Tuesday, October 24, 2017

I Join the Army

On this day in 2017, I become undeniably old, because on this day in 1967--fifty years ago!--I joined the Army.

January 1968: WORWAC

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Fateful incidents customarily occur on cold, grey dawns, but it never was cold in Houston, and the grey, of a decidedly greenish cast, was only smog. So 'twas on the muggy, polluted morning of October 24, 1967, that I reported to the Federal Building in Houston to be shipped off to Basic Training at Fort Polk, Louisiana: slowly up, up the imposing granite steps, into the echoing hallways, up some more stairs, down another hallway, at last finding and entering the waiting room of the Armed Forces Entrance and Examination Station.

I was sitting there, waiting, alone (as were the twenty-odd others with me) in the assigned room by a few minutes before 7 a.m. I brought what I had been told to bring: a small overnight bag containing two changes of underwear (preferably clean, the sergeant had gravely told me the week before) and a few toilet articles (the Army's name for soap, toothbrush, comb, deodorant and razor; "No goddamn straight razors, either!"), and a small amount of spending money--$2.78. I also carried a copy of E. V. Rieu's translation of The Iliad; what could be more appropriate, I thought, to brace me for what was to come? No one had told me that I could or should bring a book, but then, no one had said that I couldn't or shouldn't.

The AFEES, on the third floor of the Federal Building, was absolutely characterless, much like any other office complex in the governmental bureaucracy. It was reasonably clean, neither pretty nor ugly, oppressively neutral. The clerks, civilian and military, seemed to do little work. Occasionally papers would be shuffled, typewriters typed upon, coffee drunk, moronic jokes quickly told and laughed at. It was drab. All the senses languished for lack of input, groping for some little bit of data, however insignificant, that could be sent to the brain for study, assessment, and storage. The place looked drab, smelled drab, felt drab, sounded drab, and, had I the temerity to bite a wall, would have tasted drab.

Around 8 o'clock the twenty or so of us who had shown up that day were taken out of the waiting room to a long hallway, where we sat on narrow wooden benches. Once in a while someone would come up and call out names, hand out pieces of paper, or lead one or another to still other rooms and hallways to sign forms.

At noon an officer guided us to a room that had a little podium and an American flag in one corner. He stood behind the podium, we faced toward the flag, he mumbled and we repeated some words about fighting and defending, we took a step forward. After the ritual was complete the first glimmerings of an expression showed in the officer's face, gradually taking the form of a thin smile at once full of both sarcasm and pity. He looked at us, shook his head from side to side, let out a sardonic sigh, and walked away. We were now legally, morally, administratively, and for-better-or-for-worse in the United States Army.

Between 12:30 and 12:37 we were served what I loosely call 'lunch.' Each person received a small white cardboard box containing what can be described as food only because we were told to eat it, which we did not. The rest of the afternoon was spent on the aforementioned benches, broken by trips to the water fountain or rest room. Once in a while my stomach growled.

About sundown (I guess the civilians decreed that we had better be out of town, or else) we were led out of the building and down the street a few blocks to the Greyhound bus station. There was a thirty minute wait, so we promptly raided the Coke and candy machines. The bus came, we boarded, and off we set for Fort Polk.

I remember very little of the trip even though it was several hours long and went through areas of East Texas and Louisiana I had never seen before. Besides, it was dark. I had a window all to myself out of which I incessantly gazed, musing upon Life in general and my own in particular.

We arrived, a bit drowsy, at Fort Polk a few minutes after midnight. Slowly stirring ourselves out of our seats, we were startled into fearful alertness by a young punk-faced corporal who leaped into the doorway of the bus.

"Awright you cocksucking goddamn motherfuckers! What the fuck ya'll think this is, a fuckin' resort hotel? You slimey-assed bastards got five goddamn seconds to get off this fuckin' bus! MOVE!"

Move we did. What his address lacked in delicacy it more than made up in vigor. We scrambled and clawed over each other to get off the bus, where the corporal directed us, in his own colorful fashion, to the far side of a very large, empty parking lot. Instead of being marked to accomodate vehicles, however, the asphalt had on its surface row after row of short white lines, about three feet long, each with a different number, starting with 1 and going on to four or five hundred. As last names were read off a list we were told what number line to stand behind. I was 23.

After we were settled in our places we received a formal greeting to the fort. The corporal had been merely obnoxious, a pubescent bully, whereas the sergeant who took his place in front of us was made, as they say, of sterner stuff. His lips were in a permanent snarl and his beady eyes never stopped glaring. This man was dangerous--he belonged on a leash. He turned to us to speak.

