that crap either,

so I just stayed away. When they

somehow did begin asking questions

to home (back home, Avenel), for

some reason (seemingly outside the

bounds of loving parenting, by the

way) my Mother gave them the

last address she had for me! 509

east 11th Street. And thank you

for that! Hoping it would NOT be

my last address, of course, I laid 

low  -  but one day these two guys

caught up with me, right out on

the street, and corralled me for

violating some Selective Service

Registration Act or something.

So they took me to the Whitehall

Station address, and duly got

my information and gave me

another date to return to see them,

in about three weeks. Now, I set 

it straight here, I have, nor never

have had, any reservations about

any damned fool wishing to do

any of that stuff  -  go ahead and

join any army you wish, kill, bomb,

maim, burn, penetrate, destroy,

torture, or whatever  -  but do Not,

and I repeat, do NOT include me.

These Selective Service rat guys

were real assholes, probably in

deep denial about any entertainment

value involved in the paucity of

their line of work. By the way, I do

hope they're each dead -  and that 

it was early, sudden, and of

unusual, gruesome, causes.

-

I went back for that day, at the

appointed time  -  probably like

a jerk but I didn't feel like jail. 

I took my bicycle and rode it 

down Broadway, in deep and

heavy traffic, which probably

could have killed me too (bicycle

travel back in those days bore

absolutely NO resemblance to

what's around today. The entire

fey world, remember, is softer

now, and cuddly as well). This 

whole Whitehall Induction Service 

was a bit of a farce too. I forget 

exactly, but Whitehall was too 

crowded so they'd begun using, 

additionally, this really crap 

building down on lower Broadway  

-  green offices, puke-colored 

hallways, little stupid people 

in cranky little offices. Like the 

Army world had mixed in, like 

Sparta taking over Athens  -  

all of a  sudden even freaking 

NYC had been taken over by 

military a'holes; future Legionaires

of America Club, just without

the beer and the soggy eyes.

I just left my bike down in the

lobby, and went up  -  they sort

of swarmed me, on about the 8th

or 10th floor. I would have told

then to fuck off, but they'd have

probably shot me right then and

there. Life is foul like that, especially

when you live in a militaristic 

nation-state that pretends it isn't.

So, they grilled me, asking a bunch

of stupid questions, as if I'd actually

tell them the truth   -  like talking

to some seminary priest guy in my

face about the shower room. Jerks,

all, each, and every. So I started

telling the one guy about what I'd

done with his daughter the previous

Saturday night, and how well she'd

enjoyed it even though she kept 

saying her father had already, yes,

done that to her too. OK, just kidding.

-

They eventually decided  -  the fools  -

that all my papers and personal

history and all had nothing at all

to do with New York, and that, by

rights, I was the property of the

Newark, NJ Selective Service

office  -  which is where the

cranks then took me. Got me 

there real quickly too. Once there,

I got grilled all over again, NJ

style this time  -  same questions

that means, just asked in a dumber

style. They said I was all good,

and the induction room was to the

left. A bunch of 18 and 20 year

dolts walking around in their

underwear. No kidding. I said.

'Nope, not for me. I want to see

a shrink.' They actually allowed 

that! Sometimes all one needs to do 
is speak up! And not one, but three,

in a room upstairs. It was an Oscar

worthy performance, believe me.

All fake, but it worked - just like

when I got escorted out of jury

duty last August. Same sort of

goofy routine, except this time 

the stupid court guards and all

ended up thanking me for my

service and sacrifice  -  saying

actually that my case of PTSD

was a sorrowful thing, thanking

me for my military time, asking

if I wanted to go to the hospital,

etc. Totally fucking bogus, folks.

Even this black guard guy came

up to me and said, 'I was in

the military myself, sir. I can

fully understand what you're 

going through.' I wanted to

say, 'Dude, I'm going through

the door.' It's so pathetic when

susceptibility to the prevailing

social modes make people start

seeing only what they want to see.

There's not one brain in that

entire New Brunswick courthouse.

A entire building of tax-funded

mental rejects. Like Woodbridge!

-

I gave the shrinks my best story 

line about how I was uncontrollable

to myself and that if someone taught

me how to use a rifle, and how to

shoot and all that, the very first

thing I'd do would be to turn it

on the person who'd just taught

me to use it, and take down as

much of all else as I could. I told

them I could not control myself,

etc. And while I was talking
this good stream, the whole

time I kept edging over towards 

the window ledge where, inside,

there was a little riser that I stood

on, as if seeking access to jump.

That was all they needed. The three

of them stopped the proceedings.

I figured Khe Sahn, here I come,

thinking they'd trundle me off on

the next troop ship outta' there

for being such a good sport.

Instead, then offered me comfort,

and even asked if I had a way 

home, or if I'd like a bus ticket.

No shit; I took the bus ticket,

they made me a 4F, which is, 

or was, like 'we don't ever want

you, ever'  -  how cool was all

that? I was allowed to just walk

out. They said they'd be sending

my parents arrangements and 

stuff for some shrink dates I'd

have to undergo, for what they

called 'anxiety phobia.' Nothing

ever came that I knew of.

And then that was all forgotten,

like a big weight was lifted

off my shoulders. And, the next

day, back in NYC, I was able

to retrieve my bicycle from the

exact leaning-on-the-wall spot

in the lobby I'd left it at. Try

that now; see what happens.