"What a bunch of pussies. Shit. First of all, don't talk unless spoken to. If you start talking without permission I will personally kick your fat ass. Clear?"

We mumbled understanding, adding quick affirmative nods.

"Well, goddamn it, is it CLEAR?"

Again the up-and-down nods, this time more energetically.

"Lookahere, you stupid little cunts, when I ask a question you answer loud and you answer quick, by saying, 'Yes, Drill Sergeant.' Once again, is it clear?"

"Yes, Drill Sergeant."

"YOU GODDAMN FUCKIN' DICKLICKERS, I DIDN'T HEAR YOU! IS IT CLEAR?"

"YES, DRILL SERGEANT!" By this time, of course, we had all forgotten what the question was.

"I'll be back later for your first inspection, but right now just stay where you are and keep quiet. No talking!"

There were future fears, to be sure, but the immediate ordeal was over. We had to remain standing at our appointed white lines but were left alone on the asphalt with no one to harrass us. By now it was around 2 a.m., and the fort seemed eerily silent and dark. The only lights were street lamps around the periphery of the parking lot and, a hundred yards away, a clapboard office building illuminated from within. The night was clear and moonless; the sky was filled with stars, millions and millions of stars, benignly twinkling on me and my little numbered line. I reflected on the great forces swirling through the heavens, the galactic worlds so far away, the utter immensity of the universe. I looked down at my overnight bag: two changes of underwear (clean), my paperback Iliad, my brand new Py-Co-Pay. There was great profundity in the contrast between above and below, betwen Alpha Centauri and a 4 ounce Palmolive bar, a significance far beyond my ability to verbalize or comprehend, although centered, I was positive, in one overwhelming question: "What the fuck am I doing in the Army?"

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Momma’s going, quietly

When she first went into the nursing home, just before New Year's Day 2005, Momma still had her feisty side. On our frequent visits we would sit with her, asking her questions and helping her answer, when she would suddenly take notice of another resident. The change in her expression was dramatic: her lips would purse and her eyes flash raw anger, at someone whose name she could not remember and whose offense she could not explain.

Requiescat in Pace

The orderlies would struggle with her to take her medicine. “No!” she would announce, “no” being the word that she always had the least trouble with.

Then she had another stroke. Off to the emergency room, one night there, one night in intermediate care, one night in regular care, then back to the nursing home. One carotid artery was completely blocked but the other let through enough blood to keep her going. When she returned she was quiet and calm, at first.

She slowly regained her strength and her fight. She didn’t realize she had a left side but rehab gave it back to her. She didn’t like the wheelchair. She had to get up to walk, because she had places to go.

She didn’t know where she had to go, or why, but she did know that the staff and that damn ankle alarm were keeping her from getting there. Each time she made it out the door, just when she thought she was free at last, someone would catch up to her and take her back inside. She would try again. And again. And again. And again. At last the nursing home agreed that she could go, in fact had to go — to another nursing home.

We made the mistake of taking her to the new home ourselves. I drove while Terri rode in the back seat with Momma. It was a 45 minute drive, on freeways and through heavy traffic, and Momma panicked at the light and noise and commotion. She wanted out of the car even as we were doing 65 m.p.h. She would grab at the door handle, at the lock, at anything, unsure of how to operate any of it but very sure she had to get out. Terri would grab her hands and ask her to try to sit quietly. Momma would get that perturbed look on her face, clasp her hands in her lap and stare straight ahead for a few moments before again succumbing to the urge — no, the desperate need — to get out of the damn car.

The staff at the new nursing home helped us settle her into her new room. She was in Unit B, the lockdown area for ‘exit seekers,’ dementia patients at that stage in their illness where they feel compelled to get out.

A few months later, a bout of pneumonia and another trip to the hospital failed to slow her down. Then one day they found her lying on the floor on the shower room, screaming in pain. She had gotten out of her wheelchair, unnoticed, walked to an unlocked door, then slipped and fell, breaking her hip. Back to the hospital, this time for surgery, but there would be no therapy when she returned to the home.

Momma is not in Unit B any longer. She does not walk and does not try to. She does not seek exits, or entrances either. She doesn’t purse her lips any more, her eyes no longer flash anger. All her facial expressions are gone, replaced by a blank, uncomprehending stare. She opens her mouth obediently when they feed her. Sometimes she will say “yes” when I ask her a question, but mostly she just looks at me. She takes her medicine without complaint.

Momma died in 2007.

Momma's Room